A room with a phew
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: All thoughts of escape are futile. But feel free to dream.
_____________________________________________________________________
There was a light tap-tap on the door and I sat up in bed, relaxing as I took in my surroundings. A gentle breeze had the wispy drapes fluttering by the open balcony doors and I could hear birdsong, from more than one exponent of the art at a guess.
“Who is it?” I called.
“Room service, sir,” came the muffled response.
I slipped into the elegant bathrobe and snug fitting slippers before sweeping the double doors ajar far enough to make way for the trolley carrying my breakfast.
“Just leave it on the balcony, please,” I told the good looking girl. “Come back for it in an hour or so.”
“Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“If you could make sure my car's by the front entrance at eleven sharp?”
“Certainly, sir. I can do that for you.”
“Thank you.”
It was a glorious morning, that same birdsong easily drowning out the sounds of the far off gardeners going about their grass cutting and such. Two grapefruit halves sat on the carefully laid table, my newspaper of choice neatly folded to the right of them. The trolley served as a hotplate to keep the coffee and the food warm and was connected to the mains supply for that very purpose.
I took my time, savouring each and every breakfast item as I scanned the sports pages and allowing myself a smile when I saw that my carefully placed wagers from the previous day had all borne fruit. I had the Midas touch, for sure.
The same girl knocked politely then entered at my bidding, efficiently reloading the trolley, unplugging it and wheeling it away. I was on the phone at the time, placing yet more wagers, so I gave her the dismissive wave to say I was done with it.
I laid out my clothes before stepping into the huge, sunken bath. The lightweight, Sta Prest trousers ideal for the planned day ahead; casual but smart.
Cara was waiting in the foyer, resplendent in bright floral print dress and strappy sandals, her mop of golden curls barely contained under a matching floppy hat. We had been lovers back in the day, now business associates, which is easily more manageable.
Cara followed me outside and slipped into the Jaguar's passenger seat as I started the engine, she's never been much of a morning person, so I was sure of a reasonably quiet drive.
Berkshire is a beautiful county in the summer months, probably is all year round, but summer is when I tend to see it at first hand. We're heading for Ascot racecourse, having spent the night just outside Reading, and there's no particular hurry, only for the want of a decent parking space on arrival.
I'm a bookie basher to trade. Not quite so drastic as it sounds and all perfectly legal. Today, I'm lumping money on one horse, 'For A Dancer', in the fourth race and I've changed my appearance dramatically for the fact that the same bookies tend to turn up at the bigger meets and I need to keep myself one step ahead of them. I've also been perfecting a faux-Cockney accent over the past few days as further disguise. Earlier, I shaved my head right down to the wood and trimmed a previously bushy moustache away to pencil thin.
Cara didn't come into play until much later on. We ate lunch separately and had nothing to do with each other, having made arrangements to meet up at the proposed time and go to work. Myself, I placed wager after wager on my horse of choice in the busy betting ring some fifteen minutes before the off. Twenty fifty-pound notes together are barely an eighth of an inch thick so ten such bundles are easily concealed within the deep pockets. I work methodically, latching on to groups of punters like I know them, chatting and smiling away before breaking ranks and placing my bet; a useful ploy to avoid suspicion and keep the bookies off my scent. It works a treat.
“A gwrand on the namber nine, mate,” I'll say, or, “Fousand the nine 'orse to win, chief.”
There's barely an eyebrow raised since a lot of money changes hands on the racecourse, especially at the big meetings and this is a big one. The horse is trading at fourteen to one and I even get sixteens from three of the ten I bet with; it's a competitive market, to say the least.
I'm a gambler, and there's no denying the rush felt once the participants leave the stalls and begin to race, no matter how many times I witness it. They do say never bet any more than you can afford to lose, but my strike rate is such that I'm way ahead of the game; even so, nothing can prevent the pulse from quickening at such times.
I do my homework. I fully expected For A Dancer to win the day and knew that to be the case from almost a furlong out and was happy then to listen to the commentary as I went to meet up with Cara.
The best time to collect, I find, is when people are clamouring for best odds on the next race. Cara and I held hands briefly as we made our way through the throng, just long enough for me to pass three of the winning tickets to her. We both wear shades, sunshine or rain, and that's deliberate since we can observe without people reading our eyes.
I offer up the first of the tickets as soon as Cara is in position. Where she's standing we have a three sixty degree view between us, looking out for anyone taking an interest in what we're doing. All it takes then is a slight negative nod if there is such a person or persons, but in truth that's a rare occurrence. I slip the fifteen grand return deep into a pocket and proceed to the next pick-up, again waiting for Cara to position herself to where she's facing me and gives me the nod to say all's well.
