Dear George,
...The
rain falls softly in a fine mist on the street outside, making no
sound. But there is nevertheless sound aplenty; the cries of the
whores and the fruit sellers in the market square beneath my window
outside this filth ridden hotel, the scrabbling of rats within the
walls and the crashing of opium junkies in the rooms around me. The
sounds rise up, as if hell were bursting through the pavement below,
but I listen in between these sounds. In this hot dark room I
strain for one particular noise, I listen for his footfall. I Listen
now for his familiar tread, knowing that at first hearing I will
have scant seconds to flee.
I
catch my reflection in cracked excuse for a mirror in the corner of
the room. I barely recognise the sleep deprived mess I see staring
back. My eyes are sunk and dark, like dry wells empty of life,
empty of soul. The lank dark hair on my head, slick with sweat, is
shoulder length now. With the brown trickle of water emanating from
the rusted tap I try in vain to wash out the weeks of decaying food
and dirt from my matted facial hair. I lie back on the faecal
stained mattress and breath slow shallow breathes through my mouth so
as not to make a sound. I fix my eyes on the light creeping under
the double locked door and contemplate my life before all this. Why
had things come to this and why had I chosen to stay in this
Travelodge. It all happened like this.
When
one dines out as frequently as I used to, in the heady days when I
was the film editor for the Radio Times back home in England, there
was one deeply irritating recurrence that one often encountered. It
was called 'splitting the bill'.
What
invariably happened was that I'd be dining out with a large group of
people in some pricy restaurant and, being a man of modest stature,
all I'd have to eat would be a glass of water and a small omelet
while the other people in my group would all but inhale a whole
roast swan each. At the end of the meal one of the gluttons would
shout
'Hey,
let's not bicker about who's eaten what, let's just split the bill
equally between us!'
So
i'd end up paying a hundred and forty pounds for a small mineral
water and an egg.
Almost
a year ago now, on that fateful evening, I was with a large party of
acquaintances at a fashionable Italian eatery. My dainty appetite
being the way it is I merely sipped a glass of wheatgrass juice and
nibbled on an organic mixed leaf salad.
The
rest of the group scoffed plate after plate of rich meats and sweet
cakes and guzzled down gallon upon gallon of fine wines. When the
bill came it was astronomical and, as usual, it was suggested that
we split the bill equally.
Well
I was buggered if I was going to pay a fortune for my petite portion,
so I decided to do something which I had not done since my mis-spent
youth, I decided to 'do a runner' i.e. to leg it out of the
restaurant without paying the bill.
Unfortunately
as I was racing towards the door I was spotted by a waiter called
Marco, who chased after me crying,
'Hey,
fatty, you no-a pay-a de bill!'
I
got outside and flung myself onto a passing bus, Marco flagged down a
taxi and ordered it to follow.
At
Kings Cross station I leapt off the bus and fought my way through the
throngs of commuters and managed to buy the last ticket to Paris on
the Euro star. Marco, fumbling with his Oyster card, missed the
train by seconds. Instead he made his way to Victoria station via
the Piccadilly line where he caught the Gatwick express and made it
on board a late flight to Le Bourget Airport. I know this to be
true because as I stumbled bleary-eyed through the early morning hum
of Parisian air, Marco pounced from behind a pillar while I sprinted
across the Gare du Nord concourse. He was yelling,
'You
no-a pay-a de bill, Mister!'
I
side-stepped, smacked him across the face with a baguette and ran.
In
a scabrous absinthe bar in the depths of Montparnasse I signed on as
chief entertainment officer of a tar blackened tramp steamer laden
with a cargo of Jeffery Archer novels and Hello Kitty ear muffs,
bound for Tangiers. All went well until the third night the
look-out spotted a high powered Yamaha FX jet ski racing through a
cloud of spume towards us. Crouched over the roaring twin engines
was Marco, muttering over and over to himself
'Service
not included mister, service is not included!'
In
a panic I abandoned my possessions and dived overboard and swam
towards the coast of North Africa.
In
Cairo he nearly had me and again in Harare, capital of Zimbabwe.
Luckily, my years spent as a senior member of the East Dulwich
Amateur dramatics society paid off and my wily disguises allowed me
to travel incognito and kept me one step ahead Marco.
While
in Marrakesh I spent 10 days riding the rail roads hidden inside a
frozen lasagne. Bouncing along on the mid morning Marrakesh Express
through the bright red desert, while goats fled the rattling
approach of my carriage, I dared to believe that I was finally safe,
that I could return home and piece together the fragments of a life I
use to own. Sadly, I had misjudged Marco's tenacity. I peeled apart
the layers of pasta to chance a glimpse at my surroundings, but no
sooner had I wiped the bolognese from my eyes, I saw him. He'd been
tailing the train all morning and was now driving along side in a
Nissan Micra, his pristine white apron flapping in the
breeze.
'Why
you no-a pay-a de bill, mister?' he called out.
With
the words echoing in my ears I scrambled forth from my hiding place,
sending cutlery and condiments scattering across the laps of the
surprised looking young couple who had ordered the lasagne.
Into
Asia we chased. In a small mountain state high up in the oxygen
starved Hindu Kush I managed to convince the populace that I was a
god by skilful use of a prophecy made long ago in their religion
which stated 'And lo there will come a man, who has the ability to
obtain discount during sale time at a leading high street store'.
One wave of my House of Frasier charge card and I was made king for
life. At once I put out a contract on my determined pursuer.
Unfortunately the contract I took out was a catering contract, so
Marco, twice a week got a spread of sandwiches, mixed salad and a
selection of French fancies. When he inevitably turned up I had him
thrown into the deepest dungeon.
Weeks
pass. As I set about teaching my subjects about modern civilization,
like what a Sponge Bob was and why one should never put a
letter from the Inland Revenue away in a drawer, Marco, the cunning
swine, conspired with leaders of a Kurdish minority to stage a coup.
I fled at once, just as the howling mob beat down the gates of my
palace.
Now,
I am in this filthy bug-ridden hotel in the sleaziest part of
Caracas. I stagger around in my malnourished delirium listening for
each footfall, each tread on the carpet, knowing that it will soon
be him and again I will have to …
