Gary waited until he was out of earshot, then let his breath out in a gush of relief. “Wow, Charlie, he must have really taken a shine to you.”
“Hmm.” I looked at the card he'd left with me again, and stuffed it into the back pocket of my offending jeans. If I'd any idea of the trouble it was going to cause, I'd have borrowed Gary's lighter and set fire to the damn thing instead.
Three
I slept in until eight the next morning, but made up for it by working out before breakfast. I was inspired to take up weight training again when I moved into my current flat, which was once a gym. It stands on the increasingly fashionable St George's Quay – rented, I might add – overlooking the River Lune.
When it had been a gym, it had never been a frilly sort of a place. Apparently the only women who used to go there were the owner's girlfriend, and a strapping wench who went in for Miss Great Britain competitions. It was a place for people seriously interested in building their bodies, not posing in a leotard.
When I moved in all the previous owner had done was to haul out the fixed weight machines and benches. The walls are still peeling whitewash, except the one still covered full length in mirrors. The light bulbs and the floorboards are bare. I'd taken down the posters of oiled muscular men and women demonstrating the visible benefits of vitamin supplements, ripped out the urinals in the gents' changing room and put in some old kitchen units I bought cheap from the second-hand furniture place two doors along.
The rest stayed more or less as it was. What was the office now houses my bed, and the main gym area has become my living room. I'd even hung my punchbag on the hook in the ceiling that had been put there for that purpose anyway. It swung elegantly in a corner, lending a certain sophisticated something to the place.
People usually comment admiringly about the size of the flat, and how lucky I am to live there. They don't notice the creeping damp patches, or the collection of buckets for when the wind is driving the rain under the roof slates from just the right angle.
I pay a pittance in rent, but with no written agreement. I knew full well when I moved in that the whole building was under sentence, and the landlord could chuck me out at any moment. Still, having viewed an increasingly depressing range of rat-infested bedsits when I first came to Lancaster, I figured that on the whole, it was worth the risk.
When I'd had enough of the weights I dropped them in a corner and headed for the shower, stripping off my jogging pants and T-shirt as I went.
While the roomy gents' changing room has since become my kitchen, the smaller ladies' room I use as a bathroom. I'm the only person I know with no bath but three showers. It still has the sign of a muscular female in a typical body builder's pose on the door. The only way you can tell the sex is that she has a bikini top stretched round her rippling upper torso. I leave her there to encourage me not to go over the top with the training.
Afterwards, I dressed in jeans and an old shirt. Breakfast was toasted crusts, because I'd already eaten the rest of the bread and forgotten to get a new loaf. I dumped my toast plate in the sink and scooped the jogging pants into the washbag when I was done. Living on my own I have to be strict about being tidy, otherwise I'd never be able to see the floor.
On a reflex I refilled the filter coffee machine and switched it on. Before long the whole place was filled with the heavy wafting scent of own-blend Java from the tea and coffee merchant in town.
I emptied the kitchen rubbish bin, a tricky operation because I never get round to doing it until it's way overflowing, and struggled down the stairs to dump a weighty black bin bag out on the pavement. They come first thing on a Monday morning and I always forget until I actually hear the council truck grinding its way along the quay, by which time I've usually missed them.
I was just making sure the top of the bag was secure to prevent it being raided by the swat team that is the local semi-stray cat population, when I heard the heavy rumbling of a big diesel. I looked up to see the local mobile video man, Terry Rothwell, pulling his big Mercedes van into a parking space on the other side of the road.
Everyone round here knows Terry. He'll never go down in the history books as a great thinker, but his heart's in the right place. I met him not long after I moved in, through his business partner, Paul. Paul runs a video shop in Abraham Heights, just back from the quay, and rides an old, but pristine black Kawasaki GPZ900R.
It often works out that way. If you have a bike, everyone you seem to meet has one too. I think nearly all my friends in Lancaster have some connection or other to motorcycling.
When I first arrived here, Paul and Terry were great. Helped me sort out the wiring and even found me a second-hand video player at right money. I may not own any carpets, but you've got to get your priorities right when it comes to life's luxuries. In my case it was hi-fi, microwave, video – probably in that order.
Even if you don't hire out movies you can't miss Terry's van. It's green. Not a nice subdued British Racing, more Kawasaki Racing. A bilious shade of lime, bordering on fluorescent. On the side, in big pink letters, are the words, “The Big Green Video Machine'. I asked him once whose idea the nauseous colour scheme was. He proudly accepted full responsibility. “You may not like it,” he said, “but you sure as hell can't ignore it.” I had to agree he had a point, there.
Terry himself is a pretty noticeable character. He's about six-foot four and rather rotund with rubbery features that make him look more like a caricature of somebody else than a person in his own right. His hair is also receding and he will insist on growing the remainder long and brushing it forwards to cover the inadequacies. Windy days make him comically nervous.
He seems to do well out of the video game, though. The van was only two years old and when he's off duty I've seen him driving round in a two-door Merc coupé with a private plate on it. Somebody once told me Terry thought driving a prestige car would help him pull the birds. No offence to the guy, but a crash diet, plastic surgery and a decent hairstyle would probably work better.
By the time he'd eased his bulk out of the van I'd crossed over to meet him. “I'm glad you're in,” he said. “I've got that new Keanu Reeves film in we were talking about.”
He unlocked the side door and slid it back. Inside are racks of the latest films. I leant against the door aperture while he scribbled in his book, scouring the shelves with my head on one side to read the titles. He has so many films I want to watch that I always come away with a crick in my neck.
“You're in a good mood,” I observed, climbing in.
“Well, I've had a very useful morning so far,” he said, shutting the book and giving me a satisfied smile. “Been round chasing a bad debt.”
“Successfully, obviously.”
“Oh yeah, the guy didn't have the cash on him, but I don't think I've done too badly out of it. He gave me this instead, look,” he said, and leant over into the front of the van to retrieve something from the passenger seat. I averted my eyes from the buttock cleavage that suddenly appeared at the back of his jeans. When he straightened up he was holding a rectangular object, about the size of a telephone directory. He flipped the lid open to reveal the neat screen and keyboard of a portable computer. It looked like a toy in his huge hands. “Well then,” Terry said proudly, “what d'you think of that?”
“Neat,” I said, trying not to sound too nonplussed. I can't get over the uneasy thought that computers are something I really ought to get into and understand, but I just can't raise the enthusiasm. “Where on earth did you pick this up?”