You'll have to do better
‘Better luck next time’ was supposed to be a one-off, but sometimes you get the urge to take a story further. So here we are, part two…
My last short story ‘Better luck next time’ was supposed to be a one-off, but sometimes you get the urge to take a story further. So here we are, part two… If you haven’t read part one click here.
When you’re close enough to the truth to smell it, its outline becomes blurred.
I would’ve replied if I could. And even though I knew I couldn’t, I tried. There’s just one thing I can do now. Wait and see. I suppose a woman as mysterious as she was wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of reaching me if she didn’t want to continue. Who knows, perhaps she was enjoying our game of guess who. But how did she do it? And how did she do it so quickly?
My train moves off its marks, and I pull out my phone again to ask a friend. He’s someone who has an answer to everything, and even when he doesn’t, he finds one before you have a chance. No idea, he says before a paragraph of ideas. But they all belong in the realms of fiction and fantasy.
Maybe she’s a spy for the government or someone else. Did you catch an accent? Was she asking questions? Was she flirting? Maybe, you’re being honey-potted. Or maybe, she’s an investigative journalist. What are you hiding?
I hadn’t caught an accent; her round vowels and sharp consonants were like anyone else's. She asked me questions, I'm sure of it, but now I’m trying to think of what they might have been I’m drawing blanks. As for the honey-potting, I’d like to say I was immune. But can anyone say that without doubt creeping in? And while she leapt the gate with little effort, I couldn’t imagine her soft, plain skin caught up in a car chase or a gunfight. Maybe she was a spy who worked behind the scenes. She had all the information but without a license to kill. So, basically an investigative journalist, but she’d never write a book about her findings. There’s a new text from the same number I can't see.
Your friend’s wrong too, but he’s closer than you.
My heart drops a little, and my phone slips from my grip onto the crumb-ladened floor. I pick it up and blow off most of that morning’s croissants. Not only has she found my number, but she’s inside my phone. I'm panicking now and switch it off. She can’t get access if it’s off, can she? These rush-hour trains are always too hot; there’s heat blowing from the vents and pouring from everybody on board. But now I’m even warmer, and removing my jacket does nothing. What has she done? What have I done? The train’s slowing down, coming to a stop. It’s the one before mine, and I get out. Another minute stuck in that sauna, and I would have passed out. The air’s cold and free of rain, so I walk the rest of the way with my phone still blacked out in my pocket.
The morning comes, and my phone’s sitting in darkness. I have to check it. It’s my source of work and where my life unfolds. But the panic that settled in my chest yesterday persists, and I hover over the button with my thumb. My hands shake, and sweat quickly fills the folds of my palm. Come on, I say and press down. Now there’s a pause as it stretches, warming itself up for operation.
Are you okay?
Did she get to you haha
Seriously mate… You okay?
It’s my friend. I want to reply, but I don’t. Instead, I leave him and the phone waiting in the kitchen while I prepare for the day. I’m in the shower when I hear it buzzing on the countertop. Then once more, and now it’s too much to resist, and I get out and plant wet footsteps along the floor.
Do you want me to let him know, or are you going to?
Who do you think would be more frightened? You or him. I wonder if she knows I can’t answer? I suppose she does. But there’s one way I can.
Hello mate, all good. Sorry, my phone died last night.
I'm waiting for a response, still dripping soapy water on my wooden floor. But nothing comes, and I’m getting cold.
I spend most of my time behind my desk at home typing away on my keyboard, trying to maintain a healthy posture. But there’s no question that today I’m returning to the crowded train station to sit on that awfully supported bench. If I’m lucky, she’ll be there too, walking past the same spot and stepping onto the same train. It’s an ambush of sorts, I guess. Already she’s wormed her way into my head. I’m thinking differently; planning has turned to plotting and trips into tricks. My phone stays at home, but I leave it on.
