Think Yourself Lucky (8 page)

"He used it first." David felt like a child telling tales, which roused him to protest "They're not supposed to drive that fast where there are pedestrians, are they?"

"We expect a little give and take, especially from people without difficulties." In case David wasn't sufficiently abashed by this the official said "Our mission is inclusiveness."

For a moment David felt as close to ranting as he had the first time he'd met Len Kinnear. "I'm going back to the branch to tell them," he said.

That sounded childish too. As he limped away his calf twinged at every step. People with clipboards were canvassing for signatures on petitions just a few yards away from charity collectors rattling plastic pots. A string quartet played Beatles numbers while not entirely out of earshot a guitarist performed quite a different tune, and midway between them an exhaustively gilded man with a carton at his gilded feet waited for someone to pay him to move. A girl held a giant flattened lollipop aloft—a placard for a restaurant, not Mick's. Vendors of political newspapers eyed the opposition as if they were tempted to picket or worse. Someone was selling the
Big Issue
, and somebody was selling the
Big Issue
, and someone else was too. Did all of them have individual permits? When David began to doubt this it was easier to feel provoked to hand out the Frugogo flyers, once he'd glanced back to make sure the council official couldn't see him. "Have a holiday," he said and wished he'd thought of it sooner.

He still had a handful of leaflets by the time he came abreast of the agency. He followed a customer in, though not until the man had shut the door in his face. The fellow marched up to the currency desk and leaned towards Andrea. "Hand over all your cash," he said, barely audible above the conversations at the counter. "Put it in an envelope and don't let anybody see."

David saw Andrea's mouth begin to work. As he took a limping step towards the man who was the wrong kind of customer, dumping the flyers on the counter to free his hands for whatever they might have to do, her lips squeezed out a lopsided smile. "Rex, honestly," she murmured.

"Less of that, young lady. Do as you're told or you know what to expect when we get home."

"Rex, please. Not here." She glanced at David and then fixed him with a stare that seemed intent on persuading if not warning him he hadn't heard. "What's the matter with those, David?" she said louder.

Rex swung around and stuck out his hand. He was stocky—David supposed Andrea might think of him as cuddly, perhaps generously proportioned—with skin pale enough to sell holidays in the sun. Wiry red hair sprawled above his wide rounded plushy face. His moist handshake felt padded but determined to be firm. "David," he said. "The David?"

"One of them."

"Why, how many of you have there been?" Without bothering to look amused Rex said "What don't I know?"

"I couldn't say. It sounds as if you know about me."

"Someone didn't leave you many secrets." Rex seemed bent on impressing or else daunting David with his grip. "Rex," he said by way of introduction. "Only one of me."

"I should think that's enough."

"Had enough, have you?" Rex said and let go of David's hand. "I can see why you might have."

"Maybe you're seeing less than you think."

Andrea cleared her throat, a noise as shrill as the clink of a coin in the metal tray under the currency window. "David, I asked you a question."

"I was getting on so well with Rex I didn't hear."

"That isn't like you, and there's no call for it." When lowering her voice failed to bring him closer to the window she said more sharply "Just come here."

"Maybe it's more like me than you ever realised. Maybe I've got secrets after all."

David wasn't sure he wanted this to be heard, especially by the customers at the counter, but Rex caught it, "Better do what madam says," he told David. "You don't want her telling you off or however she deals with you."

David wasn't sure if this was meant to mock him. Perhaps Rex assumed they had more in common than was the case, a notion David found equally unappealing. He limped to the currency window and ducked towards the gap beneath it while Rex loitered almost close enough to touch. "What were you asking?"

"Don't pretend, David." Andrea's voice sounded like a threat to allow everyone to overhear. "Why have you brought so many flyers back?"

"Apparently we need permission to give them out, and we're not supposed to otherwise."

"You were only doing what she told you, weren't you, David?"

Rex's version of sympathy made David round on him. "And what do you do, since we're talking?"

"I'm in advertising. I'm in ideas."

"Then I hope you've given Andrea a few, or hasn't she told you she's looking for some?"

