Who Knows Where the Time Goes?
By Alan McCormick.
Peter is becoming hysterical in his hypochondria. The appearance of a little red spot on his stomach has him deciding a list of songs to be played at his funeral. Nina Simone’s Mister Bojangles to kick things off? No, something more celebratory like Teenage Kicks by the Undertones. Christ, he isn’t John Peel – what’s he thinking of? And why celebratory? What’s to celebrate in an unfulfilled life cut short by cancer? Why not go the whole hog and have Louis Armstrong singing What a Wonderful World? No, it would need to be a miserablist song, one designed to encourage tears; that would be fitting and cathartic. Leonard Cohen? Nick Drake? Who Knows Where the Time Goes by Sandy Denny. Surely the perfect song to end all things; but then what would start it all?
“Heh, shit for brains, you still with us or have you left already?”
It was Ravi’s voice; interruptingly shrill and to the point.
“I’m not feeling well, Ravi.”
“You surprise me, my boy. Leave me your car in your will. I could have it scrapped to pay for my meal.”
“What do you mean?”
“My meal after your funeral. I’ll be the only bugger stupid enough to be there so I’ll need to eat something.”
“You’re sick.”
“I thought it was you who was sick.”
“F off.”
“Nice way to talk to your chief mourner.”
“F off!”
“Heh, lighten up, fuck face.”
The phone rings. Ravi picks up.
“The Taj Mahal, can I be of help?”
Ravi writes down the order and repeats it painstakingly back to the caller.
He puts down the receiver. “Cheeky fucker said their Madras wasn’t hot enough last time. Could we make it hotter or they’ll order Vindaloo in the future.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“It’s not a challenge. I’ll give them bloody Vindaloo and add enough chilli to keep them on the toilet all night.”
“Charming, and it does sound like a challenge.”
“They bloody started it. Now f off my stool and take the order down to the kitchen.”
“I deliver the food, Ravi. You’ll have to pay extra if you want me taking orders downstairs as well.”
“Cheeky bugger!” Ravi playfully kicks Peter’s bottom off the bar stool. “Now go.”
Peter snatches the order out of Ravi’s hand and goes downstairs.
He is meant to hear Ravi saying ‘Lazy bloody English. Always about money however much you pay them.’ And he does.
Peter enters Memsaab’s, more private, and takes the half bottle of Bells out of his jacket pocket and drains a quarter of it. Sitting on the toilet he goes back to his funeral, a series of thoughts designed to bring her and his son to his side and round to his way of thinking. Rita would regret getting away, she’d feel sorry; but he doesn’t like the picture of Paul sobbing at the theatrically open cask and so slaps his own cheeks until they smart. He cups a glob of deodorising peach gel in his hands and rubs it into his gums, and then rinses it out with water. He chews three Gaviscon and burps a fine mist of chalky dust into the mirror.
He flushes, exits, and passes the order into the kitchen.
“What’s this? Vindaloo and extra chilli? Boss gone mad or something?”
“Easy on the chilli,” suggests Peter.
“Who are you: bloody Gordon Ramsey all of a sudden?”
“Keith Floyd more like.”
“Who the fuck is Rick Stein?”
“Keith Floyd I said.”
“A joke, a bloody joke, Peter. Now p off!”
And Peter p’s off via another swig and freshen-up in Memsaab’s.
Ravi is waiting upstairs at the bar: “You been using my cubicle spray as deodorant? You smell like a toilet.”
“I’ve been thinking about contacting Rita and Paul again.”
Ravi holds the sides of Peter’s head like a football and taps: “Listen, is there anyone in there? Have you not learnt from talking to me all these years? The woman doesn’t want you. She can’t stand the sight of you. You make her sick!”
“Easy, Ravi.”
“It’s the only way I’ll get it into your stupid thick skull.”
“What about Paul?”
“I’m sorry about the boy,” says Ravi softly, letting go of Peter’s head.
Ravi sits down and gestures Peter to sit down beside him.
“Come on, at school you used to be almost handsome. You never got the girl of course.”
“I did get the girl.”
“And more fool you. And now you’ve let yourself go. But it’s not too late, even for an ugly tramp like you.”
Peter sits down beside his friend. “I dunno, I just can’t seem to . . .”
Ravi sniffs. “What the fuck! You been bloody drinking again?”
“No I haven’t.”
“Don’t lie. I’m not your arse.” Ravi pulls the half empty Bells out of Peter’s pocket. “You idiot. You represent me and want to deliver my food when you’re half cut and stink of whisky?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Go home, imbecile! Get out of my sight.”
Peter reaches to the counter to get the car keys.
“What? What! You think you’re Henry Paul? Leave the keys alone. What are you thinking of?”
“Order ready!” comes a shout from downstairs.
Peter has taken back the bottle of Bells. He drains the rest in one.
“I don’t believe what I’m seeing,” says Ravi. “Tell me it’s a fucking nightmare.”
“It’s a fucking nightmare,” replies Peter.
The phone rings.
“The Taj Mahal, can I be of help?”
Peter drops the empty Bells into his pocket.
Ravi puts his hand over the phone mouthpiece and passes a ten pound note across the counter to Peter. “Don’t ever do this to me again my friend, or we’re finished. Understand?”
A red faced Peter nods.
“Get a taxi and deliver the rocket Vindaloo on your way home. Then go to bed, sober up, and come laden with big fat apologies tomorrow or it’s goodbye and good riddance. Now F off.”
Peter stands there as if he’s about to say something, to begin an apology, but Ravi turns his back on him and starts talking to the customer on the phone.
