Chapter 6 – That Day...
1.
Oliver woke up with a painfully pounding head. It was enough to obscure the more general aches that would soon consume his body. Within seconds he was feeling nauseous and was sure he would soon have to be sick.
His other senses were largely deadened, although that didn’t stop him noticing the dampness of his pillow and the emptiness of the other side of the bed. He sat up and immediately wished he hadn’t. He ran to the bathroom to empty out bile and booze into the toilet bowl. On his knees, his head went on spinning and tears dripped from his eyes.
After washing his mouth out with water, he made his unsteady way back to bed. He collapsed into the sheets and didn’t move. He was exhausted but couldn’t sleep and so he just stayed there, cocooned, miserable, and enduring the pain of the morning.
It took a long time for the fog of his hangover to clear enough for him to function more normally. The problem that came then was that all he had to replace the hangover was a single unforgettable fact: He was leaving her behind.
Oliver felt deflated. There wasn’t much energy in his body to complete even the minor task of getting out of bed to pick up bottles and rubbish off the carpet. The lifting of each bottle was slow and deliberate. It had to be. He was feeling much too delicate and sad to do it any other way. And that meant all he was doing was wasting time, which was the one remaining precious thing he thought he had left.
It was only when he finished that he recognised his hunger. He thought about eating something only to instantly feel ill again and he realised that he couldn’t be sure whether he was hungry or still feeling sick. He eventually took the safest option and tried not to think about it, or anything else, while he got dressed and left the room's elegant spin behind him to go down to reception.
2.
Rose sat at the desk and flashed her straight, white toothed smile when Oliver approached. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t have anything to smile about.
“Hello,” he said to her, “I thought I should let you know I'll be checking out today... I've got to catch a plane at three.”
She nodded and it struck Oliver that it must have seemed a bit odd for him to be travelling by plane when there was a train station less than a minute’s walk away. He assumed it must have been more expensive too.
He figured that was probably the point; it was Stephen’s way of making sure he went back. He knew Oliver wouldn’t want him to waste that kind of money on him.
“Thank you sir would you like to settle your bill now?” the receptionist asked.
He checked his pockets. They were empty except for his room key.
“Uh... Could I leave it till I check out?”
She smiled, nodded again, and said to him, “As you wish Mr Bell.”
The haze in his head suggested there was nothing else to say and so all that was left for him was a worn out walk back to his room.
3.
At half past twelve Oliver started packing his suitcase. He still felt awful but didn’t dare delay for any longer.
The going was slow. Clothes that hadn’t been unpacked were covered with others, along with his alarm clock, toothbrush, and toothpaste. The last thing he did was pick up the book of Byron's poetry from the bedside table and put it on top of everything else in the suitcase.
Zipped up, he covered the book and sat quietly on the edge of the bed. Oliver stayed there, with his hangover and very few coherent thoughts, until he looked at the watch on his left wrist. It was nearly two o’clock and he couldn’t find a good enough reason to justify sitting in the room any longer. He stood, picked up his suitcase, and dragged it and his feet across the room and out of the door.
4.
Back in reception, he went straight to the desk.
“Okay then... May I have my bill please?”
Rose was ready for his return and handed him his bill.
Oliver hardly even looked at it, since the price had never been the point. He took out his wallet and handed his credit card to the friendly receptionist.
She smiled politely while the payment went through, then handed him a small receipt.
“Thank you,” he said and went towards the door to leave.
“Mr Bell?” she said, loudly enough to make him stop, “If you don't mind me asking, how are you getting to the airport?”
The question took him by surprise because it wasn’t something he’d thought about.
“Well uh... I'm not really sure,” he said, “My brother was the one who bought the ticket. I sort of figured the airport wouldn't be that far away so I'd walk.”
There was kindness in the look she gave him as she explained how far it was and offered to telephone for a taxi instead. She made the call and he thanked her.
“I hope that a hefty tip was included on my bill,” he told her.
She smiled, apparently thinking he was only being polite.
It was only ten minutes later that a man walked into reception.
“Taxi for Bell?” he asked.
Oliver stood up.
“Yes, thanks.”
The man looked at him through hazel green eyes. He was in his forties and his round face was shaded with a little light stubble that highlighted the slight upward curl at the edges of his thin lips and the yellowing of his teeth.
