III.

Bill’s footsteps echoed off the deserted high street. A sinister tranquility magnified by the soft electronic grind of shop front CCTV cameras tracking his passage. Dual whispers. Synchronic sibilations of the eyes sweeping right and left. All hauntingly familiar.

Looking back was a mistake, the illuminations of Ladbrokes now extinguished. Both hunter and hunted, he knew not to bother crossing the street. The chase into nowhere. Was it possible to get lost on a straight road?

And then there was light: the welcoming radiance of the World’s End in all its wonder. He could almost taste the wine. Not a Merlot, the Pinot Grigio of reds. Pinot Noir is far better if you want something soft. A toasty Malbec, Argentinian, if he was having a steak. When had he eaten last?

“Evening,” Bill greeted the empty pub. Vacant but not silent. Speakers at the four corners of the bar piped music at an ambient volume. Classic rock. He recognized the tune. Couldn’t quite name it. The wall clock read five minutes to ten. That late?

“Hello?” Seeing the open hatch, Bill stepped tentatively behind the serving counter. Crossing this threshold unhindered, he continued his trespass into the small kitchen. Unlike its glossy gastro namesake in Chelsea, the World’s End didn’t appear to be a dining establishment. Not that the premises were unclean. Plastic color-coded chopping boards were stacked neatly on the spotless stainless steel worktop. Opening the lone fridge revealed a selection of prepared sandwiches and cling-filmed tubs filled with grated cheese, rocket leaves, chopped red onions, and sliced tomatoes. A couple of defrosted bags of chips nestled the lower shelf, just above a side of ham and a fillet of cooked beef. That was the smell: bleach and fat. The fryer was still on.

“He-hello?” Bill opened the kitchen door onto a courtyard. A fag-end filled mayonnaise drum lay between two upturned crates against the wall, the smoking room for staff. Employees conspicuous by their absence. But it was the bins that attracted his attention. Four of them: glass, paper, plastic and general waste. The latter in particular. No flies. Bill remembered the rubbish filled bins of the housing estate. Food overflowed fresh. No mottling or molding. No rats. No flies.

Bill pinched himself. Hard. Had he been sleepwalking earlier? Was that why he came to consciousness on the motorway? Or was he in the midst of a lucid nightmare, confined in that area where the border between dream and reality had eroded—or not yet formed?

Back in the kitchen, he grabbed a fruit knife and rolled up a sleeve. Fuck. There must be a first aid box somewhere. He was bleeding and awake. Good job he nicked the top of his forearm.

Propping up the wrong side of the bar, Bill considered his options. He hadn’t seen or spoken to a person, or any living creature, all day. He didn’t know where he was. And he was shaking. Not from hunger or fear. Terror would be a welcome diversion from outrageous banality.

Placing a £20 note on top of the till, Bill grabbed a bottle of Shiraz and a wine glass. Unable to find a remote control behind the bar, he switched on the small television above the fireplace manually. Fortunately, the set was tuned in to ITV Racing. He turned up the volume to drown out the music.

“AND THEY’RE UNDER STARTER’S ORDERS. READY FOR THE OFF FOR THE PANOPTIC SOLUTIONS HANDICAP CHASE.”

Roger Penrose was right. Diana is indeed most easy on the eye. Still, not a patch on the fuckable Francesca.

“WE’RE DOWN TO JUST EIGHT HORSES ON THE CARD. THE SIX OTHER ENTRANTS PULLED OUT AT THE LAST MINUTE.”

Bill filled then drained his glass. In a gulp. Like drinking electricity.

“TO BE FAIR, FIVE MILES IS TOO TAXING FOR MOST.”

As with a cold water droplet freezing on a speck of pollen to create a prism of ice, he felt the wine crystallize within.

“ANDALUSITE OPENED AT SIXTEENS AND WAS BACKED IN TO EIGHTS.”

The Shiraz sizzled his palate and lingered, ricocheting from tongue to gustatory cortex.

“BUT THERE’S BEEN A FLURRY OF MONEY FOR EPIALES WHO IS NOW THE CLEAR FAVOURITE AT 7-2.”

Kindling his veins, suffusing his brain and back again.

“AND THEY’RE OFF.”

Hello baby, where have you been? With the race lasting at least 15 minutes—eight runners paid three places, just under a 40 percent chance of a return, £50 up on his take if Andalusite placed only—he had time to break the seal. Not before a swift refill. What was the old saying? Find the door with the sign displaying ‘gentlemen’, ignore it and walk in.

“LAST THING I REMEMBER”

Piped music played in the hall outside the toilets.

“I WAS RUNNING FOR THE DOOR”

Bursting, Bill bolted to the nearest urinal.

