Chapter 47 - Deadly Trips

Image by Marcus Dall Coll from Unsplash

The smartphone pinged while Gary was sweating to thread the Mini into a parking slot just about big enough for a midget.

He couldn't prevent his eyes from flitting towards the sound but pulled them back just in time to stop his right back fender from smacking into a concrete wall.

With the car in position, all Gary had to do was squeeze his body out of the door without dinging the mangy Mondeo next to him and retrieve his trusty rucksack. He would have to dash—well call it speed-hobble, he was already cutting it tight for the flight despite all the rush.

Yesterday evening—or was it early this morning?—he had thrown his and Jon's dirty washing into the machine before he dropped into bed like a rock from a towering cliff.

Morning arrived at what felt like a finger snap later, and off he was again. After a tryst with the dryer, while booking the return flight followed by a quick re-packing of luggage, they had been ready to leave the house.

No breakfast, as there was no food and not enough time to go shopping. Instead, Jon and Gary had spent fifteen precious minutes chasing Gladys who bolted the moment she saw the carrier, white panic in her eyes, tail in full bottle-brush mode. There was only so much they could ask from the friendly neighbour; the cat would have to join Jon in exile.

Gladys trapped, they zipped to Marlow-on-Thames, towards Aline and Lorna's. A quick update on the Roman drama over a coffee, a quick hug for an unamused Jon, then back to chez Sands to welcome the stocky repairman in his grubby blue overall who sucked his teeth once he had laid bare the innards of the boiler.

Good news or bad news first? Gary went for bad. Like that, there still would be hope. Not much, though. The boiler was on its last legs and needed replacement. Yes, the thing was new, but there you go. Tough luck the warranty had just run out. Life sucks, eh mate?

But hey, now the good news—the thing could be fixed and then might last for a while longer. If nothing were done, Mr Sands might find himself without heating latest come Christmas time.

Gary gritted his teeth, gave a salvaging order and arranged for an appointment later that week, making sure it wouldn't clash with his visit to the lawyer.

###

And here he was now, squeezing through the aisle of the aeroplane, trying not to knock out people with his backpack or trip them with his crutches while the stewardesses smiled their disinterested plastic smiles.

At least he had possessed the presence of mind not to lug that briefcase backwards and forwards. One of these days he would go digital, like everybody else.

Gary bumped into the back of a bald bloke busy with pushing his suitcase into the overhead locker and got snarled at. Still, ten more rows to go. Due to the plane being chock-a-block and his late arrival, his would be a middle seat. The one at the aisle seat was taken by a wizened octogenarian, the felt version of an upturned flowerpot on her head and a sausage-shaped dog in a carrier at her feet, whining persistently.

"Sorry to disturb you, but would you mind letting me in? I've got the seat next to you."

She squinted at his crutches. "Young man, that won't work. I suggest we swap." The woman bent over, shifted the hairy cargo and hopped across with a sprightliness that made Gary feel old. Very old.

"Frightfully kind of you, madam." With a grateful smile, he sank onto the hard surface designed with airline economy not passenger comfort in mind.

The crutches were collapsible and fitted under his seat, no worries there. Only then did he remember the message from earlier and, with gyrations worthy of a world-class contortionist, retrieved his phone from the back pocket of his last pair of decent jeans, this one in black.

"Young man, you need to switch your phone off for take-off and landing," the old lady said, collecting on her debt by starting up a conversation.

"One minute, if you please. I'm waiting for an important mail. Ah, there it is."

Finally, Jeff had sent the missing picture. Gary downloaded it, then switched the phone to aeroplane mode and scrutinised the image while the plane was rolling along and the senior citizen next to him mumbled something about the ways of the modern world. It didn't sound like a compliment.

Gary zoomed her out and focussed on the photo instead. A pastel-coloured group of elderly ladies that did not include the one next to him. Unlike his flight companion, these tourists leaned on walkers, crutches and whatnots, some of them sat in wheelchairs, with their minders standing behind. Few men among them, at that age most of his sex would have handed in the towel. But there were a few.

Gary stared at the exciting moment snatched out of the time stream. What was it about the photo that had prodded his wayward mind? He couldn't for the life of him remember. Nor did seeing it again trigger any synapses.