“All right mate, follow me,” he said to Oliver in soft but still distinctively Norfolk tones.
Oliver took his suitcase before the man had a chance to, and they walked out of the hotel and over to a blue estate car. The taxi driver took the suitcase and put it in the boot of the car, as Oliver got into the back seat. The driver got into the front and looked around at his passenger:
“Straight to the airport is it?”
“Certainly looks that way,” he replied, “Thanks,”
He wrapped a seatbelt around himself, noticing that the taxi smelt faintly of cigarette smoke despite the clearly displayed 'No Smoking' sign that was inside. The car moved away smoothly and Oliver stared out of the window while Prince of Wales Road, Rose Lane, Cattlemarket Street, Golden Ball Street and Chapelfield Road swiftly went by. There was a brief stop at the Grapes Hill traffic lights before the driver took the taxi along Dereham Road.
Oliver sat back until the car came to a stop. His hangover was definitely clearing and the edges of his brain were coming into some kind of focus. He wound down his window to try to get a better look at the cause of the delay ahead of them. There was nothing obvious but he kept the window open so he could keep looking out.
It was actually little more than a distracted half-look that was enough to blast a hole from imagination into reality. A few yards from where the taxi had stopped there was a sign for a road that led off from the one he was on. The name of the road, written in clear black letters was, 'Waterworks Road.' But Oliver didn’t even read the sign. The words were in his head, spoken by the girl:
“Is it time for the waterworks?”
“Jesus!” he said out loud.
“What's that mate?” the taxi driver asked.
Oliver was confused. All he could be sure about at that moment was that everything had changed.
“Uh... Well... A change of plan,” he said, pointing towards the sign for 'Waterworks Road', “Do you know what roads lead off from that one?”
“Well, let's see... There's Mile Cross Road, Drayton Road and Heigham Street.”
The names meant nothing to him and he was disappointed. Then he heard Johnny's voice in his mind, telling him, “Imagine it, imagine things and make them real.”
The words gave him the strength to do what was needed. There was no way he could leave when there was still so much more to find. He wasn’t going to stop himself this time.
“Are we still going to the airport then mate?” the taxi driver asked.
“No, could you take me back to the hotel, please?”
“All right. You're the boss.”
The traffic cleared enough to turn the
car around and they travelled back along Dereham Road. At the traffic lights leading onto Grapes Hill, Oliver leaned forward and spoke to the driver again:
“What road are we on now, by the way?”
“This is Dereham Road mate,” the man replied and then tilted his head to point to his left, “That way's Barn Road,” he looked to the right, “Grapes Hill's that way... And St Benedict's is straight ahead.”
Oliver felt his heart leap as the girl's voice echoed in his mind, “Don't forget to remember the Saints; Benedict, George, Andrew and Gregory.”
5.
Strong strides took Oliver back into the hotel reception. Only Rose was there, bored and beautiful behind the desk. Her eyes widened at seeing him again.
“Did you forget something Mr Bell?”
“No, nothing like that... I'd actually like another room please... Or the same room or whatever’s easiest really.”
The edges of her mouth moved upwards without ever quite becoming a smile.
“Certainly Mr Bell,” she said.
“Okay,” he said to her, “Could someone take care of my suitcase? I'll be back later.”
He walked away in the same way he arrived and then stopped when he reached the door to look back at the receptionist. There was a mischievous look on his face as he understood what he should have said and done a long time before.
“Oh yes,” he told her, “If my brother calls, could you tell him from me to go fuck himself.”
“It would be my pleasure Mr Bell.”
6.
It was only a few minutes later that the taxi came to a stop in a layby on Dereham Road. Oliver checked his watch. It was only just three o'clock. He leaned forward between the two front seats and asked, “What exactly do I owe you, mate?”
“That'll be twenty quid please.” the man replied.
Oliver pulled out his wallet.
“Here,” he said, taking a collection of notes and handing them to the man, “Here's fifty... You've helped me more than you know.”
The man thanked him and Oliver shuffled out onto the pavement. He shut the door forcefully and the taxi sped away, leaving him to walk in the opposite direction, towards St Benedict's Street.