“I HAD TO FIND THE PASSAGE BACK”

The alcohol appeared to have affected him more than expected.

“TO THE PLACE I WAS BEFORE”

When was the last time he drank?

“‘RELAX,’ SAID THE NIGHT MAN”

Somewhere in the more primitive region of his brain.

“‘WE ARE PROGRAMMED TO RECEIVE”

Fireworks of neurons crackled.

“YOU CAN CHECK-OUT ANY TIME YOU LIKE”

Dopamine fizzed and flooded.

“BUT YOU CAN NEVER LEAVE”

Nice guitar solo. He’d worry about getting home later. Dashing back to the bar, Bill didn’t notice the other person running towards him until halfway down the stairs. A glance of a man descending, with some haste, the flight of steps opposite. The middle-aged man clearly didn’t see him. But he didn’t care. Bill had one thought only: conversation. To offer the man a drink. Ask about his family. Feel the warmth of another human being as they shake hands and part company. If Andalusite wins, he’d buy the man dinner. The idea that snared Bill at the very moment that he hit the full-length mirror hanging from the door.

Refracted through a sheen of sparkles, a kaleidoscope of stares scowled back at him sitting on the floor stunned. A fracture of faces returned from the shards and splintered sections of silver hanging off the door. Only a nosebleed. Could have been worse. For not even a moment, not even a sliver of a second, he looked out from the mirror cracked—trapped in his reflections. Concussion? Nothing a drink wouldn’t soon sort.

IV.

“AND THAT’S ANDALUSITE OUT OF THE RACE”

“Bollocks,” muttered Bill, rescuing his wine…why was he drinking with his left hand?

“FALLEN AT THE LAST HURDLE”

The final furlong? He hadn’t been in the toilet that long?

“THE JOCKEY SEEMS FINE, BUT THE HORSE HAS TAKEN A BAD FALL”

Had he? The wall clock read five minutes past two. He retrieved his betting slip from his pocket.

“IT’S THE END OF A DREAM.”

“Wish it was this one.”

“IF ANYTHING,                    QUITE THE REVERSE.”

“—”

“THE GREEN SCREEN IS UP AND THE VET IS ATTENDING AS WE SPEAK”

Bill looked at his betting slip once more.

“What the fuck?”

“IT’S NOT LOOKIN GOOD FOR ANDALUSITE”

He switched off the television. Silence. Even the music had stopped, amplifying the sound of Bill’s pulse quickened. His heart felt like a velociraptor. An acceleration accompanied by eye-scorching sweat, shackling his shirt to the skin. Tie removed and collar unbuttoned, he hurtled towards the pub entrance. Hitting the wall opposite, at the far end of the room, Bill retraced his steps to find the door locked. Chained from the outside. Beating the paneling—safety glass?—he screamed. “Where is everybody?”

The shivers escalated to shakes, the trembling into quakes. His lungs, shredded fishing nets, trawled vainly for air. Faltering towards the fire escape, he bundled through the shimmering snakes blocking his departure. Lustrous loops of Aztec gold, Amsterdam red and kryptonite green slinking; swirls of shocking pink, ultraviolet and quicksilver sliding lazily across the room. Serpents that slithered slowly from Bill’s eyes, ears, mouth, and nose as he crashed through the emergency exit into a blaze of blinding brilliance.

V.

“Turn off the light, Roger,” snapped Morris Escher.

“Bright…too bright,” whimpered Bill, writhing on the floor.

“You don’t know how long he’s been cooped-up in the dark,” continued Morris.

“At least five days,” replied Roger Penrose, Bill’s next-door neighbor.

“How do you know that?”

“Haven’t seen him down the End for nearly a week.”

“Hot…the heat,” sobbed Bill.

“Going to check his heart rate.” A minute later, Morris asked, “Any news on the ambulance?”

“On its way. But the traffic’s bad. Could be another half an hour.” Roger added, “Good job you decided to stay over after supper, Dr. Escher.”

“He’s tachycardic. Pulse of 110. Fever. Bring me as many cold wet cloths—tea towels, anything—as possible. Then run a bath. Not too cold,” said Morris. “Looks like he’s taken a tumble, too. Broken nose.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Strip him.” As the doctor removed Bill’s clothes, he shouted to Roger in the kitchen. “Do you know if your drinking buddy has any health issues? Epilepsy, anything like that?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He’s been a bit down on his luck recently. Lost his job at the school.”

“What did he do?”

“History teacher. Wife fucked off, too.”

“Double whammy. Are the two events related?” asked Morris, applying cold compresses to Bill’s armpits, groin, and forehead.

“Well,” responded Roger. “He’s fond of a bottle or two.”

“Of wine?”

“Vodka.”

“A week?”

