Lynne Fox - The Armageddon Game

A loud thud of a duffle bag being slung onto the table in front jolted me out of my reverie. Startled, my eyes sprang open as a man in his early twenties, his hair cut short like an American GI and a gold stud near the edge of one eyebrow, dropped onto the seat opposite. He grinned, ‘Did I wake you?’

I stared disapprovingly back. ‘You could have been a little more considerate.’

He shrugged. ‘And you could have booked into the Quiet Carriage near the front if it matters so much.’ He rummaged in his bag, produced a mobile and set of earphones and plugged himself in ignoring the angry look I gave. He lolled back in his seat at an angle, stretching his long legs out toward the aisle and leaving his duffle bag on the table between us like a barrier.

Considering him with cold detachment I moved my right leg under the table to rest more securely against the carrier bag that contained my money and Liliad. I’m sure she was none too pleased to be so confined for the entire journey but I didn’t dare bring her out to sit on my lap; it would have drawn unwanted attention and in any case would be picked up on the train’s CCTV. I knew I’d have a lot of making up to do once we reached Bournemouth.

Pulling into the station I deliberately waited until the young man opposite had left. Bending down to pull my carrier bag out from under the table I caught sight of a black wallet that had slid under the opposite seat. Ducking under the table I was just able to reach it, dragging it toward me with my fingertips. It must belong to the young man; I recalled how he’d slung his jacket onto the seat as he sat down. It must have fallen out of his pocket. I glanced out of the window as I tucked the wallet into my handbag spotting him hurrying back along the platform, his hands delving in his pockets as he did so, his face a picture of confusion and mounting anxiety. I grinned, muttering under my breath, ‘Serve you right, you obnoxious little prick.’

I gathered my bags about me and made my way out. As I went to step onto the platform the young man leaped up into the carriage beside me. ‘Have you seen a wallet near where I was sitting?’ his voice raising an octave in panic.

‘Why, have you lost one?’

‘Well obviously.’ he snapped.

‘No, I haven’t.’ I smiled as I stepped down from the train. It didn’t bother me to know the difficulties I was causing him and not just because he’d been so unpleasant. I wouldn’t have cared even if he’d been the nicest person on the planet. As I saw it, the wallet was there for the taking; I might as well have it as anyone else.

I made my way to the exit. As the machine swallowed my ticket and the barrier opened I stepped through into my new life. Taxis waited in line like a row of black beetles; I was pleased to see so many Hackney cabs; I always feel so much more dignified sitting in their spacious interiors. ‘Just to the seafront, please; anywhere along there will do.’

The driver nodded and coasted out of the station forecourt whilst I settled back to consider my next step. It was still early in the year, the holiday season hadn’t really begun so I didn’t anticipate any problem getting a room in a B & B and there were copious numbers of those along the front. It would do for a couple of weeks whilst I searched for an apartment to rent.

I’d chosen Bournemouth as I considered it a good place in which to disappear. Sprawling and large it had a transient population due to being a holiday destination mixed with its long-term residents and there was plenty of part-time casual work available especially during the holiday period so I shouldn’t have too much difficulty supplementing my finances. It was also twenty five to thirty miles from Dorchester where my mother had worked and, it seems, had her illicit affair. I figured the authorities would be trying to find me, at least for a while and with Inspector Munroe’s knowledge of those intimate details of my family life they might well direct at least part of their search in that area. I would have to be very careful when making my own enquiries.

‘This do you, luv?’ The taxi driver pulled over to the kerb.

‘Yes, that’s fine, how much?’

‘£5 to you.’

I handed over the cash.

‘Have a nice stay.’

I picked up my bags and stepped out of the cab. He’d dropped me at the start of the seafront walk. I took a few deep breaths, luxuriating in the fresh air and tang of saltiness and started to walk slowly along, assessing the B & B’s as I went.

I didn’t want one that looked too upmarket, partly due to price but also I was concerned they may be more particular about recording personal details but neither did I want anything that risked lowered cleanliness standards. Eventually I settled on one called The Roselea Hotel.

A woman in her forties opened the door to my ring. About five foot six, a little overweight and bearing a duster in her right hand she had an air of motherliness that bode well. I smiled my most deprecating smile and politely asked, ‘I wonder if I might rent a room for a couple of weeks please.’ As I spoke I directed my eyes to the ‘Vacancies’ notice in the front window, an unspoken challenge to a refusal.

She eyed me up and down taking in my attire, my handbag and my one large carrier bag obviously questioning in her mind how anyone with so little luggage could be requesting a room for two weeks. I regrouped quickly. ‘The rest of my things are at the station property office. I thought I’d find somewhere first and then collect them; I didn’t want to be dragging it all around with me.’

This explanation seemed to satisfy her as she stood back from the door, inviting me in. I followed her down the long hallway to a reception desk of dark, burnished wood that smelt as though it had recently been polished; the scent tickling my nose, threatening a sneeze.

‘I’ve a single room out the back; it’s not very big but it’s cosy and warm, which in this weather you might appreciate. It’s reasonably priced at £70 per night, including breakfast. There’s a residents lounge on the ground floor and breakfast is served seven to nine-thirty.’

‘That sounds fine; thank you.’

She took a key off the rack behind her then turned back to the desk swivelling a Guest Book round to face me. ‘Just write name and address details and I’ll require the two weeks paid in advance.’

I obediently signed Coral Wright and wrote a fictitious address, then counted out the cash. She took the money and tucked it into her apron pocket. ‘If you’d care to follow me; you’ll find it’s very quiet here; we’re a little way off our really busy time. What brings you to Bournemouth ahead of the holiday season?’

‘Oh, just the need for a little time to myself combined with sea air therapy.’

‘Well, you’ll certainly get both here. The wind can blow off the sea pretty hard when it has a mind to.’

We reached the first floor landing and continued along its length to a door at the very end, passing two other doors on the way. The carpet, as on the stairs, was highly patterned in a 1940’s deep red, floral design obviously of high quality with a good underlay; our feet barely made a whisper as we passed along. As she unlocked the door the sun emerged from behind clouds illuminating the room as though she’d just switched on a light. Instantly I could feel the warmth of the sun’s rays intensified as they passed through the window glass.

‘As I said a small but very cosy room,’ she stood to one side to let me pass. ‘I’ll leave you to sort yourself out. You’re welcome to use the residents lounge whenever you want. The front door is locked at night by eleven so if you intend coming back after then you’ll need to ring the bell. I’ve a gentleman who does the night shift so he’ll let you in.’ She handed me my room key. ‘My name’s Dorothy by the way but everyone calls me Dot.’ She took a final glance around the room as though assuring herself all was in order then left, quietly closing the door behind her.