Saving a Child From God, page 6
“Yes... Quite.” He glanced at Abdullah, who was staring up at her open throat and masses of blonde hair.
“My name’s Sally. Sally Atkins. We’re your new neighbours. Oh, silly me! I mean, my boyfriend Eric and me. He’s at the hardware store getting some copper piping or something. He’s very good with his hands.” She laughed. “If you know what I mean!” She tossed her mane back and thrust the shoes at Ibrahim. “Be a love and hang onto them a sec.” She crouched to look more closely at Abdullah. “And aren’t you adorable! I can see you’re gonna be a right little heartbreaker. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Abdullah turned his face into Ibrahim’s stomach. “I’m afraid he’s very shy.” He looked at the shoes in his hand and then down at her crouching figure, aware of her bare calves and the bra straps showing through the thin white blouse as she beckoned to his son like he was a small, frightened animal hiding in a hole.
“Come on, you. Come out ‘n’ play. There’s nothing to be scared of. You’ll be seeing plenty of me.” She glanced up. “What’s his name?”
“Abdullah.” He felt the boy’s grip tighten on his waist.
She nodded. “Abdullah, huh? That’s a... Come here, Abdullah. Come and say hello to your new neighbour.”
Abdullah half-turned and shook his head.
“As I said, he’s very shy. Abdullah, why don’t you show Sal... Mrs... our neighbour your collection?”
She glanced up. “Collection...?”
“Abdullah...? Do you want to – ” The boy shook his head again. “Sorry, he doesn’t want to. Some other time, perhaps.”
“Well, OK.” Sally mock-wagged a finger. “Now then, Abdullah, I’ve got my eye on you. You’d better say hello the next time I see you or there’ll be hell to pay.” She nimbly got back up but then bent again and dusted her knees, putting everything on display that bit more.
Ibrahim cleared his throat. “If you had feathers, you might have better luck.”
She frowned. “What?”
He indicated the birdbath. “He likes birds.”
“So does my Eric, but that’s another story altogether!” She threw her head back and cackled before thrusting out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Somehow the woman’s hand was in his and her shoes were in the other as he glanced at the house to see his wife in the doorway. Then he was looking at Sally again with her scent attacking his nostrils, confused by the way her facial expression had fallen. She was staring at his side, her mouth reduced to a mean little slash. Her eyes flicked up and they were narrowed and hard.
“You just wiped your hand,” she said flatly.
“I’m sorry...?”
She folded her arms. “I said, you wiped your hand. Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t...”
“Yes, you did. I saw you. You shook my hand and then you wiped yours on your trousers. Think I’m dirty or something, do you?”
“No, of course not! I apologise if there’s been some...” He glanced at Khayla in the doorway again. “It’s just my relig – ”
“Don’t wanna hear it, buster,” she said, snatching her shoes back. “Well, this is just great. I can see we’re going to have a ball with you folks.”
She turned and began striding back to her house with the shoes dangling from a hand.
“Daddy...”
“It’s OK, son. Nothing to worry about.” He tried to smile. “She... She shouldn’t have grabbed my hand, that’s all. There wasn’t anything I could... You saw, didn’t you? It was... It was wrong of her.”
****
Professor Jeggert sat in his Y-fronts spooning a yummy mix of baked beans, melted cheese and half-cooked, runny eggs into his mouth straight from the saucepan. He’d just watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers for the fifth or sixth time, having first seen it during its initial run in 1978 with a hot Irish babe called Stella who allowed him a bit of no-bra action in the back row of a Piccadilly cinema. A sci-fi/horror classic accompanied by a bout of exuberant teenage fumbling had proved to be a top night, but for some reason it couldn’t hold a candle to his latest home viewing.
Boy, had Invasion resonated this time round. What a genuinely eerie experience. He’d been right there with Donald Sutherland in downtown San Francisco fighting the pod people, terrified that everyone he knew had gone rotten inside, hell-bent on making everyone like them before taking over the world.
