Read Online Quantum Poppers by Matthew Reeve - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matthew Reeve
Ads: Link
rang.
‘Julie,’ he
said. What was her last name?
‘It’s Caroline
- I have her on hold.’
‘Tell her I’m
in a meeting?’
‘I already said
you were available.’
‘Tell her you
were mistaken. You’ve called through and found I was in a meeting.’
‘You don’t want
to talk to your wife?’
‘Not right now,
but thank you Julie. When I want to talk to her I will let you know. Meeting,
can't talk.’
She hung up and
he could picture the resigned look on Caroline’s face as she was told the news.
He would phone her back shortly, he always did. Just because the phone rang
didn’t mean you had to answer it.
It was a Monday
morning, a day when the clouds looked as though they were waiting especially
for you to walk outside before dumping rain upon you. John had already
completed his second cup of coffee by 11.15 and the sourness of the drink gave
the sensation that his mouth was drying up; another cup would sort that out.
But first, a cigarette. The calming smoke would gather the caffeine from his
taste buds and free them for further drinks that day; the two lunchtime pints
he had planned with Richard from HR for starters. Perhaps caffeine and nicotine
cancelled each out. Only one way to find out, he thought as he left his
office, informing no one where he would be for the next twenty minutes.
Alan had joined
him. A likeable guy yet John had made the mistake early on of saying ‘yes’ when
Alan had enquired as to whether or not he liked football. ‘Yes, although I am a
Brighton supporter so it’s kind of debatable.’
This little
aside had opened him up to months of ‘witty banter’ and endless tales from Alan
regarding the local under eights team he managed. John appreciated the idea of
this elderly man putting his spare time to good use in coaching the local kids
the fine game (although he smoked more than John did, was at least sixty, and
had a prominent stagger - John dreaded to think what his level of coaching
attained to), but did he have to repeat the same anecdotes and theories of the
game every single day? Did he have to tell him about the proposed new ground
they were offering to the council? Did he have to finish every story with a
shot of laughter that sounded as though a seal had been gunned down before
having its death knell cut to a short and sharp inhale? Hagh! Apparently he
did.
‘We got The
Western Times coming down tomorrow. You like your football don’t you? Gonna
take some pictures of the proposed ground. Of course it’ll be mainly used by
the seniors who have needed a new ground for years. Maybe by the time we get it
it’ll be my kids playing as the seniors, Hagh! We played FC Gulls last night,
heard of them? Won 6-1. Got a couple of wingers who'll be warming the bench at
Arsenal soon and a goalie to answer all England's problems in ten years time.
You'll have to get your lot up here soon for a game. Did I ask you before?
Smells like rain.’
John’s lot was
the local team John had last played for eight years previous. He was admittedly
still in touch with the manager but he had no intention of suggesting they make
the two-hour drive to Alan’s west London footballing ghetto for a game. John inhaled
deeply on his B&H and wondering what rain smelt like admitted that it did
look as though the clouds were about to open up, again waiting for just the
right moment to cause John Johnson the highest possible amount of grievance.
The taste of burnt coffee was replaced by burnt tar, a flavour he quite enjoyed
and Alan continued his match report from last night’s game. That his group of
eight-year-olds had thrashed a group of seven-year-olds appeared to be the
summation.
John breathed
one of his last free breaths.
He threw down
his cigarette and crushed it under foot. A circle of ash radiating from the
downed butt lay behind him as he walked towards the building’s double glass
doors. ‘See you later Al,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Where you’ll no doubt
recap
‘Julie,’ he
said. What was her last name?
‘It’s Caroline
- I have her on hold.’
‘Tell her I’m
in a meeting?’
‘I already said
you were available.’
‘Tell her you
were mistaken. You’ve called through and found I was in a meeting.’
‘You don’t want
to talk to your wife?’
‘Not right now,
but thank you Julie. When I want to talk to her I will let you know. Meeting,
can't talk.’
She hung up and
he could picture the resigned look on Caroline’s face as she was told the news.
He would phone her back shortly, he always did. Just because the phone rang
didn’t mean you had to answer it.
It was a Monday
morning, a day when the clouds looked as though they were waiting especially
for you to walk outside before dumping rain upon you. John had already
completed his second cup of coffee by 11.15 and the sourness of the drink gave
the sensation that his mouth was drying up; another cup would sort that out.
But first, a cigarette. The calming smoke would gather the caffeine from his
taste buds and free them for further drinks that day; the two lunchtime pints
he had planned with Richard from HR for starters. Perhaps caffeine and nicotine
cancelled each out. Only one way to find out, he thought as he left his
office, informing no one where he would be for the next twenty minutes.
Alan had joined
him. A likeable guy yet John had made the mistake early on of saying ‘yes’ when
Alan had enquired as to whether or not he liked football. ‘Yes, although I am a
Brighton supporter so it’s kind of debatable.’
This little
aside had opened him up to months of ‘witty banter’ and endless tales from Alan
regarding the local under eights team he managed. John appreciated the idea of
this elderly man putting his spare time to good use in coaching the local kids
the fine game (although he smoked more than John did, was at least sixty, and
had a prominent stagger - John dreaded to think what his level of coaching
attained to), but did he have to repeat the same anecdotes and theories of the
game every single day? Did he have to tell him about the proposed new ground
they were offering to the council? Did he have to finish every story with a
shot of laughter that sounded as though a seal had been gunned down before
having its death knell cut to a short and sharp inhale? Hagh! Apparently he
did.
‘We got The
Western Times coming down tomorrow. You like your football don’t you? Gonna
take some pictures of the proposed ground. Of course it’ll be mainly used by
the seniors who have needed a new ground for years. Maybe by the time we get it
it’ll be my kids playing as the seniors, Hagh! We played FC Gulls last night,
heard of them? Won 6-1. Got a couple of wingers who'll be warming the bench at
Arsenal soon and a goalie to answer all England's problems in ten years time.
You'll have to get your lot up here soon for a game. Did I ask you before?
Smells like rain.’
John’s lot was
the local team John had last played for eight years previous. He was admittedly
still in touch with the manager but he had no intention of suggesting they make
the two-hour drive to Alan’s west London footballing ghetto for a game. John inhaled
deeply on his B&H and wondering what rain smelt like admitted that it did
look as though the clouds were about to open up, again waiting for just the
right moment to cause John Johnson the highest possible amount of grievance.
The taste of burnt coffee was replaced by burnt tar, a flavour he quite enjoyed
and Alan continued his match report from last night’s game. That his group of
eight-year-olds had thrashed a group of seven-year-olds appeared to be the
summation.
John breathed
one of his last free breaths.
He threw down
his cigarette and crushed it under foot. A circle of ash radiating from the
downed butt lay behind him as he walked towards the building’s double glass
doors. ‘See you later Al,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Where you’ll no doubt
recap
Similar Books
