She hangs up and the line goes dead. The rain outside has stopped, the sun stretching through the cold, windy air. Steam clears from the windows of my toll booth and a hint of blue sky frames the top of the tunnel entrance. I allow myself to smile, a wide, cheesy grin.
‘Jim Glover?’
I stare at my phone. Who said that?
A rat-a-tat-tat sounds against the reinforced plastic window.
Derek Higgins.
His dry, swollen finger signals me to get out of the booth.
‘Follow me.’
The office door swings on its hinge, creaking, a fault in the frame preventing the satisfaction of it shutting.
‘How’s your missus?’ I ask.
‘On a diet,’ Derek tells me. ‘But we need to talk about you, Jim.’
There isn’t a clue in sight to prove that Derek has occupied this office for years. The walls remain white, the desk uncluttered; a desktop computer and a single biro. A shift rota hangs beside a plain calendar. No family photograph, no football logo, no tea-stained personal mug. To those who don’t know, it could be Derek Higgins’ first day.
‘You’re going nowhere,’ Derek barks, choosing to perch on the desk, his navy trousers bulging at the crotch, his navy socks not quite hiding his pasty calves. Offering me the only chair in the office with his hand, he removes his glasses, squinting. ‘Nowhere,’ he reiterates. ‘And in a way, it’s quite endearing. The fact that you’re going nowhere.’
Now, I’m a tall fella. My growth spurt was quick and early – I was towering over my teachers by the time I started secondary school. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of my height, although my ma still nags me about my natural hunch. And yet here, in Derek Higgins’ office, I feel small; worthless.
‘You know what I’m gonna say, don’t you, Jim?’
I nod.
‘It hasn’t been an easy decision for me. Lots of pros, lots of cons.’ Derek holds out his palms like a pair of weighing scales. ‘You’re a pretty predictable character, Jim. Which is good on one hand, but …’ He trails off. ‘You’re going nowhere.’
‘So you keep saying, Derek.’
‘Don’t be offended. It’s no criticism. It’s the way you are. Most lads your age have either tried to get somewhere and failed, or actually gone somewhere, like down south, or –’ he lowers his voice, ‘– London.’
I sit back into the office chair, letting my long legs spread.
‘You’re a good-looking lad, Jim. You are. I mean, you’re not my type, if you catch my drift? But, you’d have to be blind not to notice you’ve got the looks. You’re what my wife’d call a “dish”; a “bad boy”. They all love a bad boy, don’t they?’
Oh, Christ. I best brace myself.
‘You could’ve been in sales, Jim. Retail. But you didn’t go anywhere. You weren’t one of those lads who did something soft, like … form a band.’
‘I was in a band,’ I mutter.
‘What did you play?’ Derek leans back and plays air guitar.
‘Vocals. Lead vocals actually.’
‘Exactly my point.’ Derek clicks his fingers, such a strong, perfected click that its echo bounces off the walls. ‘You never pursued it.’
‘I was fifteen. Everyone’s in a band when they’re fifteen.’
‘I wasn’t.’
There were four of us in the band. Snowy, Griffo, Mikey, and yours truly.
Brian ‘Snowy’ Walsh – who got his nickname from his resemblance to Snow White; skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony – played lead guitar. The drummer, Mikey Farley, was the youngest of six kids, so learning to play the drums was his only way of being heard. I was the front man and Phil Griffin was on bass. Griffo’s dad was always away on business which meant that Griffo’s mum went out with the girls a lot, so it was in their triple garage where we formed, rehearsed. The Griffins had a cook and a cleaner and electric gates. In fact, still do. None of us knew what Griffo’s dad did, but we all knew he was raking it in. We drank a lot of his expensive spirits, wrote songs. We only ever performed covers. Led Zeppelin, the Stones, Chili Peppers.
‘We used to do a boss cover of “Video Killed the Radio Star”,’ I tell Derek.
Derek sings a line, falsetto.
‘Did you ever play The Cavern, though?’ he asks.
‘Once. Student night.’ And it’s true. The sweat does drip off the walls.
‘Predictable,’ Derek says.
‘Or maybe I’m not so predictable,’ I say, standing. ‘I can’t be arsed with this.’
‘Excuse me?’
A horn honking outside startles us, ripping away my sudden confidence to storm out. I sit back down. Derek begins to pace the office and I realise, yeah, he’s only being honest. I am predictable. Nothing I’ve ever done during eight years of working in the toll booths could’ve given Derek any other impression. My timekeeping’s impeccable. My hair’s always a mess. I only drink instant coffee from the machine. I chat to my colleagues, ask after their kids and buy them Mars bars when they’re sick. You see, Derek didn’t know me prior to my toll-booth days. He doesn’t know about my old impulsive nature.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I’m going nowhere. But maybe that’s about to change.’
Derek pulls himself away from the rota and puts his glasses back on, glaring at me.
‘Derek, I won a car.’
‘A car?’
‘Yeah, a car.’
‘A real one?’
‘Yep.’
‘How?’
‘On the radio. On the breakfast show.’
‘Jesus Christ, lad. What sort of car?’
‘BMW.’
‘A BMW?!’
Derek loosens his tie a little further, wipes his brow. ‘Congratulations, lad.’
‘Cheers.’
The passing cars fill the dead air hanging between us, until Derek starts to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Oh, lad. I’m just imagining you driving around your neck of the woods in a BMW. I mean, it’s not gonna last five minutes round there.’
The laughing produces tears and Derek removes his glasses again to mop them up with his thumb. He’s got a bloody nerve.
‘That’s out of order, Derek. Out of order.’
But, is it? Maybe Derek has a point. The joy of winning is still boiling hot. I haven’t had a second to think this through, let the cold water splash me in the face. I think about the flat I rent above Wong’s chippy. The living room overlooks a dual carriageway flyover. Below my bathroom is a tiny back yard, just enough space for a wheelie bin. Where the hell am I going to park a BMW out there?
The bubble bursts.
‘Look, Jim. You’re better off selling the bloody thing and going on a spending spree.’
‘What do you reckon it’s worth?’ I ask. I watch cars speed past day in, day out, but I don’t know much about them. As a kid, I preferred my bike and my books. I passed my driving test years ago, like. I’m not soft. But I lost all interest in getting a car because I couldn’t afford one.
Derek blows his lips. ‘Twenty grand. More. I’m not a BMW man myself. More a Merc.’