The professor wistfully shook his head as the film’s credits rolled. They didn’t make ’em like that anymore.
He put the saucepan down on the carpet, burped and rubbed his mouth. Not exactly cordon bleu cooking but a good, satisfying meal nonetheless. What to do now? Some high-quality drama from those HBO chaps? Or maybe a few dozen hands of solitaire to see if he could beat his win percentage of twenty-five percent? He still hadn’t finished that 1000-piece Coliseum jigsaw.
Then, of course, there was the next section of his lexical semantics paper to start. He guiltily glanced at the messy pile of notes lying on the table. It was just... Well, he really wasn’t in the mood for hyponymy and hypernymy. They could wait another day or so. It wouldn’t kill them.
An echo of Ferninckle’s voice popped up in his head: It has been a while since your last publication, hasn’t it? He ground his teeth. That horrible trace of pity was enough to almost make him get up and sit at the table.
Instead he grabbed a pad of foolscap and began to jot down a few more notes on his long-cherished desire to set up a sceptics society. The Tiverby Sceptics. It definitely had a nice ring to it. With him as president. Such an organisation might impress Ferninckle or at least get her off his back for a bit, even if it didn’t have anything to do with linguistics and ‘promoting the department’.
He swallowed away something bitter, determined to focus on his pet project. Perhaps he could put an ad in the paper, post something online or hand out some flyers on campus. It would be good to hook up with a handful of like-minded individuals, some people who could think for themselves.
Why, just a couple of weeks ago he’d read an article in The Tiverby Recorder on a clairvoyant. Such crud made his blood boil. Pathetic little attention-seekers. Hell, even seeing an astrology column with the number of a premium phone line alongside it was enough to make him twitch. Psychics and their contemptible ilk fleecing the gullible would be the first to be shamed by his merry bunch of men.
Although, of course, women would be just as welcome to join. A successful membership application might even have some very nice knock-on effects.
After filling a page with the sort of charlatans he’d like to hang out to dry, he took a break and reached for The Times. Its page three court story centred on a Muslim shopkeeper who’d been murdered outside his Liverpool shop after claiming to be a prophet.
Professor Jeggert neatly folded the newspaper and settled down to read. The man’s attacker, a Muslim from a different sect, claimed the shopkeeper had disrespected Islam.
‘Fourteen hundred years ago, the prophet Muhammad – peace be upon him – said he was the final messenger of Allah, that he was leaving us the final Quran, and no one had the right to claim to be a prophet,’ the killer said in a prepared statement.
‘If I had not done this, others would have done it, and there would have been more killing and violence in the world.’
Professor Jeggert smiled. “Killing to prevent killing...? Well, if that ain’t one for the ol’ scrapbook, I dunno what is.”
Just as he was about to reach for the scissors, he smelled burning. He looked round, sniffing the air.
What the...?
He got up and went out to the kitchen to see a saucepan of milk boiling over on the stove. He stared at it dumbfounded as the frothing liquid sizzled and turned black. He dashed over and yanked it off the ring.
“Jesus Christ...”
He poured the rest down the sink and set about cleaning up. After leaving the saucepan in soak, he spotted a lone mug containing a teaspoon on the counter. He peered into it to see some hot chocolate at the bottom.
For the life of him, he couldn’t even remember wanting the drink, let alone coming out to the kitchen and putting the milk on. He scratched his head while opening the kitchen door to help disperse the acrid stink.
He tried to smile. “Must be getting old...”
Then he heard the local rag being pushed through the front door. He slowly walked to the hallway, frowning when he saw a photo of a vaguely familiar woman with brown shoulder-length hair splashed across the front.
With a start he realised it was her. The woman with the big, melancholy eyes and hesitant smile. She was standing outside the green railings of his old school which could only mean the story was about that dunderhead lollipop man.
For a few heartbeats he just gaped at the newspaper lying on the black and white tiled floor, barely able to take it in.
It was a sign. It had to be a sign.
“Oh, thank you, thank you...”
