***
No problem, I said to myself, I wouldn't be attending any more meetings with him anyway, so it really didn't matter what arrangements I agreed to. I said O.K., we agreed on 10.00 a.m., we shook hands, and I took off like an electrified hare at the greyhound races. I lit a cigarette, yes much needed, and smoked it while heading across Aldwych and into the first pub I came across, the Dog and Duck it was called. Not too grotty, fairly decent place in fact. I ordered a cold pint of lager, took it to a table in the corner and sank into a fairly comfortable lounge chair.
Whew! What an experience! Wow! I took a long pull at my pint, hey, welcome back to reality Peter, and settled down to drink the rest at a leisurely pace while recuperating my composure, returning to normal, getting back into my day's good mood. And as I thought back over this afternoon's bit of fun, something else occurred to me. He might be mad, but he wasn't stupid, that was for sure. By next Tuesday, I wouldn't be able to check on the €100,000, he would have made sure that it wouldn't hit my bank account until Wednesday at the earliest. His way of retaining the chance of my still being curious enough to turn up.
Clever boy, no doubt about it, but who cares. No way am I going to another meeting and there won't be any money anyway, just part of his overall delusion.
And thinking about the meeting itself, there had been no aggressiveness, which was fully in his interest obviously—I would otherwise have been gone in a flash, as he had to know—but it had definitely been a formal meeting, a serious one even, including from my side.
I was still under the influence of something similar to a mild state of shell-shock. Well, who wouldn't be, listening to a mentally disturbed person's tale of the kind that—I have no experience of the different types of inmate to be found in mental institutions, but that does not stop me having an opinion—must be quite unique. However, and it bears thinking about, he is not even in a mental institution—not at all.
He is running around loose, as free as a dog off the leash in Hyde Park, and with some extraordinarily unusual powers to boot.
I looked at the time, hey, nearly 7 o'clock. I emptied my glass, caught a cab within a couple of minutes, not a problem when it's not raining, back to the hotel, up to my room, teeth, shower, fresh shirt and down to the lobby with a good five minutes to spare.
"Excuse me, Mr. O'Donoghue sir," a female receptionist called to me—unfortunately an ugly female receptionist, don't get me wrong, not meant nastily, not her fault, nor will it cause her any problems in life, plenty of ugly men around—"there is a message for you." I went over to the desk and she handed me an envelope, a sleek, light blue envelope, together with an ingratiating and probably hopeful smile. Poor girl, don't be hopeful when it's hopeless, sorry and all that, but we swim in different waters, I prefer filet steaks.
Talking about filet steaks, I once lost a live-in girlfriend because of that. We were having dinner with a friend of mine and his girlfriend in a restaurant, the wine was flowing, and after finishing his steak my friend said, "You know the actor Paul Newman? He was being interviewed once and was asked how he had managed to maintain such a long and trouble-free marriage in an environment such as Hollywood's. Well, he replied, it's easy. When you've got a filet steak at home, why are you going to want to go out and eat a hamburger? Upon which the whole of American womanhood fell in love with him, and that's the way it is between Jeannie and me, am I right Jeannie?" This immediately prompted a wine-induced joke on my part. "With me," I said, "it's a little different. When you've got a hamburger at home, why would you want to go out and eat a meatloaf?" At which I bellowed with laughter, vinous mirth at its best. My girlfriend did not, however, bellow with laughter. She stood up, placed her napkin quietly and carefully on the table, left the restaurant and had already moved out by the time I got home. And apart from a 'phone call in which I received a detailed description not only of myself, but also of my mother, I never heard from her again.
I moved away from the reception desk, giving Little Miss Ugly a very interested smile, spread a little happiness, and opened the envelope. Same blue paper as the envelope and a handwritten note:
I am terribly, terribly sorry, but I shall be unable to join you for dinner this evening. I believe we do not in fact know each other, a very embarrassing mistake on my part and I do apologize most sincerely. Goodness knows what you must have thought of me. Hoping you will nevertheless have an enjoyable Saturday evening, and hoping for your forgiveness, Yours, Fiona.
Shit, that was some girl. A really swish lady, and not just to look at, judging by the cultured note and the sophisticated handwriting. But then that's life, isn't it, a surprise gift here and a surprise smack in the face there, you just have to get on with it. Extremely disappointing though, I would be telling a lie if I were to claim otherwise. No surname, no address, no telephone number, message received, crystal clear, thank you very much.
Now what to do? I suddenly didn't want to do anything, Saturday night or not. Coming on top of today's episode with my friend Mr. Parker from faraway places, Fiona's message had left me feeling dispirited. The joys of Spring had departed for new destinations, at least momentarily. The best thing to do was go to bed. Another of Cain's brilliant short novels awaited me: 'Double Indemnity'. And my good mood would be back by tomorrow morning.
And so I had a light dinner in the hotel dining room, and did just that.
DAY 3
I woke up with Mr. Jeremy Parker bugging my brain. That girl was not a coincidence. She couldn't be. Nor was the waiter. Obvious. Equally obvious on the other hand was the fact that our friend Jeremy was a five-star nutcase.
Mind you, he seemed to possess considerable knowledge of certain things pertaining to his dream world. Perhaps I would go into the Internet and check out a few items such as the quasar, or some of the distances he mentioned and so on. But on consideration, what would that tell me? Absolutely nothing, he could easily have done precisely the same thing himself. O.K., leave it alone, no more thinking about it today, today is Sunday. Fresh air is what I need, no IHT on Sundays but yesterday's Financial Times will do, see if I earned any money this week with my shares or, as happens often enough, lost some.