Excerpt from forthcoming work, set in July 1998 in Brighton - a follow-up to 'Another Late One'

I wake up in my brother’s lounge room and straining a glance across at the red digital display to my right I read “13:15”, which I soon realise means I have just had an unbroken thirteen-hour sleep.  I lie there staring up at the ceiling for a minute or so and then when I try to roll over onto my side I feel my whole body’s heaviness.  My head thumps repeatedly and I feel like I could vomit at any moment.  I feel absolutely horrendous and decide immediately that lying on my back and staring up at the ceiling will do for now.   I slowly begin to recall the events of the last few days and the flight back last night.  As I lie there, barely able to move, I have perhaps my first proper realisation that this needed to stop; I needed to calm down and take a break otherwise I would probably kill myself before long.  I’d also had enough of waking up on other people’s floors or in strange rooms I didn’t recognise.  I’d had enough.

TWO WEEKS AGO

    I was in The George and Dragon, down one of the narrow back streets of Brighton – one of our most common haunts for a night’s drinking.  It was cool in there; kind of like grungy and a little bit ‘sticky’ in places, but it had character, and a hell of a lot of stories to tell if it could’ve talked.  It had been a quiet and chilled one tonight; a few laughs, a few amusing tales told.  I looked at my watch at ten past ten and figured I’d probably have one more and call it a night.  Tomorrow was Thursday, which was usually more lively anyway, tended to be a bit madder; so I supposed that everyone would be feeling the same and say good night, same time tomorrow chaps.  Sophie had been busily texting now for about half an hour and I thought it a bit rude; but I knew what Soph was like so I wasn’t too bothered really, nor was I gonna bother her; it was her business.

    ‘So you seein’ that Russian bird again then Spots?’ enquired Terry over the general chatter.

    ‘Polish,’ corrected Spotty.

    ‘Polish…whatever; you been…err,’

    ‘Not really like,’ Spotty shrugged his shoulders.  I had heard something from Stace about Spotty and a foreign girl.

    ‘Ahhh, she sounded well nice,’ said Sophie sympathetically, though only taking a brief glance up at us from her phone, that she was still mid-texting in her lap.  Soph’s hair tonight was burgundy coloured and spiked up a little; quite refined by her standards.

    ‘When was this like?’ I asked.

    ‘Friday night,’ said Terry, pointing at Spotty across the table from him, ‘this lad somehow found his way into some foreign student night,’ he laughed, ‘what was the story again Spots?’ 

    Spotty was rolling himself a cigarette, which he then licked before sealing it deftly, ‘it’s my mate…he works with this Russian guy, Ukrainian or whatever.  We’d had a couple of spliffs, a few beers and we were at a loose end.  So my mate rings up this Russian…Ukrainian lad, and he’s at this private party in some club.  First off, can I just say it was a fucking long conversation they had on the phone; my god…’  I laughed, as did Terry at Spotty’s humourous way of putting things.  Tel was nodding and smiling broadly as if he’d already heard the story before, but was more than happy to sit through it again.  ‘I mean…it had been a good night anyway but he left me stood there freezing my nuts off;’ he tapped the cigarette down on the table top repetitively, ‘I was seriously going to leave him there…seriously; the guy was taking absolute liberties.’

    ‘It couldn’t have been that long,’ added Stace.

    ‘It was!  I kept signalling to him to hurry the fuck up.  It was Stuart,’ he looked to me now as I’d met Stuart before and I nodded in recognition, ‘you know how he goes on sometimes.’  I didn’t, but anyway.

    ‘Cut a long story short, he’s evidently trying to talk his way into this party, but he keeps having to repeat himself.  I mean, he keeps going over and over the same stuff – they kept seeming to agree everything but then he would repeat the same bit of the plan all over again – as if he couldn’t cope without knowing it off by heart or something.’

    ‘So get to the party bit,’ urges Bell.

    ‘I’m getting there, I’m getting there,’ he lights up the cigarette and Stace has lit up too next to me.  I would like one but I’m really trying to give up.  I am tempted anyhow but concentrate on the story, hoping the urge will go away.

