Rainbow's End

 

Bobby scanned the shelf; he grabbed several packs of Sudafed and rushed to the counter.

‘Three’s the limit,’ the Pharmacist said.

‘What?’

‘Sudafed, three packs only.  You know, Government rules, stops the cooking.  No more Walter White wannabes, if you get my drift.’

‘Who?  Actually don’t bother.  Just give me three.’  Bloody anorak Bobby muttered as he chucked the packs on the counter.

 

He left popping several pills and turned the corner into the alley.  He walked down far enough to shade himself from the street lights and leaned his foot up against the wall.  He pulled out his large bunch of keys and shuffled them in his hands, holding several keys up in turn for further examination.  As he waited he surveyed the scene and looked for traps.  The alley had seen better days, decay and debris clung in crevices that even rats wouldn’t entertain.  In Wandsworth Prison traps had been everywhere and Bobby had spent the past twenty five years perfecting his surveillance.  It was after all why he was still alive, that and the money.

 

He shoved his keys in his sheepskin coat, pushed his heavy holdall behind a wheelie bin and lit a Marlborough.  Where the hell was Ewan?  A large graffiti triangle with an eye in the middle caught his attention, the letters W N and O were scratched into the stone wall underneath.  He wondered what it meant but then Ewan arrived.

‘Hey Bobby,’ Ewan said as he walked towards him.  Bobby held out his hand but then dropped it as Ewan reach forward and held him in awkward embrace.  Ewan stepped back and nodded his head, directing Bobby further into the alley.  ‘Let’s go get a pint and catch up,’ Ewan said.  ‘The Monarch Inn is just down this way.’  Bobby followed Ewan towards the bar.  Two men dressed in owl onesies stumbled out the door as they tried to enter.

‘Twit a woo,’ one of them said.  Holding each other up they tottered up the alley, their twit a woos ending as the door closed.  

 

The bar looked like Bobby’s old local The Brown Bear albeit it lacked punters.  He sniffed as they walked to the bar.  Ewan asked the barman for a pint of mild and a Blue Becks then they went and sat on the far side of the bar facing the door.

‘So what you been up to?’ Bobby asked.

‘Not much, you know keeping busy.’  Ewan twiddled a red and gold casino chip through his fingers.

‘I heard you’ve turned blue?’

‘It’s not blue, it’s black these days and so, what of it?’

‘Bloody filth, that’s what it is.’   They were interrupted when Beyoncé’s ‘Run the World’ consumed the airwaves and a petite bint sashayed onto a stage.  Both Bobby and Ewan were transfixed.

‘What the hell is that?’

‘Oh that’s twerking, a sign of the times.’

‘Bloody hell, things have changed.  When I leave here, I’m off to the nearest Bingo Hall to find me a Dorothy.  It’s been a while.’  Ewan’s brief smile evaporated.

‘Look Bobby, I know you took me in, fed me, and well – but that’s just it, you see.  You don’t own me.  Not anymore, I got out.’  Ewan took a deep breath and reached for his Becks.  Bobby took off his flat cap and squeezed it between clenched fists.

‘But that’s the thing; I don’t care if you’re part of the Flying Squad or whatever the hell they’re called these days.  I do own you.  I will always bloody own you and I want my money.’  They glared at each other both refusing to look away.  It unnerved Bobby as he realised this was no kid he was dealing with anymore.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple more pills and swished them down with the last of his pint.

‘You alright?’

‘Yeah, it’s just this bloody bug, not used to the germs out here.’

‘Tell you what, I’ll drop you back at your new place, we can pick this up tomorrow.’  Bobby was relieved. His head was swarming. He was in no fit state to deal with Ewan and he knew it.

‘You driving a Panda? I aint getting in no snitch Panda.’

‘God no, they were decommissioned years ago.’

They left the bar.  Bobby grabbed his holdall from behind the wheelie bin.‘Jesus man. What you got in there?’

‘Just stuff.’  Bobby pointed to the graffiti triangle.  ‘You see that?’

