You, Me, We Are All Mistakes

9. THE SEIZURE

CHAPTER 9
THE SEIZURE

1983, and it was a very fine year. One day later in north London and we were in a somewhat cooler Friday.

08:00. Click, whirr.

"Ninety-five point eight, Capital EFF EMM..."

The National Coal Board of Great Britain had elected Ian MacGregor as its chairman, a staunch supporter of Margaret Thatcher.

Nelson awoke to the news and a bubbling kettle. Screwing his eyes together, he scraped sleep from one corner and stared fixedly at the ceiling. Observing the plaster cracks, he brooded over his editor Clive, and the assiduous guarantee of his imminent morning call. The pit of his stomach filled with dread and resentment whilst the radio pitter patter perpetuated from the same breathless DJ talking about his fellow DJs, and then which DJs would be hosting what DJ shows throughout the DJ day. Without warning, the same sinister thoughts hit Nelson once again.

Oh Christ, they know my address! What was I thinking yesterday? Who was that guy last night with the camera! I'm so naïve, so juvenile... pitching up against NASA. That outfit is part of the American government, you idiot. And Reagan is on the war path, branding Soviets the Evil Empire with his funky Star Wars defence claptrap. This President could easily finish off a little techno-journalist like me with a flick of his fountain pen.

The teasmaid created another pot of steaming hot Darjeeling ready to be poured. The radio played Say Hello, Wave Goodbye by Soft Cell and the lyrics wafted over Nelson.

Yes, maybe I'm 'the standing joke of the year'. And Duke! Has he really disappeared, or, or, or... simply drunk amidst the parasols, dipping his toes in Akrotiri Bay? And what on Earth is SETI?

Nelson threw off a thin sheet and sat up to the bed's edge, feeling his own toes crunch on cheap nylon carpet.

Shut up! No one cares about you, least of all the Leader of the Free World. It's obvious... Duke is lying on a Limassol beach with a hangover.

He took deep breaths and tried to console himself that despite being snapped as he stood at his window, no shocking revelations had transpired since sundown, and no further mysterious voices had threatened his being.

As Marc Almond crooned for everyone to take their hands off him, Nelson brushed a palm across his short hair and shook his head violently. One thing he was certain of: he needed to be out of his flat before Clive rang him again at 8.30am.

He turned up the volume, showered, and dressed, then reconsidered fake moon landings, missed deadlines, a dead-end career, Cypriot sands, SETI, conspiracy theories, and his place in the cosmos. He decided he was low on toilet roll.

+++

The clear warm Indian summer had given way to September rain early that morning. The pavements gleamed like silver bream as Nelson walked, and a fresh smell of wet grass hung in the air.

The supermarket was crowded with determined shoppers, and Waitrose provides its customers the option of heavy wire baskets or large, four-wheeled trollies. His survival instinct urged Nelson to acquire the last cart in the rack.

Inevitably it had just three good wheels, and adamantly tugged him relentlessly into the baked beans, dried spices and back to his peach melba yoghurts.

He noted a lone trolley in the supermarket devoid of squeaks or its own mind, being guided by a faintly recognisable figure.

Nelson completed his shopping, sustaining one thigh bruise and a scrape to the Achilles tendon. He made way to the checkout and the ritual of being displaced by elderly north London ladies with one box of tea and a bag of grapes. (You don't mind do you.) He filed into the shortest queue. Taking three times longer to clear than any other, he stood yearning for his checkout host to smile.

A moment later, just as he prepared to argue over the quantity of plastic bags till-girl was shoving towards him despite his meagre provisions, a distraction caught his eye. It was the same familiar person in command of their faithful trolley.

Nelson reluctantly paid his bill, allowing till-girl her opportunistic call for Maureen to take over the shift and force a change of till roll. Deciding to leave via a short-cut rear entrance from the store, Nelson passed this individual once more. She was busy packing away her own shopping.

It was a young woman, the first plus sign, and she looked vaguely familiar. Evidently highly intelligent, packing groceries into old carrier bags she had remembered to bring with her, Nelson was not studying her brains. In his opinion, she had nice legs.

She was vaguely familiar, and she had very nice legs. He shook his head in awkwardness and silence.

Surely... I am better than this?

(A mind reader walked past in the aisles and frowned severely at him.)

Nelson recomposed himself, sighed, and carried on his way from the store. The nerve to say something to her was simply not there and he left through the lower-ground car park at the rear of the store, exiting beside the supermarket's delivery bays.

This quieter access road served mainly large trucks, but also acted as a short cut to the garden roads beyond. The sun strained through thin cloud, leaving Nelson's borough with the sense of a cooler autumn day. As he walked alone unhurriedly along this thoroughfare, the girl overtook him, evidently choosing the same short-cut.

They both crossed the road as a large unmarked articulated vehicle entered the service road behind them. Seeing the girl again was a pleasing surprise and unexpectedly a word sprang to Nelson's mind.

"Towel!" he coughed, suddenly recalling the identity this olive-skinned splendor.

She strode confidently in front for a few seconds. Her brunette hair touched the pulled-up collar of a grey raincoat complemented by dark red court shoes. Her heels clicked on the pavement as Nelson scurried forward, nearly dropping his soap powder in the process. Increasing his pace, he plucked up the courage from somewhere.

"Remember me?" he heard himself saying.

The girl turned sharply, stopped, and eyed him cautiously.

"No," she retorted abruptly, sweeping dark shiny strands of hair from her face with her free hand.

"Yesterday. Halfway through your shower and the doorbell rang."

"Oh yes," she responded cautiously, as the memory bit. Her brown eyes widened in concern.

"I'm sorry about that, about the mix-up."

"I'm glad to hear that," she said, and a thin smile unexpectedly appeared on her face, as if forgiveness crossed her mind.

"Thank you," she continued, "Now if you'll..."

The colossal eighteen-wheel articulated lorry that had just entered the access road careered past the supermarket delivery bays and slid to a sudden halt beside them, its air brakes hissing madly. Four large men leapt menacingly out of the back dressed in black jeans and windcheater jackets. They had Nelson and the girl clearly in their sights. The driver jumped from the front cab, clicking madly with his large film camera and flash. Nelson and the girl were collected by two men each and incredibly swiftly bundled into the back of the trailer.

There were incessant screams and strong kicks from her, and just one bellow from Nelson. Groceries flew, Nelson lost grip on his soap powder, seeing it booted along the pavement leaving a bluey-whiteness in its trail. The camera stopped clicking and flashing as the driver climbed back into his cab. The lorry blew its horn and left, smoothly disappearing as fast as it had arrived.

The surroundings were barren of witnesses except for two Finchley Road pedestrians entering the far end of this quiet access road. Each of them cast around for hidden TV crews.