He scooped up The Recorder, glanced at the headline Mystery ‘hero’ allows fire truck on its way and sucked in his breath.
It was about him. The story was about him! And not only that but she’d labelled him a hero.
He hurried back into the living room and dropped the newspaper on the top of his lexical semantics notes. Apart from a left-hand corner article on some local actor who’d landed a bit part in Doctor Who, the whole front page was devoted to him. He began to greedily read.
A Tiverby woman has commended a passer-by who moved an obstructive lollipop man from the path of a fire engine.
Lucy Giles said she had been shopping with a friend when the crossing guard tried to usher them across the road by Tiverby Comprehensive – despite a fire engine trying to pass.
“As soon as we saw the fire engine we waited at the side of the road, but the lollipop man insisted we cross,” she told The Recorder.
Miss Giles, who works at the High Street Pharmacy, said it was a crazy situation.
“He just wouldn’t get out of the way. Luckily, a smartly dressed man walking by pulled him away. He acted decisively. I think he’s a hero.”
South Wales Fire and Rescue Service Commander Vic Harmon said the crew were on their way to an out of control bonfire in Usk when the crossing guard refused to move.
“Despite repeated appeals for him to move aside, a passer-by was needed to remove him,” he said.
“It’s very disappointing when members of the public don’t understand the necessity of our work. The delay to this 999 call could have proved very serious.”
A Newport City Council spokeswoman refused to name the lollipop man, but said he had been suspended and an inquiry would be held.
The professor grinned and read it again. His whole body was tingling.
A hero...?
“Aw, shucks...”
He probably wouldn’t go that far as he’d just done what needed doing. His civic duty, perhaps. He sat back in the chair, wondering if they handed out medals or rewards for such bold actions.
One thing was for sure: he’d have to wave it under Plain Jayne’s snotty little nose. Hey, Ferninckle, that good enough for you? Still think I’m ready for the scrapheap? Huh?
He looked again at Lucy’s photo and reread her comments. A smartly dressed man... acted decisively... a hero.
He drummed his fingers on the table. So now he not only knew where she worked but her marital status as well. Plus, she was a pharmacist. A pretty impressive job by anyone’s standards. The pharmacist and the professor. Yes, he liked the sound of that.
He began smiling.
****
Chapter Five
Fortune favours the brave. Strike while the iron’s hot. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Professor Jeggert walked in a little circle in front of the neatly clipped hedge that ran up to the High Street Pharmacy, trying to think of as many relevant figures of speech as possible. He wagged an index finger as another popped into his head.
“No time like the present,” he muttered. Good, yes, that was a good one. “Hopefully it won’t be a case of close but no cigar!”
He gave a stuttering mini-laugh, but was forced to turn and examine the hedge as a woman pushing a pram looked at him. For a while he picked tiny balls of fluff off his pale yellow lamb’s wool tank top. It was a nice sweater vest, perhaps his best, but maybe he shouldn’t have chosen yellow with its undertones of cowardice.
Then again, he couldn’t be a coward. How could he? If he were scared, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.
He turned again and looked at his old school, half-expecting (and almost wanting) a cry of “Oi! Briefcase!” to emanate from beyond the railings. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen as he’d chosen to visit Lucy’s workplace at 11am, a time when the kids were definitely in class.
He took a step toward the pharmacy but halted to think about the newspaper article again. Lucy – what a nice name – sure had said some good things about him. Smartly dressed... (that argyle tank top had always been a winner) hero... (self-explanatory, really) acted decisively... (like a hero does). How could she not want to see him again? She’d even described the confrontation with the lollipop man as a ‘crazy situation’, implying he’d acted selflessly despite the danger.
He edged along the hedge, pausing at the boundary with the pharmacy. He took a breath and poked his head round to peek into the window, unable to see anything. The angle was all wrong. The glass was just one big reflection. All he could see were passing cars and the school’s green railings.