He drops the curry bag in a street bin outside the Taj Mahal and gets into the waiting cab. The driver, Margaret, knows him; it’s a small town and it’s not an uncommon occurrence to be delivering the curry delivery driver home; a little early at 6.30 p.m. but not uncommon.
“How’s tricks, Peter?” she asks.
“Magical,” he replies. “Like Paul Daniels on a good night.”
“You and Ravi been at it again?”
“Not really. I had a little too much, you know.”
“I see.”
“Glad you do, Margaret. But do you mind if we don’t talk anymore. I’ve a fearful headache; not sure if it’s cancer or just a tumour, but silence is the only thing.”
“Okay, so you won’t mind if I put the radio on low then?”
“Glad if you do, Margaret, glad if you do,” and he leans his head against the rear passenger window and closes his eyes.
Peter’s home is not what it once was. It’s not even a home for a start; it’s a place to eat (occasionally), drink and finally fall sleep. It is not a place to receive visitors, particularly female ones – one room, single bed, toilet without a seat, unwashed plates and clothes on the floor – but it is somewhere to think on things (and this he does a lot).
When it’s not impending death, his thoughts go back to Rita and Paul. Not to better times, of which there were some, but to the night they left the family home: his pleas, her silence, Paul playing with his Transformers on the carpet beneath them.
“You were in the last chance saloon and you and your drinking made you shoot your own foot off. You were half cock and all bloody fool,” explained Ravi when he found his friend legless and crying outside his restaurant a few days later. That was ten years ago; Paul would be fourteen now and he hasn’t seen his Dad in seven; new addresses, ex directory phone numbers, restraining orders and then the long, long silence.
“What did you do, try to kill her?” asked Ravi when he thought his friend finally might be ready to face up to things.
“No. Never touched her. Drink. She didn’t like drink.”
“Well, you should have stopped. Cleaned yourself up and won her back. It’s not too late. Even for a weak-minded fool like you.” Ravi was using tough love even back then.
Only maybe it really is too late now?
Peter has his top off. The red spot turned out to be a red spot. It burst a moment ago between his fingers. He’s under the bed pulling out a cardboard box, looking for his Fairport Convention album, the one with the song to end his funeral. He finds it and places it on the turntable and opens a bottle of red:
Across the evening sky, all the birds are leaving
A big fat glass.
Sad, deserted shore, your fickle friends are leaving
A shadow of his raised glass on the wall behind him: “Bye bye, Ravi. One for the road my foul-mouthed, fickle friend?”
I am not alone while my love is near me
“I’m alone. Home alone,” and he starts to laugh,
For who knows how my love grows?
And then cry. The glass leaves his hand and smashes against the wall.
In the morning he’ll see the red splatter on his wall and think it’s blood, and look under his duvet to check if anything has haemorrhaged.
Lunch-time and he’s clean shaven and showered, and entering the Taj Mahal.
A whistle from Ravi as he steps forward to greet him. “God, is it Will Young I find before me? I haven’t seen your cheeks in years,” he says softly pinching them.
“I made an effort. I’m glad you noticed.”
Ravi feels his jacket pockets for drink.
“None today, Ravi, but I’m not giving up.”
“Prohibition in here from now on, my friend.”
“Like Al Capone.”
“Exactly.”
Ravi embraces his friend and sits him on a stool.
“Now, have an orange juice and tell Ali Capone why you didn’t deliver the curry like I told you to.”
“I was saving you a court case.”
“Okay, point taken, consigliere. I won’t shoot you just yet. And you do look bloody good, you know?”
“Like I say, I’m glad you noticed.”
“What brought it on?”
“You know the song, Who Knows Where the Time Goes?”
“You fucking kidding? The one you want played at your funeral?”
“There’s a line in it I never really thought about before. But I was playing the song this morning and it jumped up at me.”
“I’m all ears. What is this line?”
“I used to concentrate on my fickle friends are leaving.”
“I thank you.”
“But the line that follows – but I will still be here, I have no thought of leaving – well, that’s me, isn’t it? Ten years later and I’m still here.”
“Ten years and counting.”
“Well that’s just it, Ravi. Like the song says: I’m not thinking of leaving, I’m not counting and I’m still here.”
“It sounds all very nice but I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about. You make more sense when you’re drunk.”
“You’re right of course.”
“I’m joking. Remember how things go? You say something. I call you a fucker. And we laugh.”
“And make up.”
“Come here, fucker.” They hug.
“I’m still here, Ravi, so something must be okay to keep me here.”
“Not intending to die just yet?”
“Well I am bloody ill you know.”
“I know.”
And they laugh.
“What about Rita and Paul?”
“I’ll look for Paul when I sort myself out.”
“That’ll be fucking never then.”
“Ravi! F fucking off!”
“I hope you do find him. I really do.”
“Or when he’s eighteen and left home, he’ll come and find me.”
“Yeah, why not? Leave it to the boy.”
“Ravi, fuck off!”
The phone rings. And then carries on ringing.
“Are you going to pick it up, Ravi?”
“Am I fuck? Let’s enjoy the moment. Fuck everything else.”
“And lose a paying customer?”
“And lose a paying customer.”
“There’s hope for you yet, Ravi.”
“And for you, my friend. And for you.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alan McCormick’s stories have appeared in many places, including the Bridport Anthology, Matter, Aesthetica and Litro, and on the net at dogmatika, DeadDrunkDublin, nthposition and Pulp.net. His illustrated work with the artist Jonny Voss can be found at Scumsters.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Wednesday, January 6th, 2010.