    ‘So we get there and even after all the planning and the endless conversation, we get to the club – which I swear, I know Brighton like the back of my hand but I ain’t never been down this street before, but anyway – we get there and Stu starts moaning and gesticulating wildly – right outside the club – that Alex (that’s the Russian’s name) should be there to meet us; “he should be fucking out here,” he’s gesturing, “where the fuck is he?”’ Spotty is miming the actions and the serious, angry look on his face brings out giggles around the table.  ‘So I’m looking at Stuey,’ he continues, his eyes flicking around the table at all of us, ‘about to tell him, “look it’s not really the end of the world like, maybe it’s not meant to be,” when I notice these two great big doormen looking at us.  I mean, they are big.  One of ‘em’s got this great big Mars Bar down his cheek and he’s wearing this tight black jacket and he looks like some evil Bosnian straight out of the fuckin’ KGB or something,’ I have to put my beer down as I nearly slop it everywhere laughing; everyone is laughing, ‘so I’m trying to signal to Stuart, trying to somehow say with my eyes: “look mate, there’s two great big evil bastards over there who are looking at us as if they want to kill us,” but then this tall bloke comes out of the club and chats briefly to one of the doormen; Stuey spots him and I work out it must be Alex, ‘cos Stu starts to walk towards him at the door.  He walks up there with all the confidence in the world, as if he’s just going to walk straight into the club, never mind the doormen.  I’m shaking my head at this point thinking, “Do I want to just leave now?  Do I really want to show that I have any association with this bloke?”  As I amble towards the door anyway, both doormen put an arm out to stop Stuey, but the guy’s got the crust to look up in surprise at this point, as if he has genuinely just noticed these two big bastards stood there!’

    I have finished my drink now and really want another one.  It’ll be last orders soon and I really want a big double but I’m not going to the bar just yet, I need to hear the rest of the story.

    ‘They’re looking at him like there’s NO CHANCE he’s getting in there; “this is party,” says the one bouncer in a thick Eastern European accent, shaking his head, “students only,” he adds, “are you student?” Obviously we’re not but then Alex is speaking to them and I’m so impressed at how calm he is and he even gives me a smile and a wink as he’s talking.  It’s at this point that I think, “he’s going to get us in here, there really isn’t a problem,” and I quicken my step as I sense the bouncers weakening and the next thing I know we’re being welcomed in – but even then Stuart tries to give the Bouncers a dirty look as he walks past them into the club.  Unbelievable!’

    Everyone is loving the story and I realise how much I adore nights like these when the vibe is good and the drink is flowing.  There is a pause as Terry offers everyone another drink and –of course – everybody accepts.  As I am at the bar helping Tel with the order I hear Stace ask ‘Where’s Caine tonight?’ and Bell answers that he spoke to him a few hours ago and that he sounded completely wasted and that he was probably having trouble moving from his couch.  It was a familiar story.  ‘Carry on then,’ said Terry, laying the last of the drinks down on the already cluttered table, full of empty glasses and bottles.

    ‘So anyway,’ Spotty laughs quickly, smiling from ear to ear and shaking his head with a far off look in his eyes, ‘it’s a crazy night.  Half the girls in there…well half the people in fact, seem to be wearing these tall, curly wigs, like white or red or yellow and people are dressed up like I don’t know what.  I could’ve just stood there looking at people and that would’ve constituted a good night, I’m telling you.  It was like some fucked up Rocky Horror Show stroke Elvira stroke Barry Lyndon theme party or something; but there were some seriously fit girls in there; sorry,’ he gestured to Stace and Sophie as if to apologise for offending them.  As if!  They’d heard it all and more from us over the years.

    ‘Don’t worry about that,’ answered Soph, her phone in her pocket now and glowing with enthusiasm for the story as she always did, ‘carry on love!’