Cara collects from the third, fourth and seventh, her lucky numbers, and roles are reversed at these times. It's a busy, quite frantic fifteen minutes and the biggest adrenaline rush going, only subsiding when we've checked to make sure no one has latched onto us in any way.
Two policewomen are walking towards the car park and Cara engages them in conversation, another ploy to ensure we leave the course without harm. I keep pace a couple of yards behind them and take the odd glance around just to be certain we're clear.
A few miles down the road I pull into a lay-by to let Cara hop into the back seat, emptying my pockets as she does so. Back on the road she does her sums, takes her ten percent and packages what's mine up neatly.
I drop Cara at Reading train station; she has three days off before we need to meet up again, and some serious shopping planned in order to furnish her new flat.
I have an hour to kill, but I don't leave the car, listening to the radio instead. Right on time Cara's sister hops in, we're lovers, and we head for the hotel.
I get changed and we have dinner at the hotel before heading out for the evening. It's Blues night at a town centre pub, three decent bands, and I had booked our table the minute the gig was announced; I like to keep up with these things. Like me, Leona is a big Blues fan which is why we get on so well.
Of the three bands, we both like two of them, the same two, so I send Leona over to the merchandise corner after each act for copies of their albums, signed, and for t-shirts if she likes the look of them and they have them in her size.
Queues for taxis snake around the block so we decide to walk the mile and a half or so back to the hotel, investing in a kebab each to help us along.
We haven't seen each other for ten days, so a lot of passion has been saved up, and it shows when we finally get to our suite, with clothes hurriedly discarded and strewn everywhere. We thrash at it like animals until we're both exhausted and fall asleep, bathed in perspiration and entwined.
The key rattling in the lock woke me up and the smell hit me like a physical force. The wind had changed in the night, bringing with it the stench from the piggery some two miles across the open fields. I'm in a corner cell, the window doesn't close properly, but that doesn't really matter since the entire prison will be engulfed. It's said the screws get a 'stink' supplement to their wages and I for one don't doubt it.
The dream is a recurring one, with perhaps a different hotel, racecourse, girls and car, but recurring all the same. Escape from this isolated shithole isn't an option but for dreams. Sadly, it's time for slop-out, again. Only another four months and fourteen days to go. Only.
Swearwords: None.
Description: All thoughts of escape are futile. But feel free to dream.
_____________________________________________________________________
There was a light tap-tap on the door and I sat up in bed, relaxing as I took in my surroundings. A gentle breeze had the wispy drapes fluttering by the open balcony doors and I could hear birdsong, from more than one exponent of the art at a guess.
“Who is it?” I called.
“Room service, sir,” came the muffled response.
I slipped into the elegant bathrobe and snug fitting slippers before sweeping the double doors ajar far enough to make way for the trolley carrying my breakfast.
“Just leave it on the balcony, please,” I told the good looking girl. “Come back for it in an hour or so.”
“Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“If you could make sure my car's by the front entrance at eleven sharp?”
“Certainly, sir. I can do that for you.”
“Thank you.”
It was a glorious morning, that same birdsong easily drowning out the sounds of the far off gardeners going about their grass cutting and such. Two grapefruit halves sat on the carefully laid table, my newspaper of choice neatly folded to the right of them. The trolley served as a hotplate to keep the coffee and the food warm and was connected to the mains supply for that very purpose.
I took my time, savouring each and every breakfast item as I scanned the sports pages and allowing myself a smile when I saw that my carefully placed wagers from the previous day had all borne fruit. I had the Midas touch, for sure.
The same girl knocked politely then entered at my bidding, efficiently reloading the trolley, unplugging it and wheeling it away. I was on the phone at the time, placing yet more wagers, so I gave her the dismissive wave to say I was done with it.
I laid out my clothes before stepping into the huge, sunken bath. The lightweight, Sta Prest trousers ideal for the planned day ahead; casual but smart.
Cara was waiting in the foyer, resplendent in bright floral print dress and strappy sandals, her mop of golden curls barely contained under a matching floppy hat. We had been lovers back in the day, now business associates, which is easily more manageable.
Cara followed me outside and slipped into the Jaguar's passenger seat as I started the engine, she's never been much of a morning person, so I was sure of a reasonably quiet drive.
Berkshire is a beautiful county in the summer months, probably is all year round, but summer is when I tend to see it at first hand. We're heading for Ascot racecourse, having spent the night just outside Reading, and there's no particular hurry, only for the want of a decent parking space on arrival.