Oliver strolled along the pavement, making sure to keep an eye on what was on both sides of the road. The street was largely empty and most of the people were walking in the same direction he was.
He passed Norwich Arts Centre, pawn shops, second-hand vinyl dealers, pine furniture shops, and restaurants but none of them were of any interest to him. Instead, he kept his eyes on a succession of alleyways that led off from St Benedict’s; looking for any clues that might have been hidden along them.
He carried on until he came to a larger more significant alleyway leading uphill to his right. He looked up as it narrowed between the flint walls of a church on one side and another building on the other. Oliver stared up, above the doors and windows of yet another music shop, and read the words on a painted white metal sign: 'St Gregory's Alley.'
'Pottergate' was just beyond the church; the path of concrete slabs climbing through an area of semi-open enclosure, with a little grass to Oliver’s left as he walked. There was a brief search for a more recognisable sign as he followed the path up to a narrow lane filled with small shops called 'Upper Goat Lane'.
The lane was a gentle incline that ended when it opened out onto a large area of multi-coloured market stalls beneath the clock tower, perched on the city hall. A single look to his left revealed that he was most of the way up a small hill.
“Guildhall Hill,” he heard the girl say in his head.
There were more people in this part of the city than in the backstreets. It made little difference to him though. He had created a bubble around himself that the city had no power to intrude upon. His walk approached a swagger and he sensed that he was a man who had nothing and also nothing left to lose.
Overhead, the sky appeared to be calm, although a warm rain began to fall as Oliver crossed the road and stepped onto the cobbles of London Street. He felt the difference in the way the large jagged stones dug into the thin rubber soles of his cheap black trainers. It still didn’t slow his progress past the happy shoppers and cheery vagabond buskers.
Looking left and right, he saw what he needed.
He heard the girl say, “St Andrew's Hill,” and he knew he was close. Another small descent led him onto St Andrew's Street and then over a zebra crossing onto St George's Street.
By that time, he had no real control over his journey and was simply following his feet. Passing a hall with walls of flat circular cuts of flint and lead lined lattice windows; crossing a bridge straddling the river Wensum; beyond the Playhouse Theatre, and a romantic young boy standing outside, throwing red roses out into the rain.
Words spilled from Oliver's mouth, under his breath, as he came towards the end of the street:
“Don't forget to remember the Saints; Benedict, George, Andrew and Gregory, all of whom play a part in our history. But also in a story borne of September, so please do not forget to remember... Don't forget to remember for it would be a shame; to forget Guildhall Hill, London Street and Upper Goat Lane. But. Worst of all, it would be a horrific state if you forgot to remember, on a day in September. The name...”
He stopped and read the only word on the sign that was directly in front of him.
7.
“Colegate.”
Oliver didn’t doubt that the girl was there and he walked as quickly as he could along the street to find her. There was no-one there though and when he reached Duke Street, he turned and hurried back.
He passed an alleyway leading off from Colegate and it was from there that she stepped out behind him.
“Hey,” she said.
He recognised her voice and stopped. He turned very slowly to not appear too eager, even though his heart was beating faster than he ever thought it could.
Facing her for the first time, she looked the way he remembered and he realised that even if he’d made her up she still would have been a masterpiece; with a sweet pale face and dark hair that fell onto her shoulders. That day, she had covered herself from the rain and chill in the air with a grey coat that went down to just above her knees while, at her throat, a yellow and green scarf was poking out.
“Hey there,” he said, walking towards her.
With each step, he noticed more about her; her pale green eyes that veered exquisitely into light blue as she looked back at him. And then she smiled and imagination went from hope to reality, as concrete as all the roads and pavements that had led him there; to the end of the road, the end of the dream and to the life that still remained.
“I'm Oliver,” he told her.
She walked towards him, smoothly and on her toes, casually caressing the ground as she moved in real time that seemed like slow motion to him.
“Hi,” he finally heard her say, “I'm Emily”.
Learn About The Author
A writer of multiple genres, James Eddy began writing film and television scripts before moving into Short Stories, Novels and Novellas. ‘In Dreams’ was one of nine ebook releases in 2013. For more information, please visit www.jameseddy.co.uk.
or feel free to contact him via Twitter or Facebook
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