Salvation

Salvation

By A B Wallis

Copyright © 2014 A.B.Wallis

All rights reserved.

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This book is dedicated to my soulmate.

Thank you for puncturing my balloon whenever I needed to be grounded, and for giving me wings whenever I needed to fly. I will always love you like no other!

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: First Contact

Chapter Two: Second Chance

Chapter Three: Public Exposure

Chapter Four: Three Wise Elders

Chapter Five: Epiphany

Chapter Six: City Break Special

Chapter Seven: In Too Deep

Chapter Eight: Going Walkabout

Chapter Nine: Spiritual Healing

Chapter Ten: A Friend in Need

Chapter Eleven: My Cardboard Saviour

Chapter Twelve: Salvation

Epilogue

Prologue

Humanity is made up of good, bad and indifferent people, as far as I know. To describe myself as good - even now - would probably be an exaggeration; to describe myself as indifferent would fail to acknowledge my reckless desire to engage; therefore, I’m really only left with bad by default.

When you class yourself as bad, people are prone to enquire ‘How bad?’ or ‘Why, what did you do?’ Anxiety and blood pressure soar in the naïve belief that bad equates to evil, which in my humble experience it most certainly does not; career criminals and violent psychopaths rightfully deserve to languish in a subcategory of their own entirely.

My own brand of bad is made up of many market-leading household favourites: cynicism, sexism, self-pity, intolerance and sarcasm. Once combined, they form a lethal mental weapon capable of indiscriminate damage to anyone within range.

In hindsight, I now know that the reason a person becomes bad in the first place is often down to his or her early knocks in life. Lack of emotional empathy for their fellow human beings can often be measured back to key moments in childhood or early adolescence, and mine is no exception. After nearly forty years of reoffending, I am finally ready to share my recipe for salvation, a proven antidote, capable of curing even the most hard-hearted cynic.

My story starts way back when I was indifferent, moments after the bombshell that tipped me over the brink into previously unexplored bad territory. A school trip to Flamborough, memorable for all the wrong reasons:

‘What in God’s name are you playing at boy?’ Mr Morgan bellows.

‘Research, sir!’ I’m standing alongside Jennifer Kaye, kicking clods of earth over the crumbing east coast cliff tops, showering life-threatening missiles onto unsuspecting holidaymakers below.

‘Come away from there, you bloody hooligan! What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

The heel of my shoe loosens another large clod of earth, which quickly gathers momentum down the sloping hillside. Ploughing a furrow through the nearest windbreak, it flattens a family’s recently evacuated chairs and camping table. Unrepentant, I turn and scowl at my geography teacher. ‘It’s coastal erosion, sir… a practical demonstration!’ The roar of my classmates’ laughter briefly drowns out the holidaymakers’ screams. For a while I can pretend Jennifer hasn’t told me her news:

‘We’re moving. My father’s got a new job. I’m going to have a new school, new home, new everything…’ Her words reverberate with a vengeance as my nostrils fill with smoke. Down on the beach below, a toppled barbeque burns through wood and deckchair canvas.

Shortly before my geography teacher drags me away, I’m able to summon up one last question to ask Jennifer: ‘Moving, moving where?’

‘Plymouth.’

‘PLYMOUTH!’ Geography might not be my strongest school subject, but even I realise such a distance is way beyond the realms of my bicycle. It turns out that the girl I love - and already plan to marry when I’m old enough - is moving to a new home and a new school just about as far away from me as she can get.

***

‘No way, young man. I said NO WAY!’

Pleading with my parents proves futile. Having lived in Knaresborough all of his life, my father makes it perfectly plain that he has no immediate plans to relocate his home, career and family on the whim of a ‘love-struck’ teenager. No further arguments. No compromise. The love of my life’s untimely exit cast a dark spell over my life that haunted me for the next two and a half decades to follow - right up until that warm summer day back in June 2003 when I first caught sight of Clare.

Chapter One: First Contact

I don’t trust computers, and today my contempt is borne out by yet another system failure. Yet more work lost in the digital ether and nobody to shout at. Actually, there is somebody to shout at - and I do - only to be rewarded with another verbal reprimand from the boss’s wife, Angela.

‘Gordon’s part of our team,’ Angela informs me. ‘You do remember our little talk about shared responsibility?’

