The Collected Short Stories Read online

  The next word that came to my lips was “Damn!” I repeated it several times, as there was a distressingly large space where I was certain I’d left my car.

  I walked up and down the street in case I’d forgotten where I’d parked it, cursed again, then marched off in search of a phone box, unsure if my car had been stolen or towed away. There was a pay phone just around the corner in Kingsway. I picked up the receiver and jabbed three nines into it.

  “Which service do you require? Fire, Police, or Ambulance?” a voice asked.

  “Police,” I said, and was immediately put through to another voice.

  “Charing Cross Police Station. What is the nature of your inquiry?”

  “I think my car has been stolen.”

  “Can you tell me the make, color and registration number please, sir?”

  “It’s a red Ford Fiesta, registration H107 SHV”

  There was a long pause, during which I could hear other voices talking in the background.

  “No, it hasn’t been stolen, sir,” said the officer when he came back on the line. “The car was illegally parked on a double yellow line. It’s been removed and taken to the Vauxhall Bridge Pound.”

  “Can I pick it up now?” I asked sulkily.

  “Certainly, sir. How will you be getting there?”

  “I’ll take a taxi.”

  “Then just ask the driver for the Vauxhall Bridge Pound. Once you get there, you’ll need some form of identification, and a check for one hundred and five pounds with a banker’s card—that is if you don’t have the full amount in cash.”

  “One hundred and five pounds?” I repeated in disbelief.

  “Mat’s correct, sir.”

  I slammed the phone down just as it started to rain. I scurried back to the corner of the Aldwych in search of a taxi, only to find that they were all being commandeered by the hordes of people still hanging around outside the theater.

  I put my collar up and nipped across the road, dodging between the slow-moving traffic. Once I had reached the far side, I continued running until I found an overhanging ledge broad enough to shield me from the blustery rain.

  I shivered, and sneezed several times before an empty cab eventually came to my rescue.

  “Vauxhall Bridge Pound,” I told the driver as I jumped in.

  “Bad luck, mate,” said the cabbie. “You’re my second this evening.”

  I frowned.

  As the taxi maneuvered its way slowly through the rain-swept post-theater traffic and across Waterloo Bridge, the driver began chattering away. I just about managed monosyllabic replies to his opinions on the weather, John Major, the England cricket team and foreign tourists. With each new topic, his forecast became ever more gloomy.

  When we reached the car pound I passed him a ten-pound note and waited in the rain for my change. Then I dashed off in the direction of a little Portakabin, where I was faced by my second line that evening. This one was considerably longer than the first, and I knew that when I eventually reached the front of it and paid for my ticket, I wouldn’t be rewarded with any memorable entertainment. When my turn finally came, a burly policeman pointed to a form taped to the counter.

  I followed its instructions to the letter, first producing my driver’s license, then writing out a check for £105, payable to the Metropolitan Police. I handed them both over, with my check card, to the policeman, who towered over me. The man’s sheer bulk was the only reason I didn’t suggest that perhaps he ought to have more important things to do with his time, like catching drug dealers. Or even car thieves.

  “Your vehicle is in the far corner,” said the officer, pointing into the distance, over row upon row of cars.

  “Of course it is,” I replied. I stepped out of the Portakabin and back into the rain, dodging puddles as I ran between the lines of cars. I didn’t stop until I reached the farthest corner of the pound. It still took me several more minutes to locate my red Ford Fiesta—one disadvantage, I thought, of owning the most popular car in Britain.

  I unlocked the door, squelched down onto the front seat, and sneezed again. I turned the key in the ignition, but the engine barely turned over, letting out only the occasional splutter before giving up altogether. Then I remembered I hadn’t switched the sidelights off when I made my unscheduled dash for the theater. I uttered a string of expletives that only partly expressed my true feelings.

  I watched as another figure came running across the pound toward a Range Rover parked in the row in front of me. I quickly wound down my window, but he had driven off before I could shout the magic words “jump cables.” I got out and retrieved my jumper cables from the trunk, walked to the front of the car, raised the hood, and attached the cables to the battery. I began to shiver once again as I settled down for another wait.

  I couldn’t get Anna out of my mind, but accepted that the only thing I’d succeeded in picking up that evening was the flu.

  In the following forty rain-drenched minutes, three people passed by before a young black man asked, “So what’s the trouble, man?” Once I had explained my problem he maneuvered his old van alongside my car, then raised his bonnet and attached the jump leads to his battery. When he switched on his ignition, my engine began to turn over.

  “Thanks,” I shouted, rather inadequately, once I’d revved the engine several times.

  “My pleasure, man,” he replied, and disappeared into the night.

  As I drove out of the car pound I switched on my radio, to hear Big Ben striking twelve. It reminded me that I hadn’t turned up for work that night. The first thing I needed to do, if I wanted to keep my job, was to come up with a good excuse. I sneezed again, and decided on the flu. Although they’d probably taken the last orders by now, Gerald wouldn’t have closed the kitchens yet.

  I peered through the rain, searching the sidewalks for a pay phone, and eventually spotted a row of three outside a post office. I stopped the car and jumped out, but a cursory inspection revealed that they’d all been vandalized. I climbed back into the car and continued my search. After dashing in and out of the rain several times, I finally spotted a single phone box on the corner of Warwick Way that looked as if it might just be in working order.

  I dialed the restaurant, and waited a long time for someone to answer.

  “Laguna 50,” said an Italian-sounding young girl.

  “Janice, is that you? It’s Mike.”

  “Yes, it’s me, Mike,” she whispered, reverting to her Lambeth accent. “I’d better warn you that every time your name’s been mentioned this evening, Gerald picks up the nearest meat ax.”

  “Why?” I asked. “You’ve still got Nick in the kitchen to see you through.”

  “Nick chopped the top off one of his fingers earlier this evening, and Gerald had to take him to hospital. I was left in charge. He’s not best pleased.”

  “Oh, hell,” I said. “But I’ve got …”

  “The sack,” said another voice, and this one wasn’t whispering.

  “Gerald, I can explain …”

  “Why you didn’t turn up for work this evening?”

  I sneezed, then held my nose. “I’ve got the flu. If I’d come in tonight I would have given it to half the customers.”

  “Would you?” said Gerald. “Well, I suppose that might have been marginally worse than giving it to the girl who was sitting next to you in the theater.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, letting go of my nose.

  “Exactly what I said, Mike. You see, unfortunately for you, a couple of our regulars were two rows behind you at the Aldwych. They enjoyed the show almost as much as you seemed to, and one of them added, for good measure, that he thought your date was ‘absolutely stunning.”’

  “He must have mistaken me for someone else,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.

  “He may have done, Mike, but I haven’t. You’re sacked, and don’t even think about coming in to collect your pay packet, because there isn’t one for a head waiter who’d