“A day. That’s why he’s not been down the pub lately. The landlord bet Bill that he couldn’t stay off the sauce for a month.”

“Fire,” mumbled Bill. “Had to get away from the snakes…into the fire.”

“Sh, sh,” soothed Morris. You’re in good hands. The ambulance will be here soon.” The doctor threw his car keys at Roger. “Fetch my stuff, would you. It’s the Gladstone bag in the boot.”

“You know what’s wrong with him?” asked Roger.

“Indeed, I do. The heebie-jeebies, technically known as delirium tremens. Not surprising, given how much your friend puts away.” Morris continued to wipe Bill’s brow. “Hopefully I’ve got some benzos to stabilize him.”

“Fire,” howled Bill thrashing. “I’m burning…burning up.”

“It’s only five to ten.” said Roger retrieving his mobile. “I’ll call his ex, just in case.”

VI.

“He-hello?” a drowsy Charlotte Turner answered her phone.

“Sorry to wake you Charlie,” replied Roger Penrose.

“What time is it?”

“Just gone two. Five past. Is everything OK?”

“I…I think so.” Stretching out her arm, Charlie realized she was alone in bed.

“With all that crashing and banging, I thought Bill might…be having one of his turns?”

“Thanks for checking up on me.” Charlie just about remembered…something—little more than the echo of a dream, an infinitely regressing spiral of a story, evaporating from memory. “Everything’s fine. You know what he’s like.”

“Yes,” said Roger, deadpan.

“Doesn’t know when to stop. Apologies for disturbing you so late.”

With the neighbors placated, Charlie went downstairs to find her husband. Entering the stuffy living room, she switched on the lights.

Curled up on a sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, a semi-conscious Bill grumbled, “For fuck’s sake, Charlie.”

Coals glowed in the hearth. A half-empty bottle of wine topped the mantelpiece. Streaks of claret blotted the white wool cushioning Bill. Feeling the flesh flow over his bones, he attempted to stand. On his knees defeated he moaned, “My head.” It was only after wiping his face that he noticed the blood on his hands. Rising to his feet, he stared into the mirror above the fireplace. “Bollocks…nosebleed. What am I doing down here?”

“Jesus, Bill. I tried to get you to come to bed after our nightcap. But you insisted on a second bottle of wine,” she chided, crumpled on the couch. “You’re not in your twenties anymore.” Softening, she pleaded, “We’re supposed to be trying for a baby.”

“I’m not a jaffa,” snarled Bill retrieving his wine glass from the floor and topping up.

“I never said you were, hun.” She noticed that curious familiar glare that always frightened her, a glare turned inward now like that light illuminating Blake’s Ghost of a Flea. Fear that the glare would swing outwards and turn up her. “But when you get in this state, I…I don’t want any more rows.”

“Neither do I, babe,” Bill joined her on the sofa, kissing her forehead. “Neither do I. You should have let me be.”

Taking him by the hand, a slumberous Charlie soothed, “I wanted to, hun. But you were shouting and screaming in your sleep. You even woke the neighbors up.”

“It’ll give that old gossip Roger something to bore about down the End. Fuck, my legs ache. Feel like I’ve been walking all day.”

“And your poor face.” Charlie’s fingertips caressed the contours of Bill’s cratered forehead. “You’ll have a right shiner in the morning.” Cuddling up to him, she continued with tender trepidation. “You really scare me sometimes. I dread to think what you’ve been up to.”

“I don’t even remember leaving the restaurant.” Rummaging inside his blazer pocket, Bill fished out a paper ball from the clutter of chewing gum, coins and keys.

“What’s that?” asked Charlie.

Nestling into the comfort of his wife’s body, Bill unwrapped the scrunched-up slip, what he assumed to be an old receipt, “I must have nipped into the bookies earlier.”

“When? I don’t recall you doing that.”

“Neither do I.”

“No surprise there.”

“Well you know how long you take powdering your nose. It’s date-stamped today…” Bill glanced at the ticket once more, “Twenty quid each-way on a fourteen-to-one outsider … Christ, I must have been pissed.” Bill folded and returned the betting slip to his inside pocket. “The race isn’t for another six months; no wonder the odds are so good. That’s £40 down the drain if the horse pulls out. Still…you never know.”

Charlie bolted upright and dislodged Bill from her lap, “Weird.”

“I know I am.” Bill rescued his glass of wine from the coffee table.

“Not just you, but the story. Reminds me of a dream I was having earlier…just a fragment.”

“You haven’t been at the incense sticks again?”

“I’m being serious,” pleaded Charlie playfully slapping Bill’s thigh. “What was the name of the horse?”

***

For all installments of “The Bet,” click here.

Previous installments:

  1. Part 1