‘How could I forget?’ I work as a graphic designer for Davro Design Ltd in Harrogate. It’s a little company and our team consists of Geoff, Angela, Wendy, Gordon and myself.

‘Email the files through to the client on Wendy’s computer, Richard. It isn’t networked so it should still be working.’

‘The only one Gordon hasn’t handled… and it’s still working? Now there’s a surprise!’ Arguing with Angela is akin to correcting the queen, and laying the blame on the shoulders of her nephew, Gordon, is tantamount to kicking one of Her Majesty’s corgis.

‘Gordon should have us up and running by then… Richard… Richard, are you listening?’ Angela glares at me through the open doorway.

‘Whatever.’ It’s no longer my lost work that’s troubling me, but more the concept of hot-desking with our ‘larger-than-life’ receptionist. Wendy is fond of reminding us how she’s reached that special age. I’m no prude, by any stretch of the imagination, but most men run scared from discussing less intimate topics with their long-term partners, let alone their fellow employees!

‘Here, Ritchie, I’ve saved you the best seat in the house,’ Wendy tells me, sliding a vacant chair across the carpet to within inches of her own. My own desk is teetering on the brink of a war zone. Beneath it, Gordon is already knee-deep in cables and conduit.

‘Do you know what capacity our server has to cope with?’ Gordon asks. ‘I don’t know what anyone expects of a system as ancient as this. It just can’t keep pace with the data stream.’

‘But you only installed it last year. It’s less than twelve months old!’ Upsetting Gordon is a big mistake, but one I just can’t help repeating. Whenever threatened, he usually takes refuge in our communal toilet, which infuriates Angela and distresses weak-bladdered Wendy.

‘We need two gig per second fibre channel host connections on an X-Raid server. Five terabytes of storage, absolute minimum,’ Gordon continues.

Wendy and I exchange bewildered glances. I’ve never been good at foreign languages, and since failing both French and German back at school when my brain was in far better working order, I don’t hold out too much hope now. Taking temporary refuge in the kitchen, I leisurely browse through the morning newspaper over a coffee. If nothing else, it makes a welcome break from Wendy’s unpredictable biological system - or Gordon’s uncooperative digital one.

***

My day-o-meter is reading overcast most of the morning but predicting storms by the time Angela and Geoff return by mid-afternoon.

‘Jesus, Richard, we just lost the pitch!’ Angela is furious. I’m about to ask what her poor presentation skills have to do with me, but past experience has taught me to keep my mouth shut whenever in doubt. Angela flings her folder across my desk. ‘Just remind me who were we presenting to this morning would you?’

‘Well… no surprise the client was unimpressed then?’

‘What did you just say?’

‘I’m pretty certain it was Grendel Fabrication,’ I tell her, without bothering to open the folder.

Angela gives me a slow handclap - probably not a good sign. ‘So, if we were seeing Grendel Fabrication Ltd, why did you fill my presentation folder with all the data for Clayton’s instead?’

‘Now… there you’ve got me?’ Clayton’s Fabrication Engineers had written to confirm that after two years sterling service by yours truly they were going to try out another agency for a change. Hence, Geoff and Angela were talking to their main rivals this morning, hoping to replace the lost business. ‘Call it payback,’ I suggest.

‘Call it what?’ Angela’s nostril’s flare and her face and neck flush crimson, which I know to be extremely bad signs.

‘Call it payback for Clayton’s dropping us. You’d think the competition would be delighted to get their hands on all that confidential info? Or… at the very least employ us out of gratitude?’ I’m bluffing, of course. I know I’m in deep shit now, no matter what I say. God only knows how the disks got mixed up. Maybe the computers are conspiring against me for refusing to learn their language?

‘Shoddy business practice aside,’ Angela snorts, ‘we could be sued for breach of confidence!’

‘What were you thinking, Richard?’ Geoff, her hangdog husband glowers at me from afar and I instantly feel a whole lot better. At least I’m not the loser going home with Angela tonight.

***

Driving home later that evening, my rollicking is still buzzing around inside my head like a bad case of tinnitus. I usually leave at five-thirty, or six at the very latest. Anything later is way beyond the realms of normal human endurance. Tonight, I suffered through until seven-thirty as a sacrificial peace offering. Having been sacked so often in the past, I’ve long since grown wise to the warning signs.

