Nick Oldham: Bad Tidings

For the moment his fear had subsided.

It was still there, humming in the background like a generator, still bubbling away, but the wild boil of terror had turned into a simmer and for the first time David Peters had time to think about his predicament. Not clearly, because his mind was still in turmoil. But at least now he could take a deep breath — even though the hessian bag over his head, with a drawstring pulled tight around his neck, meant he was inhaling strange-smelling dust particles that gagged his nasal passages and the back of his throat — and try to regain some control of his body.

Bring down the heart rate, moderate the breathing. There was nothing he could do about having soiled himself. That had already happened and the piss-shit stink mixed in with the smell of the sacking.

But for a while, though there was no way of knowing how long his respite would be — minutes, hours, days — he had to use the time constructively.

He had to marshal his thoughts and work out why he was here, hooded and bound, a prisoner trapped in a black space so tight he could hardly wriggle, a space even smaller than a coffin.

What had he done? What awful, terrible thing had he done — or omitted to do — to deserve this?

What did he possess, or what was he thought to possess, that was so valuable that he could end up like this?

If he could work out the reason, then maybe he could work out who was punishing him so severely, who held such a deadly grudge against him, or imagined he had wealth of some sort.

If it was possible to answer any of these questions, the next one would be, what could he, David Peters, do to escape with his life? Even then, before he had worked out any of the answers, he knew that if staying alive meant pleading for mercy and humiliating or degrading himself by licking up shit, he would do it.

Anything to live.

He twisted his hands, the cord around his wrists digging deeply into the skin, restricting the blood flow to his fingers, which tingled. He breathed in unsteadily as his heart began to pound again. He wanted to scream and scream. The parcel tape wound tightly across his mouth and around the back of his head and lower jaw meant his sounds were muted, never to be heard by anyone.

The fear began to rise again.

He was nothing special. He’d never cracked any pots — never will , his mother used to chide. He’d grown up and attended the primary school in the small Lancashire village where he’d been born. Then, after leaving the village and moving to a bigger town nearby, he’d attended college and after that became a TV repair man.

Unspectacular was his own description of himself. His only epiphany in life, the only good thing he had ever done, was to foresee the demise of tube and valve televisions and the advent of computers, and move into computer repairs. He took the plunge and invested in a little electrical shop, which became three, then back to two when recession struck. He made a half-decent living and that was all: no pots cracked.

He was in a tolerable marriage — unexciting, dull — had two grown-up kids he adored, but who despised him. He occasionally had a tryst with the dreary woman who managed his second shop when they would sneak into a Travelodge for an evening of dour passionless sex, an escape for both of them from their humdrum existences. But it was only occasional and nothing would ever come of the liaison. They didn’t even really like each other.

And sometimes he went for a drink with an old mate.

Mr Unspectacular.

A fully grown, middle-aged man, with a family, a small business, a woman he could hardly call a mistress, certainly not a lover — not in any exciting sense of the word. . although it had been on a night with her that Mr Unspectacular, David Peters, had something extraordinary happen to him.

He had been kidnapped.

‘Did you do those invoices?’ Peters had grunted. He was on top of his shop manageress, a woman called Stella Richards. They were making love and Peters had been thrusting distractedly into her when the thought occurred to him. Invoices . He stopped suddenly and asked the question.

Stella’s eyes popped open in surprise, almost as though it was a shock to see her boss naked on top of her. She rarely opened her eyes when they had sex, not particularly liking what she saw at the best of times — flab and a bored expression (even at climax) on his face. But he was well built in the cock department and could keep going so that, more often than not, Stella managed an orgasm of sorts.

‘What?’ she said, screwing up her face, feeling those nice waves inside her start to ebb.

‘Those invoices,’ he said. ‘Did they get done?’ He had pushed himself up on his hands, taking his weight off her body.

‘Yeah,’ she gasped. She closed her eyes, grabbed his wide arse, digging her fingernails deep and slamming him back where he came from, deep inside, and she ground back. Their secret meetings were pretty pointless anyway, but would have been utterly so without an orgasm.

He resumed his movements and her ebb flowed again.

They never spent the night together. Their meetings were simply functional, so within minutes of finishing, David Peters was tugging on his socks (something Stella found irritating, a man who got dressed by putting his socks on first). She remained in bed, the duvet up to her neck, staring at the ceiling.

‘. . And that back room needs a tidy,’ he was saying as he stepped into his Y-fronts (another irritation — though they mercifully covered his wide bottom). He continued to list the things that needed doing on the retail front. Their evenings usually concluded like this: back to business, because they had nothing else in common. Just a couple of TV and computer shops.

Peters stopped suddenly as he hopped into his pants. ‘You not getting dressed?’ he queried, puzzled.

She shook her head. ‘I’m staying a while. . going to have a long bath and read a few chapters of that erotic book that’s selling loads.’

‘Duh — crap. . whatever.’

He finished dressing and skipped the awkward moment of parting by simply giving her a wave and slipping out of the room. Moments later he was out on the streets, heading for a nearby pub. He needed the smell of ale and maybe cigarette smoke on his clothes to fool his wife, who thought he was out for his monthly pint with his pal. Not that she was particularly interested, Peters believed, except that if he did get found out she’d probably take him for every penny. So, best to go through the motions.

He never made it to the pub.

David Peters stalked through the small lobby of the motel, neither seen nor noticed except by the CCTV camera above the reception desk that recorded all comings and goings. He exited via the main revolving door and found himself out on a busy street, which came as no surprise to him. It was only nine o’clock — the meeting with Stella had commenced at seven forty-five and lasted just over an hour, foreplay included.

And not only was it still quite early, it was also Christmas Eve — and the Lancashire seaside resort of Blackpool was heaving with bodies, mostly inebriated ones it seemed to Peters.

He paused on the footpath, stepping sideways to avoid some of the revellers, deciding where to go.

He couldn’t go home too early, nor too late. It had to be finely judged, so he needed to go to a nice pub for a couple of slow jars, maybe a bag of crisps — Chilli Heatwave Doritos, he knew, did a good job of masking the aroma of recent sex — and then drive home for about elevenish. By that time his wife would be tucked up in bed and he could slide in without incident, even tonight.