    ‘And I’m getting some really mixed looks and I don’t know why,’ Spotty continued, ‘I mean, I guess I was over-casual for such a night but I figured it kind of worked in a strange way…perhaps…I don’t know,’ he shook his head again, ‘so then Stu introduces me to Alex and then we’re at this big table with about seven blokes and two girls plus me and Stuey and everyone’s smoking and chatting closely into each other’s ears, but there was a nice atmosphere in there – kind of friendly, but cool at the same time.  I look around and there’s some girls dancing, two of these girls with the wigs…and I don’t know why – I haven’t danced all night and rarely do I ever dance come to that, but I instinctively get up and start fuckin’ boogying.  I don’t even know what the song is, but before I know it this girl is chatting to me like she’s dead interested and it turns out she’s from Poland and where am I from?  I think she knew I was English – surely she did – but I thought at the time she was expecting me to say the Czech Republic or Hungary or something.  Anyway, I’m really getting on with this girl and I’m starting to feel a real vibe happening, but then Alex is up on the dance floor talking to me, right close to my ear;

    “You like this girl?” he’s asking – and I don’t know what he means by it!  You know how Russians – or Ukrainians or whatever he is – you know how they talk sometimes if you’re not used to it?  To me he sounded almost threatening, so I’m thinking, “Shit, this is his fucking girlfriend” and I’m terrified he’s going to take me out; but then he grabs my neck and back of my shoulder, like in a really strong grip and he says almost in to my ear now, “this is nice girl, you hear me?”  I am still trying to dance opposite her at this point; I mean I’m thinking: “I like you Alex, but firstly I can SEE she’s a nice girl – I’d worked that bit out – and secondly, I kind of seemed to be doing alright without you matey,” but all I say is, “yea, yea,” or something dumb like that and then there’s a crowd dancing with us and the moment is lost; soon after that the girl disappears.’

    ‘Oh no, so what happened?’ asked Soph, excitedly sitting up and clapping her hands together.

    ‘No it was alright man!’ he exclaimed with a broad grin on his face, ‘I met her at the bar about fifteen minutes later.  I don’t know where she’d been, but we start…you know…at the bar and then at the end of the night she came back to mine.’

    ‘Good work sunshine,’ I smiled, ‘so was it worth it?’

    ‘Aye it were a good shag,’ he said.  Everyone laughed.  Spotty’s Yorkshire accent, where he was originally from, coming to the fore as it occasionally did.

    ‘Tell them what you were telling me yesterday,’ urged Terry, beaming.

    ‘What’s that?’

    ‘About, you know, the apparent boyfriend and stuff,’

    ‘Oh right; well we’re back at mine and…well, we’d done it…and then we’re lying in bed and Eva – that’s her name – starts going on about how her boyfriend doesn’t do this and doesn’t do that.  So I ask “where was your boyfriend tonight?” thinking that he could’ve been at the party and I could be in a spot of bother like, but she says, “Dusseldorf,” and laughs and I laugh too.’  He sighs and looks off dreamily for just a moment, ‘but…I don’t think anything else is gonna happen with her.’

    ‘But I thought you said she was nice?’ Stace said before taking a slug of her drink; she appeared to be quite drunk.      

    ‘Yea she is…oh I dunno!’ he put his drink down on the table, not without feeling, ‘it’s always the wrong bird at the wrong time…’

----------------------------------------------------


My books to purchase or sample here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/BIG-MAN-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B00AZOSDEG/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1375901675&sr=8-2&keywords=r.p.mcquillan

http://www.amazon.co.uk/A-Lot-Answer-For-ebook/dp/B00D8NM3RE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1375901675&sr=8-1&keywords=r.p.mcquillan

Follow me on Twitter @RichMcQuillan

Thanks for reading!

Excerpts from 'BIG MAN & Other Stories'

The First Day:

    ‘You have to make tough decisions in life, but you should never lose sight of what your ultimate goal is.’  He was looking at me now, and I realised what a friendly face he had.   

    ‘Why are so many people content to plod through life?  I did it for a while, I must admit, but I realised it wasn’t for me.’

 

Do We Leave Him Here? (or 'Dead Weight'):

‘Do we leave him here?’ asked Jerry. 

    I laughed loudly.  Big Gary had been slumped on the table for almost an hour now, passed out.

    ‘Leave him here?  How would you like that if it was you?’ answered Pete.

    ‘Yea but…’

    ‘Leave him here…’ Pete muttered laughing wryly and shaking his head.

    ‘Well…’

    ‘We’re in a foreign country!’ I snapped angrily, ‘Do you think he wants to be woken up at six o’clock tomorrow morning by some Turkish trucker?’