With the elastic reach of an octopus’s tentacles, serial rejection has not only strangled my career prospects, it now holds an equally firm grip over my love life too. It’s really no consolation to have lost as many prospective partners as I’ve had jobs, but I can no longer deny the truth. It’s taken me eight months to get over my divorce from Lucy, and I still wake up wondering how it ever happened.

Along with half the furniture, Lucy took the lion’s share of our mutual friends. A fifty-fifty split would have been fine, sixty-forty or even seventy-thirty in her favour. Let’s be honest, we all have acquaintances that keep rolling up on our doorstep despite the hints. I suggested we put their names on the same list as the CDs and DVDs, to be divided up at random. Lucy refused. In the end our so-called friends willingly divided themselves mostly in her favour. I was left with Dave Morris - the tedious amateur photography enthusiast; Jayne and Peter ‘The Glues’ Wormauld - they adhered themselves to us on a ski holiday one year and refused to ever let go again; and who could forget ‘born-again’ Jerry Baker - the reformed alcoholic? It’s been a long hard journey - and it’s taken me the full eight months - but I’ve finally managed to rid myself of all four!

It’s now so late that I decide to go straight to the gym instead of returning to my flat to change. The short journey takes me around the one-way system and along the high street. It’s a warm June evening and The Stray is brimming with the usual selection of dog walkers, joggers, families and couples. Mingling with the locals, visiting conference delegates are soaking up the fresh air in prelude to partying on their company’s expense account.

I drive past McArthur Mays, which my parents judge to be the best cafe in the country. It’s easy to spot the usual snake of customers clamouring to sample sweet and savoury fare, washed down by global teas and coffees, waited on by extras from a lavish BBC period costume drama. However, my real bellyache with McArthur Mays has nothing to do with price, service, quality, or staff uniform, and everything to do with the kind of customer they attract.

As a self-confessed child-hater, with no intention of allowing his own Spawn of Satan into the world, killing time in the company of other people’s precious little darlings, is my idea of Hell. McArthur Mays heaves under the strain of the little horrors; they congest the lavatories and block the aisles, crawling about under chairs and tables like germs in a household detergent advert.

I still suffer flashbacks from my very last visit:

‘Mummy’s not going to bring you here again if you don’t stop screaming, darling,’ Mummy tells her son. I try my best to ignore them at first. My father and I raise our eyebrows at one another whenever my mother isn’t looking. ‘Mummy’s not going to buy you a pudding if you don’t finish your meal, darling.’

Mummy’s Boy looks to be no older than four; yet even he knows an idle threat when he hears one. Come to think of it, there are probably few creatures on the planet that would take Mummy’s tone of voice seriously.

‘Oh, for the love of God!’

‘Shhhhh… Richard!’ My mother squirms in her seat.

‘Mummy’s not going to take you swimming if you don’t sit back down in your chair. Why don’t you come here and play with Charlotte, darling? Charlotte’s being a good girl, aren’t you Charlotte?’

By now, her hideous son has taken to using the underside of our table as a playpen, and he’s not fussy about which accessible parts of the adult anatomy he considers fair game. This intrusion is tolerated with mild irritation on my father’s part and mounting hostility on mine. Meanwhile, my mother encourages him to leave her skirt alone by playing peek-a-boo under the tablecloth.

‘You were a youngster once, Richard. Don’t be such a misery,’ my mother chides. I haven’t said a word, although my body language doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Besides, I really only lose my temper when Demon Child regurgitates his latest meal over my best shoes.

‘Mummy’s going to stop bringing you here if you do that again, darling,’ she tells him, wiping her child’s mouth with a tissue and finally insisting he sits back down with her at the table.

‘Jeeesus!’ I glare at the boy, while a waitress helps me remove the worst of his vomit from my footwear with wet paper towels. Naturally, I assume Mummy will rush over - flushed with embarrassment - to help with the cleaning. I’m sadly mistaken. Her buttock cheeks stay firmly glued to the seat of her chair. She’s obviously far too engrossed in conversation with her female entourage to inconvenience herself with even a verbal apology.