‘Conspiracy nuts.  They sketch them everywhere.  It’s supposed to be a secret government sign.  Devil Worshippers ‘R’ Us kind of thing.’

‘Like we don’t know a thing about the underworld,’  Bobby said.  He tapped his forehead, chest and shoulders as he followed Ewan out of the alley.

 

They didn’t talk much on the drive home.  Bobby sat there in silence trying to plan his next move.  The car was stuffy, his head was splitting, and he began to sweat as his stomach lurched into overdrive.  Ewan agreed to meet him back at the Monarch Inn the following week but Bobby intended to track him down the next day.  If he was going to move the money he’d do it soon.  At his door Bobby gave up fumbling with his bunch of keys it was quicker to use his old bank card.  Technically it wasn’t breaking and entering; it was his flat after all.  He rushed inside and ran for the bathroom, then gulped down a glass of water, sat in his chair and turned on the TV.  The BBC News was reporting on a group of protesters stood outside a conference centre in Austria.  They waved placards and jutted them up into the air like angry sharks leaping for their prey.  One of placards was painted with the words, “Bilderberg Bankers - conspiring for World Govt since 1954.”  The Journalist was saying something about paying attention to the man behind the curtain.  

 

A knock at the door lifted Bobby from his slumber.  As he looked through the peep hole he could make out a woman with dark plaited hair.  When he opened the door Dorothy Gale stood before him.

‘You’re not in Kansas anymore,’ she said as she pushed past him.  ‘Nice place,’ she said, as she moved through each room as if looking for someone.

‘Do I know you?’ Bobby asked.  She clicked her heels together and laughed.  ‘Did Ewan send you?’

‘Who’s Ewan?’

‘Well if Ewan didn’t send you then why are you here?’

‘I came to help you find the money.’  Bobby didn’t know what was going.  He felt like he had somehow gone over the rainbow but he sure as hell wasn’t about to fall into this trap.  He grabbed his Marlborough’s from his sheepskin pocket, lit one and handed the pack over to her.

‘Are you not hot in that old coat?’  He didn’t feel hot.  In fact he didn’t feel anything and was thankful his bug had lifted.

‘Let us put some music on,’ she said, reaching for his old vinyl records.  Flicking through she picked out Buddy Holly’s ‘That’ll Be The Day’ and handed it to Bobby.  He moved over to his player and began to set it up.

‘Would you like some Chardonnay?’ she asked as she pulled two mugs from his kitchen cupboard.  ‘Taste better in glass but these will have to do,’ she said, as she handed him a mug.  Bobby gulped down the wine and refilled his mug.

‘Is it really you?  I always thought about you, you know.  I had a picture of you on my cell wall.’  She handed him a letter. The letters were all jumbled on the page.

‘I just want to go home,’ she said.  ‘Will you take me home?’  Bobby realised that he was dreaming.  In prison he had read about how it was impossible for the brain to interpret written language whilst dreaming.  He had tried to experiment with this over the years but came to the conclusion that any text, in dream state as he liked to call it, was just an image his brain could see and make sense of.  It tricked the brain into thinking it could read.  He wasn’t sure what disappointed him more; the fact that Dorothy hadn’t been there or that he couldn’t interpret the letter.  He wondered what was hidden in the message and what was his subconscious trying to tell him.  

 

He awoke in the morning to the smell of almonds.  The scent was pleasing and reminded him of how he imagined Dorothy’s perfume.  He lay there for a while fantasising about how his dream should have ended when he became aware that his living room was filled with cops.  Ewan was there.  He stalked around Bobby’s room with an air of authority waving his arms like he was directing an orchestra.  It reminded Bobby of when Ewan was a young kid when he would flap his arms.  It was a sign that Ewan was lying, a distractive technique he picked up from an old con trick.  Bobby moved around the side of the chair to get a better look at a stiff on the floor.  The dead guys face had swollen so much he half expected it to explode any second.  He was just about to protest and deny everything when he glanced at the dead guy’s sheepskin coat.