    ‘Yea…or robbed,’ added Pete

    ‘Aye’.

    ‘Okay okay, I get the picture.’ Jerry scraped his chair in noisily.

 

An Affair:

    She was mesmerised now; she couldn’t have told you how long she stood watching him, but she couldn’t take her eyes away – loving the way he moved; his cool, casual air.  She imagined the way he smelled, the way he looked and remembered the way she’d went nearly breathless the first time he had held her in his arms.

 

Big Man:

    A tear rolled down Toby’s right cheek and he hurriedly wiped it away with the back of his hand, then looked round nervously to see if the old man had noticed.  He turned and walked back by Toby at that moment so he quickly wiped his face and eyes with both hands this time, determined to get all signs of the tear out of sight.  The headmaster was sitting down again.

    ‘You’d better hope…’

    Toby looked at him briefly before looking down again to where he had been looking before.

    ‘You’d better hope, that Brian is okay…comes back as normal, otherwise…well, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.’

    Toby’s eyes almost ran again, but he was determined not to cry in front of old Morris.

    ‘Get yourself along to your next lesson Toby.’

    Toby looked up, able to hold Sir’s gaze this time.  When he got up to leave he couldn’t feel his legs properly, they felt like jelly and he couldn’t feel them fully as he walked.

    ‘And Toby?’

    The boy turned round and saw Sir again; he looked bigger and more imposing to him somehow, seemed to be almost staring into him.

    ‘These are your friends.’

 

One More Hand:

I’m mentally exhausted…had it up to here with Vegas and Blackjack and chasing money and trying to think of what to do, what to bet.  It seems like in this god forsaken place everything is against you…not only have you got the odds against you, but you’ve got clueless players coming in and out of the game, you’ve got dealers who can’t wait to pull the next card, not giving you any time to concentrate…you’ve got all the noise distracting you – not allowing you to focus…you’ve got the sheer, overpowering size of this place…’

 

Best Man:

    I remember the first five minutes being pleasant enough, but as the drinks started to flow, Debbie seemed to be griping about everything and answering Tony back rudely whenever he dared to speak.  I recall at one point early in the meal staring out across the Strip and realising that the view was different from what it had been when I’d first sat down.  I tried to concentrate my mind – thinking perhaps that I might be losing it completely – but as I stared across the table and out through the windows, I realised that the restaurant was ever so slowly revolving!

        ‘Yea we’re movin’’ said a middle-aged American man on the next table to us, sat with his family, ‘isn’t it neat?’

    As if my head wasn’t battered enough already.

 

The Real Mrs. Docherty:

    ‘Do you want to take a walk for a while Mrs. Docherty?  You can always come back, and we’ll tell you immediately if there’s any change.’

    Marie looks up to the nurse then, wide-eyed, as if aware of her for the first time.

    ‘Yes…yes…okay,’ she looks back to her husband on the bed, her hand still clasped in his – loosely now – but she can’t let go somehow, as if letting go of his hand was to let go of everything they had.

    ‘In a moment nurse…I’ll just stay here…’ she finishes speaking in mid-sentence, then the nurse rubs the top of her back gently.

    ‘Okay,’ the nurse says softly, ‘but take a break soon, it will do you good.’

    The nurse leaves the room and Marie suddenly feels more alone than she’s ever felt in her whole life.  She struggles to get a tissue from her bag, as she breaks out into sudden, full sobs of pain and misery.

 

A Girl Called Fran:

As the biggest of the rubbery-looking creatures made a sudden lurch in the direction of the small bunch ahead of Nick, there was a shriek and then a blonde girl flung her arms in the air and ran away, high stepping in the sand.  He looked at the girl closely as the others laughed and edged back too; with her quite tall height and slimmish figure she ought to have been quite athletic, but she seemed clumsy and ungainly as she got a further twenty metres away from the Sea Lions before daring to look round.  She wore a white bobble hat with fluffy pom-poms hanging down at the side, which had been swinging about frenetically as she ran.  She was flushing all over her face as she quickly adjusted her jeans, a big joyous smile on her face.