He knew she was in there, though, having briskly walked past from the other side with his glasses on five minutes ago. To be honest, it had been a bit of a disappointment to see her behind the till without a white coat. Lucy wasn’t a pharmacist. She was just a shop assistant.
Perhaps he ought to consider his status. What would people say when he introduced a mere shop worker?
Then again, she did have that intriguing smile.
He tried to formulate a plan. Maybe not say anything about the newspaper. Just stroll in, act natural and wait for her to recognise her ‘hero’.
That was good. Yes, he liked that. He was about to put his plan into action when a man in an orange anorak got out of a car and entered the shop.
“See...? Look how easy it is. You just walk straight in.”
He resisted the urge to cup his hands against the glass and peer in to see what she was doing. That would be weird. Instead he paced in a tight little circle again.
Then a surge of anger hit him. What the hell was he doing?
“Think!” He vigorously tapped a temple. “Think, man!” This was a classic case of emotion smothering logic. Just remove the emotion and proceed to act in a rational manner. For God’s sake, he was not about to jump in a pit to slay a dragon. His life was not in any danger. He was just going to ask a woman out. What was the worst that could happen? She might say no. Big deal. He’d survive, he’d live to fight another day. One thing was for sure: he wasn’t going to achieve a goddamned thing out here dithering on the street like a silly schoolboy.
Suitably emboldened, he went to pull open the door just as Mr Anorak was leaving with a white paper bag in his hand. For a confusing couple of seconds it wouldn’t budge as they both pulled. Then he realised the door opened inward and he let go, enabling the guy to come out. They both laughed and apologised.
He stepped inside, aware of the clean soothing fragrances of soap, shampoo and toothpaste. Lucy had her back to him and was talking to the youngish, pony-tailed pharmacist. He went to the counter and waited, scratching the back of his left leg with his right foot as the pharmacist jabbered away through the back room’s big service hatch. Lucy laughed at something, turning when the pharmacist gave a tiny head flick to indicate a customer.
“Hello, and...” She frowned. “Oh... it’s you.”
“The one and only.” He mimed a little tap dance and finished by throwing his arms open. “Ta-da!” He bowed. “Professor James Jeggert at your service.”
She nodded, exchanging glances with the amused pharmacist. “The fire engine man.”
“That’s me,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Although you can call me JJ!” He swallowed. Where had that come from? He’d never referred to himself as JJ before in his entire life. “Yes, you can call me...” He grinned, having lost track of the sentence.
“Well, nice to meet you again... JJ.”
“Likewise, my dear. Likewise.”
“So you’ve finished lurking by the side of the shop then?”
“Sorry...?”
“You kept poking your head round the side of the window.”
He blinked, his voice unnaturally high. “Did I...?”
“Yep.” There was an amused sparkle in her eyes. “You might not have been able to see in, but we can certainly see out.”
He laughed and turned to look at the crystal-clear view of the street. “Oh...”
“We didn’t know what you were doing.”
“Well, that’s because...” He rubbed his calf again. “Sorry, itchy leg.”
“Fiona here thought you were building up the courage to come in and buy something, you know...” Lucy leaned forward and whispered in a conspiratorial manner. “Embarrassing.”
He loudly laughed. “Oh no, not me. There’s nothing embarrassing about me. You can be sure of that. And I don’t need to buy anything, either.” He patted his stomach and flexed both biceps. “Fit as a fiddle and healthy as a horse. Brain food, you see. That’s the key to life. Keep your brain in shape and everything else follows.”
She smiled. “Well, you certainly do look trim, but if you don’t need anything then why are you here?”
“Good question.” He grinned, eating up the ‘trim’ compliment. “That’s a very good question.” He looked at the pharmacist’s placid face, who was now leaning on the sill of the service hatch and clearly listening to every word. Go away, woman. Give us some privacy. Pop off into your back room and make up a prescription. Inject some methadone or something.
He looked again at Lucy as she waited for an answer. This really wasn’t fair. It was hard enough asking her out without having to do it in front of an audience. It’d be like asking two women out at once. And after such a barren spell, he wasn’t quite ready for a threesome.
