A Million Roman Candles
Book 6 - Chapter 1 - False Alarm
He was trapped, and there was no way out of the raging fire. The siren blared, deafening everyone within earshot, as the fire-engine screeched to a halt outside the front door. It was one o’clock in the morning, and Alfie stumbled out of bed looking for the mobile phone. He was sure he left it in the toilet when he came home late last night. When he staggered to the fridge to get some iced water, there it was rattling around in an open biscuit tin.
When bad dreams accompany bad happenings and senses are on high alert, the imagination takes over and reality becomes blurred. He held up his half-on, half-off shorts with his right hand, pressed the phone to his ear with his left, and somehow opened the front door with his elbow. Outside, all was dark and quiet. There was no fire, and no fire-engine.
“Hello, hello, who is it?”
“Alfie come now. Puk has been stealing. Gun is drunk, and she called the police. They are fighting. Can we come and sleep in your room?”
“Whoa. Not so fast. Why are the police fighting?”
“Not the police, you idiot. Puk and Gun.”
“Who’s we? Who wants to sleep in my room?”
“Me and Puk. What’s wrong with you?”
It was tough enough recovering from the shock of being woken from deep sleep in the dead of night. Trying to talk on the phone at the same time made it more demanding. And listening to a panic-stricken woman, shouting in riddles, was tortuous. The last thing he wanted at one in the morning was to be forced to talk to his ex-girlfriend. Half-conscious, stiff and unsure of what to do, he was overcome with a powerful sense of the idiot. Would Nin ever stop thinking she could use Alfie to solve her problems, however trivial they may be, without a moment’s thought for him. When the glass of water touched his lips, it brought life as he remembered it, closer. There is no need to hurry, he reasoned. She can wait.
He drank the water, and when he was fully awake, he dressed and mounted the little Yamaha Mio, started her up and set off down the back way to Gun’s house. What would he find when he got there he wondered, as he tootled through the narrow sois, free of humans, and only a few dogs on the prowl? They ignored him, except for one, that eyed him up, turned his head and then gave chase, as though it had not eaten for a week. The thought of being bitten by a rabid dog and getting the disease, made the motorbike go faster, and he raced through the lanes as quick as he could without losing control. But he forgot the last turn was ninety degrees and didn’t slow down. Too late, he avoided the wall but not a row of garbage bins that were overflowing and due for collection in a few hours. Dazed by the impact, he got to his feet and checked the bike before checking himself. It was undamaged, and all his arms and legs were attached to his body. Nothing hurt too much, so he picked himself up and scraped the rotting remains of KFC off his clothes. The bin men could deal with the mess. They were used to cleaning up after the dogs, so they were unlikely to think a motorcyclist was responsible.
Nin and Puk were lounging on the sofa when he arrived at Gun’s house. They were talking and listening to music, but there was no sign of Gun, and no acknowledgment of his arrival by either of them.
“What’s going on, girls? Where are the police?”
“Gun didn’t call them,” Nin said.
“So, everything’s fine?”
“Yes thanks.”
“Please don’t thank me, it’s been an absolute pleasure,” Alfie said, massively over emphasising the last two words.
Nin puckered her nose as if there was an unpleasant smell nearby. Satisfied no-one had farted, she said,
“You smell like you’ve been in a rubbish dump. Have you showered lately?”
“Let me think. Couple of days ago, maybe.”
“Disgusting.”
“Maybe it is to you. Since you left, I can shower when I feel like it.”
“So you always smell bad.”
“It would appear so.”
“I’m not surprised. If you don’t shower and go around with a half-eaten chicken wing wedged between your head and your crash-helmet, you will smell bad.”
Inebriated women, overdoses of sarcasm, blaring music and putrid KFC chicken, were things Alfie thought he’d left behind when he graduated from university. Nin could see how pissed off he was, yet she revelled in winding him up, and he wondered whether the whole thing had been staged.
He refused to react to her snide comments, or question why she didn’t budge from the sofa, which was the least he could have expected, if waking him in the middle of the night to rescue her was genuine. There was no sign of a peace offering, like beer or water. Puk ignored him and turned the music louder. Gun had passed out in her bedroom, which probably had something to do with why the argument had stopped and she didn’t call the police. That is, if there had ever been an argument.
Alfie looked at the clock on the wall. It was turning two. Some clocks can talk, but this wasn’t one of them. He wished it was, as it may have told him the truth.
He took the sensible option and drove away before blowing his top.