    ‘Oh don’t pick on me!’ she shouted, as the guide laughed at her, along with the others.  She was laughing too, albeit still red and embarrassed and Nick realised that he hadn’t taken his eyes away from her during the whole incident.

 

Another Late One:

My name is Cockney, except that’s not my real name.  In fact, sometimes I forget my real name, and so do my friends.  I’m also not a Cockney.

    I’m a real easygoing guy, I mean, excessively so; I seem to have a problem saying no to anything.  I let any number of people stay at my house anytime and everybody borrows things from me, some of which I actually get back. 

 

 

 

 

Thanks for reading!

 

Read 'The First Day' or purchase the whole book for just £1.53 @

http://www.amazon.co.uk/BIG-MAN-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B00AZOSDEG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1364490307&sr=8-1

 

Follow me on twitter @RichMcQuillan

 

An Amusing Scene in the Library

A few days ago I was at the main library in the nearest city to where I lived; I didn’t have the internet at home so I was planning to use the web for an hour.  The library was busy so I had to pre-book – I got given my computer number and the time allocated for me to use it which was around forty minutes away at 4.15pm.  To kill time I perused the bookshelves then sat and read a newspaper; when the time got near I climbed the stairs to the first floor where the computers were.

    I made my way over to my terminal and the monitor read: ‘Time left: 2 minutes, 7 seconds’ in large white figures and it was counting down each second.  I would just have to wait another couple of minutes.  Sitting right in front of the computer, side-on to it and facing each other, were a couple, probably in their late-sixties.  They were extremely grim and dirty-looking.  The man was wearing a thick grey jumper and warm-looking green coat even though we were indoors and it was a sunny and warm day.  The few hairs he had clinging to the top of his head were dark and extremely greasy-looking; they were swept back to the top of the back of his head into a kind of knot but then the hair spread out again to the lower part of his head – but instead of naturally flowing down to a stop or being neatly trimmed, it stopped in a sharp square well short of his neck.  He looked utterly ridiculous.  The woman, who was sitting directly in front of my monitor, was extremely fat and ugly-looking with thick, tape-repaired glasses.  She had a few warts on her face and single grey hairs sprouting out from under her nose and on her chin.  They clearly weren’t using the computer but I wasn’t going to move them out of the way until the time ran out; but then, as it got to under a minute to my turn the woman delved into a Tesco carrier bag and pulled out some sandwiches wrapped in cling-film.  She passed one to her partner, opened one herself and started taking big hungry mouthfuls.

    When the countdown on the monitor got to zero it was exactly 4.15 and ‘RESERVED’ appeared on the screen.  I approached the couple and told the woman that I needed to use the computer; she just grunted, barely appearing to register me, and pointed at the screen with a mouthful of sandwich – bringing my attention to the word ‘RESERVED’.

    ‘Yes, reserved for me!’ I exclaimed.

    She grunted again and then in no particular hurry, they gathered their stuff together and disgruntledly and very slowly left the spot – her face seemed to say: “what a pain in the arse you are, could you not use a different computer?” 

 

    I pulled a chair to the screen and sat down to start my session, greeted by a sharp smell of dirt and body odour.

"COWBOY MIKE"

‘Man, I haven’t told you about Cowboy Mike…did I tell you about Cowboy Mike?  No I didn’t…man!

    ‘We were in this Bar in San Francisco - a few of us from the hostel - and it’s like, this Sports Bar…so we go in, have a couple of drinks or whatever, then we fancy a game of darts; we get some arrows from the bar and we start playing but then straight away, these two couples come up…they’re like, these two middle-aged American guys and their Japanesy looking girlfriends, or wives or whatever. 

    ‘Anyway, they’re really boring, you can tell straight away.  One of them is this guy called Mike and the other is this, I can’t remember his name but he kind of had a Michael Bolton mullet going on, you know…receding at the top and sort of curly and long at the back, but it wasn’t cool I’ll tell you that much.  Anyway, they’re giving it the big one, saying they play for the State at darts or something and they beat everyone in the bar regularly, so we challenge them to a game – and we’re terrible by the way – so me and my mate are playing this Mike and the Michael Bolton guy at doubles. 