“My name’s Sally. Sally Atkins. We’re your new neighbours. Oh, silly me! I mean, my boyfriend Eric and me. He’s at the hardware store getting some copper piping or something. He’s very good with his hands.” She laughed. “If you know what I mean!” She tossed her mane back and thrust the shoes at Ibrahim. “Be a love and hang onto them a sec.” She crouched to look more closely at Abdullah. “And aren’t you adorable! I can see you’re gonna be a right little heartbreaker. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Abdullah turned his face into Ibrahim’s stomach. “I’m afraid he’s very shy.” He looked at the shoes in his hand and then down at her crouching figure, aware of her bare calves and the bra straps showing through the thin white blouse as she beckoned to his son like he was a small, frightened animal hiding in a hole.
“Come on, you. Come out ‘n’ play. There’s nothing to be scared of. You’ll be seeing plenty of me.” She glanced up. “What’s his name?”
“Abdullah.” He felt the boy’s grip tighten on his waist.
She nodded. “Abdullah, huh? That’s a... Come here, Abdullah. Come and say hello to your new neighbour.”
Abdullah half-turned and shook his head.
“As I said, he’s very shy. Abdullah, why don’t you show Sal... Mrs... our neighbour your collection?”
She glanced up. “Collection...?”
“Abdullah...? Do you want to – ” The boy shook his head again. “Sorry, he doesn’t want to. Some other time, perhaps.”
“Well, OK.” Sally mock-wagged a finger. “Now then, Abdullah, I’ve got my eye on you. You’d better say hello the next time I see you or there’ll be hell to pay.” She nimbly got back up but then bent again and dusted her knees, putting everything on display that bit more.
Ibrahim cleared his throat. “If you had feathers, you might have better luck.”
She frowned. “What?”
He indicated the birdbath. “He likes birds.”
“So does my Eric, but that’s another story altogether!” She threw her head back and cackled before thrusting out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Somehow the woman’s hand was in his and her shoes were in the other as he glanced at the house to see his wife in the doorway. Then he was looking at Sally again with her scent attacking his nostrils, confused by the way her facial expression had fallen. She was staring at his side, her mouth reduced to a mean little slash. Her eyes flicked up and they were narrowed and hard.
“You just wiped your hand,” she said flatly.
“I’m sorry...?”
She folded her arms. “I said, you wiped your hand. Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t...”
“Yes, you did. I saw you. You shook my hand and then you wiped yours on your trousers. Think I’m dirty or something, do you?”
“No, of course not! I apologise if there’s been some...” He glanced at Khayla in the doorway again. “It’s just my relig – ”
“Don’t wanna hear it, buster,” she said, snatching her shoes back. “Well, this is just great. I can see we’re going to have a ball with you folks.”
She turned and began striding back to her house with the shoes dangling from a hand.
“Daddy...”
“It’s OK, son. Nothing to worry about.” He tried to smile. “She... She shouldn’t have grabbed my hand, that’s all. There wasn’t anything I could... You saw, didn’t you? It was... It was wrong of her.”
****
Professor Jeggert sat in his Y-fronts spooning a yummy mix of baked beans, melted cheese and half-cooked, runny eggs into his mouth straight from the saucepan. He’d just watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers for the fifth or sixth time, having first seen it during its initial run in 1978 with a hot Irish babe called Stella who allowed him a bit of no-bra action in the back row of a Piccadilly cinema. A sci-fi/horror classic accompanied by a bout of exuberant teenage fumbling had proved to be a top night, but for some reason it couldn’t hold a candle to his latest home viewing.
Boy, had Invasion resonated this time round. What a genuinely eerie experience. He’d been right there with Donald Sutherland in downtown San Francisco fighting the pod people, terrified that everyone he knew had gone rotten inside, hell-bent on making everyone like them before taking over the world.
The professor wistfully shook his head as the film’s credits rolled. They didn’t make ’em like that anymore.