"Rex," Andrea said, and a good deal less softly "We've discussed bringing personal matters into the workplace, David."

"I thought I was talking about work."

"No call for cleverness. You aren't being a writer now."

This enraged David more than he could have explained. "Would you like me to go back out?"

"I wouldn't, no. We can't afford to get the firm in trouble. I'll look into the position with the street, but meanwhile you'd better stay here."

He felt like a child rebuked in public by a mother, not that his own had ever had much reason. As David lifted the flap in the counter Rex said "So Andy says you're a writer."

"Why did you want to tell him that?" Too late David grasped that Rex had her comment about cleverness in mind. "I've never been one," he assured Rex, "and I never will be."

"Stay randy, Andy," Rex said and winked at David on his way to the door.

David looked away from him and managed not to glance at Andrea as he logged on the terminal. Alerts were waiting to be dealt with—seats to be booked on planes, special requests to be cleared with travel operators, complaints to be followed up—and he began to type, so rapidly that it outran some of his thoughts. This was as close as he would ever come to being a writer, he vowed to himself. He would be happy to forget everything that had happened since he'd gone out to distribute the flyers. Certainly none of it could make him write.

"Pests."

The woman stares at the flyer I'm holding out and then at me. "There's a few of those round here right enough."

Does she think she's on my level and entitled to agree, or is she suggesting I'm one of the vermin infesting the streets? They're inviting you to sign up for the Feet For Jesus marathon or collecting for Stand Up For Insects. There's World Without Weapons with a web address that looks like a joke its supporters didn't realise they'd made, and there are memorial funds for people I'm certain you'd want to forget if you'd known them. "Please do treat yourself to a notice," I say into the woman's smug wrinkled face. "You never know when I'll be needed."

She pinches the sheet between a finger and an even stumpier thumb. "What use is this to anyone? Where's a number to call?"

PESTS EXTERMINATED—GET LUCKY. "Don't you worry," I tell her. "I go anywhere I'm called for."

She does her stupid best to look as if she's understood at the same time as finding me unhelpful. "Are you in the book?"

"We're past those. I'm your future. Look for me online."

"You aren't making it too easy for anyone, are you?"

"I'm giving them what they deserve."

She can't be expected to grasp this, and so she tries asking "Just what do you do?"

"You'd have to see it for yourself."

She peers into my eyes and seems about to ask another question. Perhaps she sees something, or possibly not as much as she supposed she would, because she thrusts the flyer at me. "I don't want it, thank you. No use to me."

"Too late. It's yours now. You'll have to wait and see how it applies."

I let her glimpse the depths of my eyes again before I leave her in the crowd. The flyer flutters in her hand, and I'm amused to see the shiver infect all of her. Maybe she needn't fear me; it depends if I have time. She's less of a candidate than the motorist who nearly ran me down on the pedestrian crossing or the cyclist who had a crack at it on the pavement. Still, maybe I've still to meet today's winner, and so I carry on handing out my literature. "Pests squashed," I call and feel as if an evangelist who's ranting in the middle of the street is trying to blot me out. "Parasites rubbed out. No job too small, no job too big. You know which you are, madam."

I can see I'm not appreciated. They never do that till it's too late. Quite a few of my flyers are ending up on the street; it's a pity Mrs Rubbish isn't here to chase them. One sails into an arcade between a pair of department stores, and I'm looking for the next taker when a man trots after me. "Hold on there," he shouts. "You with the papers, hold on."

He looks crushed by his outsize head and overhanging eyebrows. "Are you all right down there?" I enquire. "Need a lift up?"

His head jerks as if it's trying to deflect the questions, though he wants me to think they're beneath him, which would mean they're pretty low. "May I ask what you think you're doing?"

"May you?" After a pause for him to open his mouth and twitch his head again I say "I don't see any reason why you shouldn't. Go on then, give it a shot."

"Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Right now I'm letting people know I'm here."

"Who are you supposed to represent?"

"You don't see anyone but me, do you?" I say and flap a flyer in his face. "I'm all you get and that's enough for everyone."