The same bench is half full when I arrive later in the afternoon. I sit next to an American man; he smells like cotton candy and puffs on a pink vape. I’m wearing all new clothes; a hat I haven’t worn in years and a jumper from my university days. I’ve swapped my usual perfume for my body odour, although it makes little difference in a cloud of cotton candy. I lock my eyes on the timing board; her train’s coming up. She’s got ten minutes. Now I’m glancing over my shoulder towards the gates. There’s a herd of bodies bobbing their way through, like a raft of rubber ducks funnelling through a bottleneck in a river. But no one's jumping over them. I’m hunting for the details I remember, but the more I try, the more I doubt myself. Was her hair blonde or that light brown that morphs given the right light? Was she tall, or was it just the heels she wore? And what did she smell like… I suppose smelling her in this crowd, in this cloud, was out of the question.
Five minutes left. There’s a brush on my shoulder, and I turn around like an owl on the prowl. But there’s nothing there. It was the touch of a ghost or the brush of a bag. The American has pushed himself up, wincing as he puts in the effort he despises so much. In his place, a lady sits, but it’s not the one I want. The conductor's whistle rings down the platform, then just like yesterday, ‘hurry, hurry, hurry!’
She's missed it again, or I’ve missed her? I wait for the next one, the one after that, and one more after. The sky's navy and the rush hour herd has raced into it. I call it a night and retreat.
My phone is lit up when I get home. There’s a message from everyone: work, friends, family. But I scroll down until I find what I’m looking for.
I’m impressed. But you’ll have to do better than that.
I can’t help but laugh. This is absurd. More than that, it’s fiction and fantasy. Maybe she is a spy. From where and why I'm her target is anyone’s guess. But being a spy does explain everything. Okay, most things. Who else could reach me as she has, and who else has the time to keep tabs on me for what feels like nothing more than a game? I decide to play my next move.
I think you’re right. She’s a spy... she has to be. Meet me at our usual. We can talk more there.
Really? But why is she going after you? Sorry mate, can’t make it tonight. I have the kids.
Tomorrow then?
Sure. It’s a date.
'You have to do better than that,' floats around my head like a rubber duck lost at sea. It hadn’t crossed my mind until today that she might be ‘going after me’. I’m almost a model citizen. I pay my taxes, and I’ve never been sent under. I even keep myself out of politics. But there must be something, something that seemed inconspicuous.
I check my phone once more before I leave it out of sight and call it a night. It takes another hour for me to shake off all the questions and find a moment of peace to fall into.
The morning comes earlier than it should, and the sun has hardly had time to rub its eyes clean. But I'm awake as soon as I open mine and stand up to check the phone. There's nothing from her. But one message from Ross.
I've got a job right next to you, you can probably see my van from your window. Want to meet this morning?
Sure, now coming, I type back and rush to pull on some clothes.
His van's humming in the car park when I arrive. The Queen's Head is closed; not even the most hearty alcoholics start at six. There's evidence of their presence sprayed by the drain outside. Ross has his mouth around one of McDonald's breakfast menu items. Knowing him, a bacon and egg McMuffin.
"That smells fucking great," I say, closing the passenger door behind me. He looks at me, rustles around in the brown paper bag and pulls out another.
"Here."
"You legend."
"By the sounds of it, you need it." He says I think a little straighter than he meant. "So tell me, what the hell have you got yourself into?"
I unwrap the McMuffin and explain everything I can on either side of my bites. His face switches between 'stop lying to me' and 'holy fuck' like a tennis ball caught in a monster rally.
"And today?"
"Nothing. Although most people aren't up this early. Even spies."
"Have you got your phone with you?" He asks, plotting something.
"No, it's on the countertop at home."
"What if, I take it for a day, and you go to the station? It'll look real if your phone's moving around with me all day."
"Doesn't sound like a bad plan…" I say, trying to find the pitfalls. “If she texts, you have to open it, but you cannot do anything else.”
"Okay, go and get it. I'll be here for the next two hours, then I have to go up North for the afternoon," he says, and I step out into the early morning. When I come back with my phone in my pocket, he's busy at work, pulling materials out of his van and into the pub opposite. "Just put it on the dash," he calls, hauling a load of copper wire out of the basement. I do and head for the train station.
Love, Luke
I loved the tennis rally reference!