He put the saucepan down on the carpet, burped and rubbed his mouth. Not exactly cordon bleu cooking but a good, satisfying meal nonetheless. What to do now? Some high-quality drama from those HBO chaps? Or maybe a few dozen hands of solitaire to see if he could beat his win percentage of twenty-five percent? He still hadn’t finished that 1000-piece Coliseum jigsaw.
Then, of course, there was the next section of his lexical semantics paper to start. He guiltily glanced at the messy pile of notes lying on the table. It was just... Well, he really wasn’t in the mood for hyponymy and hypernymy. They could wait another day or so. It wouldn’t kill them.
An echo of Ferninckle’s voice popped up in his head: It has been a while since your last publication, hasn’t it? He ground his teeth. That horrible trace of pity was enough to almost make him get up and sit at the table.
Instead he grabbed a pad of foolscap and began to jot down a few more notes on his long-cherished desire to set up a sceptics society. The Tiverby Sceptics. It definitely had a nice ring to it. With him as president. Such an organisation might impress Ferninckle or at least get her off his back for a bit, even if it didn’t have anything to do with linguistics and ‘promoting the department’.
He swallowed away something bitter, determined to focus on his pet project. Perhaps he could put an ad in the paper, post something online or hand out some flyers on campus. It would be good to hook up with a handful of like-minded individuals, some people who could think for themselves.
Why, just a couple of weeks ago he’d read an article in The Tiverby Recorder on a clairvoyant. Such crud made his blood boil. Pathetic little attention-seekers. Hell, even seeing an astrology column with the number of a premium phone line alongside it was enough to make him twitch. Psychics and their contemptible ilk fleecing the gullible would be the first to be shamed by his merry bunch of men.
Although, of course, women would be just as welcome to join. A successful membership application might even have some very nice knock-on effects.
After filling a page with the sort of charlatans he’d like to hang out to dry, he took a break and reached for The Times. Its page three court story centred on a Muslim shopkeeper who’d been murdered outside his Liverpool shop after claiming to be a prophet.
Professor Jeggert neatly folded the newspaper and settled down to read. The man’s attacker, a Muslim from a different sect, claimed the shopkeeper had disrespected Islam.
‘Fourteen hundred years ago, the prophet Muhammad – peace be upon him – said he was the final messenger of Allah, that he was leaving us the final Quran, and no one had the right to claim to be a prophet,’ the killer said in a prepared statement.
‘If I had not done this, others would have done it, and there would have been more killing and violence in the world.’
Professor Jeggert smiled. “Killing to prevent killing...? Well, if that ain’t one for the ol’ scrapbook, I dunno what is.”
Just as he was about to reach for the scissors, he smelled burning. He looked round, sniffing the air.
What the...?
He got up and went out to the kitchen to see a saucepan of milk boiling over on the stove. He stared at it dumbfounded as the frothing liquid sizzled and turned black. He dashed over and yanked it off the ring.
“Jesus Christ...”
He poured the rest down the sink and set about cleaning up. After leaving the saucepan in soak, he spotted a lone mug containing a teaspoon on the counter. He peered into it to see some hot chocolate at the bottom.
For the life of him, he couldn’t even remember wanting the drink, let alone coming out to the kitchen and putting the milk on. He scratched his head while opening the kitchen door to help disperse the acrid stink.
He tried to smile. “Must be getting old...”
Then he heard the local rag being pushed through the front door. He slowly walked to the hallway, frowning when he saw a photo of a vaguely familiar woman with brown shoulder-length hair splashed across the front.
With a start he realised it was her. The woman with the big, melancholy eyes and hesitant smile. She was standing outside the green railings of his old school which could only mean the story was about that dunderhead lollipop man.
For a few heartbeats he just gaped at the newspaper lying on the black and white tiled floor, barely able to take it in.
It was a sign. It had to be a sign.
“Oh, thank you, thank you...”
He scooped up The Recorder, glanced at the headline Mystery ‘hero’ allows fire truck on its way and sucked in his breath.