I'm a bookie basher to trade. Not quite so drastic as it sounds and all perfectly legal. Today, I'm lumping money on one horse, 'For A Dancer', in the fourth race and I've changed my appearance dramatically for the fact that the same bookies tend to turn up at the bigger meets and I need to keep myself one step ahead of them. I've also been perfecting a faux-Cockney accent over the past few days as further disguise. Earlier, I shaved my head right down to the wood and trimmed a previously bushy moustache away to pencil thin.
Cara didn't come into play until much later on. We ate lunch separately and had nothing to do with each other, having made arrangements to meet up at the proposed time and go to work. Myself, I placed wager after wager on my horse of choice in the busy betting ring some fifteen minutes before the off. Twenty fifty-pound notes together are barely an eighth of an inch thick so ten such bundles are easily concealed within the deep pockets. I work methodically, latching on to groups of punters like I know them, chatting and smiling away before breaking ranks and placing my bet; a useful ploy to avoid suspicion and keep the bookies off my scent. It works a treat.
“A gwrand on the namber nine, mate,” I'll say, or, “Fousand the nine 'orse to win, chief.”
There's barely an eyebrow raised since a lot of money changes hands on the racecourse, especially at the big meetings and this is a big one. The horse is trading at fourteen to one and I even get sixteens from three of the ten I bet with; it's a competitive market, to say the least.
I'm a gambler, and there's no denying the rush felt once the participants leave the stalls and begin to race, no matter how many times I witness it. They do say never bet any more than you can afford to lose, but my strike rate is such that I'm way ahead of the game; even so, nothing can prevent the pulse from quickening at such times.
I do my homework. I fully expected For A Dancer to win the day and knew that to be the case from almost a furlong out and was happy then to listen to the commentary as I went to meet up with Cara.
The best time to collect, I find, is when people are clamouring for best odds on the next race. Cara and I held hands briefly as we made our way through the throng, just long enough for me to pass three of the winning tickets to her. We both wear shades, sunshine or rain, and that's deliberate since we can observe without people reading our eyes.
I offer up the first of the tickets as soon as Cara is in position. Where she's standing we have a three sixty degree view between us, looking out for anyone taking an interest in what we're doing. All it takes then is a slight negative nod if there is such a person or persons, but in truth that's a rare occurrence. I slip the fifteen grand return deep into a pocket and proceed to the next pick-up, again waiting for Cara to position herself to where she's facing me and gives me the nod to say all's well.
Cara collects from the third, fourth and seventh, her lucky numbers, and roles are reversed at these times. It's a busy, quite frantic fifteen minutes and the biggest adrenaline rush going, only subsiding when we've checked to make sure no one has latched onto us in any way.
Two policewomen are walking towards the car park and Cara engages them in conversation, another ploy to ensure we leave the course without harm. I keep pace a couple of yards behind them and take the odd glance around just to be certain we're clear.
A few miles down the road I pull into a lay-by to let Cara hop into the back seat, emptying my pockets as she does so. Back on the road she does her sums, takes her ten percent and packages what's mine up neatly.
I drop Cara at Reading train station; she has three days off before we need to meet up again, and some serious shopping planned in order to furnish her new flat.
I have an hour to kill, but I don't leave the car, listening to the radio instead. Right on time Cara's sister hops in, we're lovers, and we head for the hotel.
I get changed and we have dinner at the hotel before heading out for the evening. It's Blues night at a town centre pub, three decent bands, and I had booked our table the minute the gig was announced; I like to keep up with these things. Like me, Leona is a big Blues fan which is why we get on so well.
Of the three bands, we both like two of them, the same two, so I send Leona over to the merchandise corner after each act for copies of their albums, signed, and for t-shirts if she likes the look of them and they have them in her size.
Queues for taxis snake around the block so we decide to walk the mile and a half or so back to the hotel, investing in a kebab each to help us along.
We haven't seen each other for ten days, so a lot of passion has been saved up, and it shows when we finally get to our suite, with clothes hurriedly discarded and strewn everywhere. We thrash at it like animals until we're both exhausted and fall asleep, bathed in perspiration and entwined.
The key rattling in the lock woke me up and the smell hit me like a physical force. The wind had changed in the night, bringing with it the stench from the piggery some two miles across the open fields. I'm in a corner cell, the window doesn't close properly, but that doesn't really matter since the entire prison will be engulfed. It's said the screws get a 'stink' supplement to their wages and I for one don't doubt it.
The dream is a recurring one, with perhaps a different hotel, racecourse, girls and car, but recurring all the same. Escape from this isolated shithole isn't an option but for dreams. Sadly, it's time for slop-out, again. Only another four months and fourteen days to go. Only.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and seven collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and seven collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.