    ‘So I’m chalking the names up, and I put ‘Mike’ down, then I’m asking the other guy for his name…so he tells me it and I’m chalking it up, when Mike says, ‘Actually, my friends call me “Cowboy Mike”’ and I just turn and look at him…I stare at him and I’m trying to get it into my head that he was telling me I’d made a mistake – that I shouldn’t have just written ‘Mike’ on the board but “Cowboy Mike”.  I tried to contain myself, tried to hold it in, but I’ve started to laugh because my mate is looking at me with this hilarious, “eyebrows up” expression on his face; I turn around back to the board quickly, then methodically rub out “Mike” and put “C.M.” in inverted commas.

    ‘Then we’ve started playing and me and my mate are struggling to keep straight faces; and they were shite at darts!  They were slightly better than us, but you could tell they were no good; their throwing styles were crap, especially Cowboy Mike.  Throughout the whole game we were saying things like: ‘Your turn Mike…I mean ‘Cowboy,’ and laughing and he didn’t even get the joke…didn’t get that we were taking the piss…he just kept playing and smiling, and his wife didn’t get it either, she just stood there like a lemon and laughed and smiled when they got anything over like, about thirty, as if she was really impressed with her man’s darts prowess, unaware that her husband was full of shit and had told us that he was an All-California Pro or whatever; and his buddy - the whole time we were playing - never once called him ‘Cowboy Mike’.

    ‘Afterwards we were like, “Yes, you have lots of friends…and they all call you ‘Cowboy Mike.”

    ‘What an idiot.’

The Quiet Traveller

Well, look who it is,’ said Margaret before immediately turning her back on me to face the bar. One of the lads raised his chin a little in acknowledgement of me but without a smile, as the other lad whispered something in his ear. Neither of the young men seemed happy or relaxed but I didn’t get the impression they were talking about me.
    I looked at Margaret in her designer jeans, designer top, designer trainers, designer jewellery and designer hair, half perusing the bottles of various spirits lining the shelves behind the bar and half glancing at herself in the mirror, always careful not to catch my eye. If I hadn’t got the vibe earlier on then I sure as hell was getting it now.
    ‘Thought you’d join us after all then, eh?’
    It was Barry, the dark-haired, shorter lad. I turned to him and mumbled “yeah”, wishing I’d stayed at the hostel now, feeling ridiculous and alone even though they had asked me earlier if I had wanted to join them. Margaret continued to deliberately ignore me and the other lad was still talking quietly into his mate’s ear. Barry laughed this time.
    ‘Yea, better than sitting in the room innit,’ said Barry again, laughing to himself and the blonde lad, Gavin, had turned his back on us and now stood at the bar, smirking. He glanced across at Margaret but she didn’t notice him; she was still sulking.
    I looked at Margaret again, determined to get some sort of recognition from her. What had I done? I kept myself to myself and so did she; what was with the animosity? And…well, look who it is; what the hell was that supposed to mean?
    I offered the lads a drink but they already had one. I didn’t offer Margaret one. She clearly didn’t want anything to do with me. Fuck her, I thought; she’s probably just upset about having such an old woman’s name.

* * * * * * * * * * *
Back in the room lying on my bunk I wasn’t tired yet so I read a book for a while trying to make myself tired. I didn’t want to be awake when they all got back.
    I read for about an hour and it was nearly half-past eleven. I was just about to finish my last chapter for the night when I heard them; I groaned inside. They entered noisily, Barry and Gavin laughing, Margaret talking to them without humour and then they would laugh again.
    ‘Look who it is,’ said Margaret.
    Yes you said that earlier, I thought to myself. I continued to read, determined not to show any sign that they were bothering me. The truth was I was happy relaxing and I was happy that I was me. Let Margaret be Margaret, I didn’t care.
    ‘What are you reading?’ asked Gavin.
    ‘A book,’ I huffed.
    ‘Right…right,’ said Gavin sarcastically, like I’d said something fascinating.
    ‘Leave him alone,’ said Barry.
    ‘I only asked what he was reading.’
    Margaret was fiddling around a lot in her handbag. I tried to continue reading but I’d just read the same sentence four times. I threw my book off to the side, closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.