It was about him. The story was about him! And not only that but she’d labelled him a hero.
He hurried back into the living room and dropped the newspaper on the top of his lexical semantics notes. Apart from a left-hand corner article on some local actor who’d landed a bit part in Doctor Who, the whole front page was devoted to him. He began to greedily read.
A Tiverby woman has commended a passer-by who moved an obstructive lollipop man from the path of a fire engine.
Lucy Giles said she had been shopping with a friend when the crossing guard tried to usher them across the road by Tiverby Comprehensive – despite a fire engine trying to pass.
“As soon as we saw the fire engine we waited at the side of the road, but the lollipop man insisted we cross,” she told The Recorder.
Miss Giles, who works at the High Street Pharmacy, said it was a crazy situation.
“He just wouldn’t get out of the way. Luckily, a smartly dressed man walking by pulled him away. He acted decisively. I think he’s a hero.”
South Wales Fire and Rescue Service Commander Vic Harmon said the crew were on their way to an out of control bonfire in Usk when the crossing guard refused to move.
“Despite repeated appeals for him to move aside, a passer-by was needed to remove him,” he said.
“It’s very disappointing when members of the public don’t understand the necessity of our work. The delay to this 999 call could have proved very serious.”
A Newport City Council spokeswoman refused to name the lollipop man, but said he had been suspended and an inquiry would be held.
The professor grinned and read it again. His whole body was tingling.
A hero...?
“Aw, shucks...”
He probably wouldn’t go that far as he’d just done what needed doing. His civic duty, perhaps. He sat back in the chair, wondering if they handed out medals or rewards for such bold actions.
One thing was for sure: he’d have to wave it under Plain Jayne’s snotty little nose. Hey, Ferninckle, that good enough for you? Still think I’m ready for the scrapheap? Huh?
He looked again at Lucy’s photo and reread her comments. A smartly dressed man... acted decisively... a hero.
He drummed his fingers on the table. So now he not only knew where she worked but her marital status as well. Plus, she was a pharmacist. A pretty impressive job by anyone’s standards. The pharmacist and the professor. Yes, he liked the sound of that.
He began smiling.
****
Chapter Five
Fortune favours the brave. Strike while the iron’s hot. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Professor Jeggert walked in a little circle in front of the neatly clipped hedge that ran up to the High Street Pharmacy, trying to think of as many relevant figures of speech as possible. He wagged an index finger as another popped into his head.
“No time like the present,” he muttered. Good, yes, that was a good one. “Hopefully it won’t be a case of close but no cigar!”
He gave a stuttering mini-laugh, but was forced to turn and examine the hedge as a woman pushing a pram looked at him. For a while he picked tiny balls of fluff off his pale yellow lamb’s wool tank top. It was a nice sweater vest, perhaps his best, but maybe he shouldn’t have chosen yellow with its undertones of cowardice.
Then again, he couldn’t be a coward. How could he? If he were scared, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.
He turned again and looked at his old school, half-expecting (and almost wanting) a cry of “Oi! Briefcase!” to emanate from beyond the railings. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen as he’d chosen to visit Lucy’s workplace at 11am, a time when the kids were definitely in class.
He took a step toward the pharmacy but halted to think about the newspaper article again. Lucy – what a nice name – sure had said some good things about him. Smartly dressed... (that argyle tank top had always been a winner) hero... (self-explanatory, really) acted decisively... (like a hero does). How could she not want to see him again? She’d even described the confrontation with the lollipop man as a ‘crazy situation’, implying he’d acted selflessly despite the danger.
He edged along the hedge, pausing at the boundary with the pharmacy. He took a breath and poked his head round to peek into the window, unable to see anything. The angle was all wrong. The glass was just one big reflection. All he could see were passing cars and the school’s green railings.
He knew she was in there, though, having briskly walked past from the other side with his glasses on five minutes ago. To be honest, it had been a bit of a disappointment to see her behind the till without a white coat. Lucy wasn’t a pharmacist. She was just a shop assistant.