A tinny voice said something about being ready for take-off. Gary paid no attention, kept racking his brain for the elusive inspiration until the plane stopped, breathed in deeply before it gathered speed, shot down the runway to heave itself into leaden skies.

It lurched once, Gary's stomach with it and for a nauseating second, he thought they were too heavy to defy gravity. The engines roared in response, and with shrieking and squealing noises the aircraft wobbled aloft, sloshing around the ill-advised coffee in an otherwise empty stomach.

"Are you afraid of flying?" asked the elderly lady with a sympathetic tone. Her dachshund felt addressed and whimpered at her feet.

"No, not usually. I've had little to eat. There's just been no time."

"You're ill-advised, my friend. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. If you skip that, you risk putting on weight." Was that a pointed look at his midriff? If that woman continued in the same vein for too much longer, he would swap seats again just to be able to ignore her.

He nodded and smiled brightly, then gave his phone another tap to ponder upon the scene some more. It was no good, his grey matter slopped around languidly in its bony container, unwilling to engage.

"Oh, how lovely." A bony finger poked the screen as the woman got way too close. "I've been there." She smelled of cough pastilles and something fusty. Mothballs?

"On that trip?" His luck wouldn't run that far.

"Oh, no way."

Of course, it didn't.

"They're nothing but grannies. I would never join such a tour."

Out of the corner of his eye, Gary beheld the flowerpot hat perched on a blue-rinse, curls arranged across the scalp with almost regimental precision. A shapeless tunic in dull colours, thick stockings under twill walking trousers and sensible shoes completed the outfit.

"Ah, I see."

"No, you don't. At your age, I didn't either. But it doesn't matter. I prefer walking holidays. Or educational trips. The last time I went to Rome, I booked with an outfit called Serious Study Tours. Now, I'm going to visit somebody I met on that tour." She nodded to herself.

Gary decided not to disclose his chosen profession. But the name of the company rang a bell. Where did he last hear it?

###

The suitcase sat on the marble surface of the table, its scarred angular functionality somehow out of synch with the putti cavorting over Ike's head. It was closed but not locked.

Ike knew because she had tried earlier but clicked it shut again when a vague feeling of guilt tickled her conscience.

The suitcase had been in her periphal vision ever since. Well, if Gary didn't want people to pry, he should have locked it.

Correct?

Correct!

Ike imagined a growl at her feet at this treacherous thought, but it was only that: imagination. Boris was probably in puppy heaven, grass under his paws, and tantalising smells to tease his muzzle. Which left her with a good three hours before Brigitte would return with the dog.

What was she waiting for? At the very worst, she might find nothing useful.

Her fingers pushed aside the scratched knobs and flipped open the lid of the suitcase. Just as expected, the content presented itself all ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Stacks of coloured folders bearing labels written with a rounded almost soft hand (Jon's perhaps? But then he would be the first teenager to write legibly) had been neatly arranged next to each other, to make the most of limited space.

"Invoices and payments" came in tangerine, "Goods received" in deep sea blue, "Bookings" were red, "Correspondence" grey. Where would my lord keep his benchmarking studies on the competition? Underneath the files?

Ike hesitated, pulled back by her lousy conscience. Yet, none of the information waiting under their colourful covers would be a secret; every month Gary reported on the bottom line and how they got there. He was good with figures and dressing them up, so they made sense. Had she asked what she wanted to know, he would have told her for sure.

Only he wasn't here.

Heavens, woman, get on with things.

Ike lifted the correspondence folder from its nest. Thicker than expected, it filled out the whole space, no papers hiding underneath. No documents hiding under the others either. It would be either the grey one or nothing. She flipped the folder open and checked the riders, and sure enough, the competition waited at the back, encased in the same plastic covers that protected all the documentation.

The last rider caught her eye. Labelled "Sheer Lunacy" in a bold script she recognised as Gary's it appealed to her sense for the absurd. She couldn't resist and folded the stack of documents over. The competition could wait for a moment.

Then her gaze hit on the logo of Serious Study Tours on the first letter, and she knew her search was over.

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.