Rob Johnson - Lifting the Lid (36 page)

‘Whoa there, Batman,’ said Sandra, her wrists resting on the edge of the table, both palms towards him. ‘Before you get too carried away with your new-found role as saviour of the universe, I’ll remind you exactly what’s stopping us, and that’s a little thing called the Official Secrets Act. Mess with that and you could be talking serious prison time – or worse.’

‘Worse?’ Trevor genuinely didn’t know what she meant.

‘You think people like Pitter Patterson give a monkey’s who they…’ She seemed to be searching for the right word. ‘…
Liquidate
if they get in the way? It’s what they
do
, for Christ’s sake.’

Trevor resisted giving voice to any of the thoughts which sprang into his mind. Any one of them would have reinforced Sandra’s opinion of his naivety, and besides, he had the distinct impression she was losing patience with him. He stirred his coffee even though he’d added neither milk nor sugar.

‘Look, I don’t like it any more than you do,’ said Sandra, ‘but shit like this happens all the time, and there’s not a damn thing people like us can do about it.’

Yep, she was definitely getting pissy, but he was grateful she hadn’t added “Deal with it” or “Get over it” at the end. He continued pointlessly stirring his coffee, once again in the belief that silence was his best form of defence. After several seconds, however, he was beginning to doubt the effectiveness of his strategy when he heard a sharp tapping sound in front of him. He looked up to see the silver toast rack poised a couple of inches above the table, and his eyes traced a route from Sandra’s hand and up her arm to her face. It was wearing a broad grin.

‘You want me to order more toast?’ she said.

Trevor shook his head. Sandra had arrived in the guesthouse dining room a few minutes before him and ordered the full English for both of them, but he had hardly touched it. By rights, he should have been ravenous since he’d hardly eaten a thing all weekend apart from a handful of biscuits, a Mars bar and the late night snack at his sister’s the night before. But his appetite had deserted him. In fact, he felt decidedly nauseous whenever he pondered the events of the past couple of days, which was most of the time. The queasiness was particularly intense when he recalled the shock of seeing Imelda on the— Oh hell, I’m going to throw up.

He jumped to his feet, almost knocking his chair over in the process.

‘You okay? You’ve gone a bit… pale.’

‘Need a pee,’ said Trevor through ventriloquist lips but was able to appreciate Sandra’s look of genuine concern despite his current preoccupation with finding the nearest toilet as quickly as possible.

‘Tell you what,’ she said as he frantically scanned the room for the appropriate sign. ‘I’ll sort out the bill while you’re gone. It’s quite a schlep back to your van, so the sooner we get started, the better.’

He nodded, suddenly remembering there was a Gents in the hallway just outside the dining room, and he was about to set off when Sandra interrupted his mission once again.

‘Still, it’ll give us plenty of time to talk about how we’re going to spend the twenty-five grand. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had a decent holiday in years.’

It was as if she had recited some kind of magical healing charm, so rapidly did Trevor’s nausea vanish. His mind had no room for anything other than what she had just said. ‘We?’

‘You got a problem with that?’

‘Well no, but—’

‘The thing is,’ said Sandra, ‘you came so close to screwing up this job that I could quite cheerfully have throttled you the moment I caught up with you at the festival.’

Trevor scratched the back of his head and stared down at his feet. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. All I—’

‘But then I was lying in bed last night, thinking it all through, and it struck me that without your untimely and totally unwelcome interference, I’d have ended up with two grand instead of twenty-five. Fair’s fair. We split the difference.’

‘Are you serious?’

Sandra sat back in her chair. ‘I thought you said you needed the loo.’

He didn’t any more, but he decided to make the trip anyway if only to give himself the space to try and get his head round what she was suggesting. He weaved his way past the three tables that stood between him and the dining room doorway, each occupied by a solitary man in a suit and tie, all intent on reading their newspapers. As he passed the last of them, he heard Sandra’s voice calling out: ‘And don’t forget to wash your hands.’

There were no urinals in the Gents, just a single toilet and a small washbasin. He locked the door, lowered the lid and sat down. High up on the wall behind him was a small open window through which he could hear Milly’s familiar banshee howling. Dogs weren’t allowed in the dining room, so he’d taken her for a short walk when he’d come down for breakfast and then left her in Sandra’s car.

‘Quite an adventure eh, Milly?’ he said aloud. ‘Bet you never thought it’d turn out like this.’