Perhaps he ought to consider his status. What would people say when he introduced a mere shop worker?
Then again, she did have that intriguing smile.
He tried to formulate a plan. Maybe not say anything about the newspaper. Just stroll in, act natural and wait for her to recognise her ‘hero’.
That was good. Yes, he liked that. He was about to put his plan into action when a man in an orange anorak got out of a car and entered the shop.
“See...? Look how easy it is. You just walk straight in.”
He resisted the urge to cup his hands against the glass and peer in to see what she was doing. That would be weird. Instead he paced in a tight little circle again.
Then a surge of anger hit him. What the hell was he doing?
“Think!” He vigorously tapped a temple. “Think, man!” This was a classic case of emotion smothering logic. Just remove the emotion and proceed to act in a rational manner. For God’s sake, he was not about to jump in a pit to slay a dragon. His life was not in any danger. He was just going to ask a woman out. What was the worst that could happen? She might say no. Big deal. He’d survive, he’d live to fight another day. One thing was for sure: he wasn’t going to achieve a goddamned thing out here dithering on the street like a silly schoolboy.
Suitably emboldened, he went to pull open the door just as Mr Anorak was leaving with a white paper bag in his hand. For a confusing couple of seconds it wouldn’t budge as they both pulled. Then he realised the door opened inward and he let go, enabling the guy to come out. They both laughed and apologised.
He stepped inside, aware of the clean soothing fragrances of soap, shampoo and toothpaste. Lucy had her back to him and was talking to the youngish, pony-tailed pharmacist. He went to the counter and waited, scratching the back of his left leg with his right foot as the pharmacist jabbered away through the back room’s big service hatch. Lucy laughed at something, turning when the pharmacist gave a tiny head flick to indicate a customer.
“Hello, and...” She frowned. “Oh... it’s you.”
“The one and only.” He mimed a little tap dance and finished by throwing his arms open. “Ta-da!” He bowed. “Professor James Jeggert at your service.”
She nodded, exchanging glances with the amused pharmacist. “The fire engine man.”
“That’s me,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Although you can call me JJ!” He swallowed. Where had that come from? He’d never referred to himself as JJ before in his entire life. “Yes, you can call me...” He grinned, having lost track of the sentence.
“Well, nice to meet you again... JJ.”
“Likewise, my dear. Likewise.”
“So you’ve finished lurking by the side of the shop then?”
“Sorry...?”
“You kept poking your head round the side of the window.”
He blinked, his voice unnaturally high. “Did I...?”
“Yep.” There was an amused sparkle in her eyes. “You might not have been able to see in, but we can certainly see out.”
He laughed and turned to look at the crystal-clear view of the street. “Oh...”
“We didn’t know what you were doing.”
“Well, that’s because...” He rubbed his calf again. “Sorry, itchy leg.”
“Fiona here thought you were building up the courage to come in and buy something, you know...” Lucy leaned forward and whispered in a conspiratorial manner. “Embarrassing.”
He loudly laughed. “Oh no, not me. There’s nothing embarrassing about me. You can be sure of that. And I don’t need to buy anything, either.” He patted his stomach and flexed both biceps. “Fit as a fiddle and healthy as a horse. Brain food, you see. That’s the key to life. Keep your brain in shape and everything else follows.”
She smiled. “Well, you certainly do look trim, but if you don’t need anything then why are you here?”
“Good question.” He grinned, eating up the ‘trim’ compliment. “That’s a very good question.” He looked at the pharmacist’s placid face, who was now leaning on the sill of the service hatch and clearly listening to every word. Go away, woman. Give us some privacy. Pop off into your back room and make up a prescription. Inject some methadone or something.
He looked again at Lucy as she waited for an answer. This really wasn’t fair. It was hard enough asking her out without having to do it in front of an audience. It’d be like asking two women out at once. And after such a barren spell, he wasn’t quite ready for a threesome.