I take a deep breath. My mother knows me well enough to anticipate the worst from here on in. She’s wearing her all-forgiving Christian ‘grin and bear it’ expression, which must be contagious because my father seems to have caught it too. ‘Now, Richard… Richard?’ she whimpers to no avail.

‘Excuse me?’ Prising my shoe from the remaining sticky gloop, I stand and turn to confront the table behind. I’m determined to extract an apology at the very least. Sadly, Mummy doesn’t seem to notice me. Having spent so much time in the company of infants, I expect the poor woman’s eyeline struggles to reach much above an adult’s navel these days. My blood pressure soars. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I know… I know… I thought so too.’ Mummy continues her conversation with her two female friends while offering her son more cake and sandwiches - presumably to replace his lost calories. ‘That’s a good boy. Now just you sit and eat quietly. We don’t want another poorly tummy episode, now do we, darling?’

‘Hello! Is there anybody there?’ My brain engages censorship override, and before I, my parents, or Mummy can do anything to stop it, my mouth begins broadcasting every uncharitable thought that pops into my head. ‘Hello? I’m sorry, only I seem to have your son’s last meal on my shoe! Should I ask the manager for a doggy bag to take home with you?’

‘Richard, really!’ my mother snaps. I no longer care. At least I now have Mummy’s undivided attention.

‘Don’t you worry, darling. Mummy’s going to ask the manager to move this rude man to another table,’ she reassures her son.

‘I’m sorry, darling, but Mummy is a spineless brain-dead dimwit who’ll be making idle threats until you’re old enough to grow a beard and leave home. I suggest you arrange to spend quality time with your absent father… God forbid he was stupid enough to stick around himself?’

‘Well I never…’ Mummy seems temporarily lost for words. Her son stares at me with saucer eyes and a furrowed forehead. The remainder of Mummy’s Stupid Table stare in disbelief.

‘Christ! My father’s dopey springer spaniel has more common sense. Even Ralph could set you a better bloody example!’ Taking a slow deep breath to allow my brain’s autocue time to catch up, I notice a distinct absence of the usual background noise. McArthur Mays is the quietest I’ve ever known it. Customers have stopped eating, waitresses have stopped serving, children cling nervously to their parents, even babies appear frozen to their high seats. And now everyone is staring in my direction. Red-faced, my mother tries to mop away her embarrassment with a napkin, while my father cradles his crimson balding head in his hands. The silence is deceptive - as is my victory.

Mummy bursts into tears. Then, after the predictable pause - which children always employ for dramatic effect - her son joins in the wailing too. In no time at all, McArthur Mays’ customer-friendly riot squad descend upon our table. I’m not hoping for much by way of compensation. The timely ejection of Mummy’s entourage might be high on my wish list, but I would still settle for a full apology and a fresh pot of tea. Inconceivably, the duty manager has neither option in mind.

‘Now just a bloody minute. Forgive me if I’m missing something here… only I seem to be the poor sod with kiddie puke all over his shoes!’

‘You also seem to be the one making the most disturbance, and using the most choice language, sir,’ the manager rebukes, ‘and we do have families with young children present.’

‘And don’t I bloody well know it!’

‘Richard?’ my mother pleads.

‘Leave it, Richard. Let it go. Please?’ My father joins in. Both look to have aged another decade over the last few minutes. In the end, I’m forced to concede out of genuine fear for their health. Together, we walk the walk of shame to the checkout desk, followed by more beady eyes than Alfred Hitchcock could muster in The Birds.

‘In future, sir, I’m sure you’ll find plenty of alternative establishments here in Harrogate to satisfy your needs.’ The manager smirks as he slides the door shut behind us.

Although Ralph the springer spaniel never bore a grudge, it’s taken four months to get back on speaking terms with my parents. They still vow never to eat in public with me ever again.

Waiting for the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill, the thought still makes me cringe even now.

I read the scrolling panel announcing the forthcoming highlights at the Olympia Corporate Venue to take my mind off things:

Strategies for building self-confidence in business ends this week with a delegate supper and final team-building lecture by motivational coach and business guru Clare Gaines.

Donning my sunglasses, I slide down into my car seat, smug in the knowledge that my own life is apparently not that dull after all. Here’s proof that my career decision to go to art college was probably a blessing in disguise. To be fair, although the Olympia Corporate Venue is stuffed to the rafters with boring business types, at least it keeps Geoff and Angela up to their eyes in potential new customers and therefore me in a job. It also brings in a steady flow of new female visitors, without whom Harrogate couldn’t support its growing population of predatory male divorcees.