"So you're the man I need to talk to, are you?"

He's trying to sound big, but his lurching head doesn't help his image. "You'd be better off hoping you don't," I tell him. "Who are you meant to be?"

"I represent the council," he says in a voice too large for him.

"That's a big job. Sure you can fit it in?"

His head jerks as if I've struck it like a punchball. "I'm here to determine if you're authorised."

"Somebody wants what I do, believe me."

"I'm asking if you have a permit to distribute advertising." Mr Twitch narrows his eyes as if his bristling brows have put on weight. "If you can't show it to me—"

"Don't trouble your head. It looks as if it's got enough trouble as it is. I'm authorised all right."

"By whom?"

"Do you know, I think you've met him."

Twitch the midget scowls up at me and then at my hands. "I'm still waiting to be shown."

"Wait away if it'll keep you quiet. You want to see someone about those fidgets, though. Shall I have a go at fixing them?"

His head jerks so hard it seems to shake his mouth awry, but I expect he's grimacing at his inability not to twitch. "I'm warning you, Mr, Mr—"

"There'd have to be a pair of me to make me Mr Mister. I tell you what, take one of these and see how much you can find out. See, it's coming for you." I say and stoop to retrieve the flyer that has drifted out of the arcade.

"Can't you look where you're going?" a man shouts, and I get out of just enough of his way as I swing around to confront him.

He brakes the mobility scooter again, though I'm sure he's more concerned about it than about me. He has stuffed as much of himself into the seat as he can, and he looks like a petulant toddler who'd have a tantrum if anyone tried to deny him his old high chair. His round face resembles perished rubber pumped red by a tube made out of several chins. "I'm exactly where I'm meant to be," I tell him.

He shakes his head as if he's trying to outdo Twitch, and all the chins compete with his face at wobbling. "Trying to cripple someone?" he blusters loud enough to be appealing for an audience. "Trying to get yourself killed?"

That's the very last thing I have in mind. You wouldn't say it if you knew me better."

"Trying to cripple me, then."

"I'd say somebody's already done a sterling job."

Twitch sees the chance to remind me of his. "We don't encourage that kind of language about people who are challenged, Mr..."

That doesn't fit my remark too closely, but perhaps he has to stick to his script. "The name's on the page," I remind him.

This time he takes the bill I hold out as the one on the pavement swoops at the evangelist. "Mr Lucky, is it?" Twitch says. "I wouldn't count on too much luck with me."

"I've lived up to my name all my life, and I don't count on anybody but myself," I say and stare at Mr Sitdown. "You just need a self worth counting on."

"I'm sure this gentleman has," Twitch wants to be heard saying. "Especially when he hasn't had so much luck."

"Can't he stand up for himself? I thought they all wanted to be equal. Don't tell me, only equal in a different way. I'm not like the rest either. I make my own life."

"I'll thank you not to talk about me as if I'm not here," Sitdown complains.

"Hear that, he doesn't want you talking about him. Mind you, I don't know if he's up to standing up. How about it, Mr Sitdown? What do you think of your luck?"

"I warn you, Mr Lucky." Twitch makes my name sound like a distasteful task he's required to perform. "If you continue to behave like this," he says, "I shall be forced to call someone."

"Bring on all the security you like. I've never had a problem with them. What's the charge? Chaffing the chairbound, is it, or crushing the cripple? Or do we have to say disabling the disabled now?"

"You're in authority round here, are you?" Sitdown has turned on Twitch. "Are you going to let him talk about the disadvantaged like that?"

"If it's such a disadvantage maybe you shouldn't drive like you want to cripple everybody else. Or is that your way of making everybody equal?"

"That's quite enough, Mr—" Twitch can't bring himself to say my name again. "More than enough," he says and fishes out a phone that makes his little hand look childish.

"Are you calling the police to give Speedy here a ticket?"

"We expect a little give and take, especially from people without difficulties. Our mission is inclusiveness."

"I'll be including somebody and that's a promise. All right, put away your walkie-talkie. No need for talkies, little fellow. Let's all be off for walkies."