As if in response, Milly gave a particularly ear-piercing shriek, and Trevor laughed for the first time in days. It gave him a much needed boost, and the conversation he’d just had with Sandra meant that – for now at least – his mind no longer had room for the nausea-inducing thoughts of Imelda, Harry Vincent, Logan, Patterson and all the rest of them.

What was it she’d said about a holiday? Did she mean they should go somewhere
together
? He closed his eyes and concentrated hard to conjure up the vision of a tropical beach, complete with white sand, palm trees and gently lapping turquoise waves with Sandra lying beside him in an exceptionally skimpy bikini. But try as he might, all he could come up with was a depressingly vivid evocation of the last beach he’d visited about three years ago – a windswept Cleethorpes, complete with a relentless grey drizzle and the fetid stink of seaweed and fried onions. Fortunately, however, he was still able to picture the scantily clad Sandra with impressive clarity even though he wasn’t quite sure why she was leaping up and down on the floor of a bouncy castle with an enormous piece of toast in her mouth.

The image began to fade and then evaporated entirely with the sudden awareness that Milly had stopped howling. Whereas most dog owners would have heaved a sigh of relief at the lull in the mayhem, Milly’s silence instantly pushed all of Trevor’s alarm buttons at once. It could only mean one thing. Frustrated that her baying wolf impersonation had failed to produce any tangibly positive results – particularly the reappearance of her so-called master – she had turned her attention instead to the upholstery of Sandra’s car.

‘Oh bloody Nora,’ he said and sprang to his feet.

Although there was no reason to do so, he automatically grabbed the flush handle of the toilet and pushed it downwards. He had already unlocked the door when he realised that all he had heard was a dull clunking sound from somewhere inside the cistern. Turning back, his hand reached out towards the porcelain lid, but it had travelled no more than two or three inches before he abruptly withdrew it.

‘Uh-uh,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You might have caught me out once, but that’s your lot, pal. You can get yourself a proper plumber this time.’

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to the following people for helping to make this book better than it would have been without their advice, technical knowhow and support:

Tom Doyle, Nuala Forde, Lisa Garvey-Williams, Richard Garvey-Williams, Bill Huntington, Judy Jagmohan, Trine Ejlskov Jensen, Rob Johnson (a different one), Jim Jones, Tina Keeley, Yiannis Kininis, Diane McDowell, Roddy McDowell, Huw Morris, Alexander Phillips, Derek Poulson, Jane Romans-Wilkins, Petros Stathakos, Nadia Tottman, Bob Uden, Dan Varndell, Naomi Varndell, Chris Wallbridge, Elizabeth Wallbridge, Nick Whitton, Rachel Whyte, Richard Wilkins

COVER DESIGN

Many thanks also to Kostas Tsoukatos for the original artwork and to Brian Ground for the overall design. (Sorry I kept changing my mind!)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lifting the Lid
is my first novel, although I have written professionally for the theatre in the past.

My career as a playwright began after having worked for several years as an administrator and publicist for touring theatre companies and I decided to try my hand at writing plays myself. Four of these were toured throughout the UK, but when public funding for non-commercial theatre virtually dried up overnight I was forced into the world of “proper jobs” as my father liked to call them.

Some of these were less “proper” than others and included working in the towels and linens stockroom at Debenhams, as a fitter’s mate in a perfume factory, a multi-drop delivery driver, and a motorcycle dispatch rider. I was actually sacked from the last of these jobs because, according to my boss, ‘We could get a truck there quicker.’

During this period, I also made use of my Equity card and appeared in numerous TV shows as a ‘supporting artiste’, otherwise and somewhat less attractively known as an ‘extra’. (Ricky Gervaise was spot on by the way. Just wish I’d written Extras myself.)

I’m currently in Greece with my partner, Penny, working on a sequel to
Lifting the Lid
and a couple of screenplays. I’ve also been producing a series of short, hopefully humorous podcasts (with background barking sounds provided by our five rescue dogs).

If you’d like any more information, please…

visit my website at
http://
www.rob-johnson.org.uk
(where you can also listen to my series of podcasts)

follow
@RobJohnson999
on Twitter

check out my Facebook author page at
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rob-Johnson-Writer/498882313513422?ref=hl

LIFTING THE LID

Published by Xerika Publishing

Copyright © Rob Johnson 2013

The right of Rob Johnson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Brian Ground from an original painting by Kostas Tsoukatos.

First published 2013 by Xerika Publishing

10 The Croft, Bamford, Hope Valley, Derbyshire S33 0AP

ISBN: 978-0-9926384-0-5

http://www.rob-johnson.org.uk