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Authors: Peter Robinson
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Birmingham at nine-forty and didn’t get to Carlisle until well after midnight. By then the local buses would have stopped running and he
would have to get a taxi. Was it worth it?
There wasn’t much alternative, really. A hotel would be too expensive. Still, the idea had its appeal: a warm room with a soft bed, shower, colour television and maybe even a bar
downstairs, where he might meet a girl. He would just have to decide later. Anyway, if he did want to catch the train, he would have to take the eight-fifty from Redditch to get to Birmingham in
time. That left three hours and fifty minutes to kill.
As he walked over the bridge and up towards the town centre in the darkening evening, Reed noticed two schoolgirls walking in front of him. They must have been kept in detention, he thought, or
perhaps they’d just finished games practice. No doubt they had to do that, even in the rain. One looked dumpy from behind, but her friend was a dream: long wavy hair tumbling messily over her
shoulders; short skirt flicking over her long, slim thighs; white socks fallen around her ankles, leaving her shapely calves bare. Reed watched the tendons at the back of her knees flex and loosen
as she walked and thought of her struggling beneath him, his hands on her soft throat. They turned down a side street and Reed carried on ahead, shaking off his fantasy.
Could Francis have got lumbered with taking detention or games? he wondered. Or perhaps he had passed by without even noticing Reed sheltering from the rain. He didn’t know where
Francis’s school was, or even what it was called. Somehow, the subject had just never come up. Also, the village where Francis lived was about eight miles away from Redditch and the local bus
service was terrible. Still, he could phone. If Francis were home, he’d come out again and pick Reed up.
After phoning and getting no answer, Reed walked around town for a long time looking in shop windows and wondering about how to get out of the mess he was in. His holdall weighed heavy in his
hand. Finally, he got hungry and ducked out of the light rain into the Tandoori Palace. It was still early, just after six, and the place was empty apart from a young couple absorbed in one another
in a dim corner. Reed had the waiter’s undivided attention. He ordered pakoras, tandoori and dhal. The food was very good and Reed ate it too fast.
After the spiced tea, he took out his wallet to pay. He had some cash, but he had decided to have a pint or two, and he might have to take a taxi home from the station. Best hang on to the paper
money. The waiter didn’t seem to mind taking plastic, even for so small a sum, and Reed rewarded him with a generous tip.
Next he tried Francis again, but the phone just rang and rang. Why didn’t the bugger invest in an answering machine? Reed cursed. Then he realized he didn’t even have one himself,
hated the things. Francis no doubt felt the same way. If you were out, tough tittie; you were out and that was that.
Outside, the street lights reflected in oily puddles on the roads and pavements. After walking off his heartburn for half an hour, thoroughly soaked and out of breath, Reed ducked into the first
pub he saw. The locals eyed him suspiciously at first, then ignored him and went back to their drinks.
‘Pint of bitter, please,’ Reed said, rubbing his hands together. ‘In a sleeve glass, if you’ve got one.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the landlord said, reaching for a mug. ‘The locals bring their own.’
‘Oh, very well.’
‘Nasty night.’
‘Yes,’ said Reed. ‘Very.’
‘From these parts?’
‘No. Just passing through.’
‘Ah.’ The landlord passed over a brimming pint mug, took Reed’s money and went back to the conversation he’d been having with a round-faced man in a pin-stripe suit. Reed
took his drink over to a table and sat down.
Over the next hour and a half he phoned Francis four more times, but still got no reply. He also
would have to get a taxi. Was it worth it?
There wasn’t much alternative, really. A hotel would be too expensive. Still, the idea had its appeal: a warm room with a soft bed, shower, colour television and maybe even a bar
downstairs, where he might meet a girl. He would just have to decide later. Anyway, if he did want to catch the train, he would have to take the eight-fifty from Redditch to get to Birmingham in
time. That left three hours and fifty minutes to kill.
As he walked over the bridge and up towards the town centre in the darkening evening, Reed noticed two schoolgirls walking in front of him. They must have been kept in detention, he thought, or
perhaps they’d just finished games practice. No doubt they had to do that, even in the rain. One looked dumpy from behind, but her friend was a dream: long wavy hair tumbling messily over her
shoulders; short skirt flicking over her long, slim thighs; white socks fallen around her ankles, leaving her shapely calves bare. Reed watched the tendons at the back of her knees flex and loosen
as she walked and thought of her struggling beneath him, his hands on her soft throat. They turned down a side street and Reed carried on ahead, shaking off his fantasy.
Could Francis have got lumbered with taking detention or games? he wondered. Or perhaps he had passed by without even noticing Reed sheltering from the rain. He didn’t know where
Francis’s school was, or even what it was called. Somehow, the subject had just never come up. Also, the village where Francis lived was about eight miles away from Redditch and the local bus
service was terrible. Still, he could phone. If Francis were home, he’d come out again and pick Reed up.
After phoning and getting no answer, Reed walked around town for a long time looking in shop windows and wondering about how to get out of the mess he was in. His holdall weighed heavy in his
hand. Finally, he got hungry and ducked out of the light rain into the Tandoori Palace. It was still early, just after six, and the place was empty apart from a young couple absorbed in one another
in a dim corner. Reed had the waiter’s undivided attention. He ordered pakoras, tandoori and dhal. The food was very good and Reed ate it too fast.
After the spiced tea, he took out his wallet to pay. He had some cash, but he had decided to have a pint or two, and he might have to take a taxi home from the station. Best hang on to the paper
money. The waiter didn’t seem to mind taking plastic, even for so small a sum, and Reed rewarded him with a generous tip.
Next he tried Francis again, but the phone just rang and rang. Why didn’t the bugger invest in an answering machine? Reed cursed. Then he realized he didn’t even have one himself,
hated the things. Francis no doubt felt the same way. If you were out, tough tittie; you were out and that was that.
Outside, the street lights reflected in oily puddles on the roads and pavements. After walking off his heartburn for half an hour, thoroughly soaked and out of breath, Reed ducked into the first
pub he saw. The locals eyed him suspiciously at first, then ignored him and went back to their drinks.
‘Pint of bitter, please,’ Reed said, rubbing his hands together. ‘In a sleeve glass, if you’ve got one.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the landlord said, reaching for a mug. ‘The locals bring their own.’
‘Oh, very well.’
‘Nasty night.’
‘Yes,’ said Reed. ‘Very.’
‘From these parts?’
‘No. Just passing through.’
‘Ah.’ The landlord passed over a brimming pint mug, took Reed’s money and went back to the conversation he’d been having with a round-faced man in a pin-stripe suit. Reed
took his drink over to a table and sat down.
Over the next hour and a half he phoned Francis four more times, but still got no reply. He also
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