Crossing the junction, I check out the talent pouring through the hotel doorways. There are one or two potentials among the throng of early revellers, but it’s too early to hit the bars just yet. As with foreplay, it takes time for a female’s inhibitions to surrender fully. After a tedious day in a dark auditorium surrounded by dullards, it’s now payback and party time! I’m secretly hoping one of the flirty ones is looking to fall in bed with a not quite forty unattached male. I’ll whisk her back to my bachelor pad in my soft-top sports car, and next morning - when she inevitably wakes up feeling guilty for having cheated on her husband - I’ll reassure her that I am the epitome of discretion. Continuing a long-distance love affair between Harrogate and Slough is honestly the furthest thing from my mind! I must confess, I’m already starting to feel quietly confident about the evening ahead. Who knows, my luck might be about to change for the better after all?

By the time I reach the gym, it’s already eight o’clock and I can’t face the thought of a workout. In any case, my sports bag greets me with a potent combination of musty trainer, detergent deprived sock and used underwear odours - far too immoral to inflict upon my fellow members. My trunks smell like a safer prospect, but I’m in no mood for frolicking in the tepid water of the swimming pool, so I get changed and take a long, hot shower instead. It’s been a difficult day, and I deserve a little relaxing me time. Skirting the busy pool, I opt for the warm tranquillity of the steam room. People drift in and out of the heavenly ether as the minutes tick by. Surrounded by so much steam, it’s difficult to make out memorable faces. Even so, I would have to be naïve or stupid not to notice the statuesque blonde who enters and sits down opposite. For a few blissful minutes I play fantasy dot-to-dot through the haze. Wouldn’t it be nice if she were thinking the same sordid thoughts about me?

It’s a pipe dream, of course. Although, in my defence, I have been described as ‘easy on the eye’ and ‘in great shape for my age’ on more than a few occasions. I’m an inch under six foot and try to keep myself in trim shape. Even so, to stand a chance in today’s competitive market, men like me need to work lots of overtime. I discreetly suck in my stomach, push out my chest and square up my shoulders.

How to start a conversation: I guess I could make some witty comment about the obese aquarobics class performing at the far side of the pool, but she might label me a fattist. What if I poke fun at the two women I spotted earlier, doing breaststroke in full make-up and sunglasses? She might label me a sexist. What about the hairy middle-aged ‘king of the swingers’ arguing with the pool attendant when I arrived? She must have noticed him? The sagging belly, man-breasts and curly ginger body hair were a double for Jungle Book’s King Louie!

I’m still pondering my next move when the door swings open with a billowing draught and a third person enters the room. Soon afterwards, the temperature plummets. The newbie has left the steam room door open behind them. I’m not a patient man, and I’m just about to launch on the offensive when I realise the unexpected bonus: as the steam around me starts to clear, I no longer need to rely on imagination alone to tick off Goddess’s obscured body parts. She certainly is harmony in human form, perched like a basking mermaid with long platinum blonde locks and a slender torso. Her proud cheekbones and perfect nose counterbalance her full lips, and - although she has her eyes closed just now - whenever she blinks I’m reminded of the cloudless blue summer skies of my childhood.

It takes some time to prise my eyes away. When I do, I’m alarmed to learn that, contrary to health spa rules, our newest arrival is a girl no older than nine. Not that I’m a stickler for rules and regulations myself - quite the contrary in fact. However, I am losing body heat almost as quickly as I’m losing patience here. My steamy sanctuary is now no warmer than the tepid pool outside. I make a point of glowering at the youngster, privately hoping Goddess will read my thoughts and say something for both of us. Sadly, neither seem to notice or care. The possibility lurking at the back of my brain is too awful to contemplate; yet, they are both blonde and they do appear to share very similar facial characteristics.

I’m still pondering the unthinkable when Goddess speaks. ‘Hey, honey, are you okay now? Why don’t you come and sit down here with me?’

I’m crushed. She’s obviously the girl’s mother, and she probably left hubby working his pecs in the gym. My optimism sags together with my midriff. My warm glow of desire is quickly replaced by goose