Waterhouse And Zailer: The Carrier Part 3

"Are you always like this?" she sneers at me. "I feel sorry for whichever poor sods married to you."

The coach slows down. Its engine makes a noise thats halfway between a rumble and a belch. If the driver were sitting closer to us and spoke English, I might wonder if he was waiting to hear my response to Laurens insult.

"Im not married," I tell her. "And what you feel is embarra.s.sment because you didnt understand what I said, even though its so simple, an egg sandwich could understand it. And before you ask me again: yes, I do think Im better than you. I wouldnt take it too personally, though. Secretly, I think Im better than a lot of people. You might too if you were me. Eight years ago I cofounded a technological innovation company. We invented a part for a surgical robot: a tactile feedback glove, its called."

The coach picks up speed. Thank Christ. Now I can admit to myself that I was worried by the belching noise; it sounded ominously breakdownesque. Mercifully, the engine now sounds as if its in tip-top shape and we are racing into the night once again. Soon well arrive at a hotel and Ill be able to crawl into a minibar and a nice clean bed.

I carry on telling Lauren about myself and my achievements. "Our company was bought by a bigger one for a staggering amount of money," I tell her, lowering my voice so that no one else hears. "Close to fifty million dollars. I didnt get that money personally-well, I got a decent chunk, but my investors got most of it-but it did leave me wondering why so many people dont ever really try and achieve anything big, creatively. Anything world-changing. Im not talking about you-I wouldnt expect you to be scientifically innovative, because youre obviously not clever enough, but other people I know, people I was at university with. Potentially brilliant people. Why dont they try to do more?"

Lauren is gawping at me, her mouth open. "Fifty million dollars?" she says.

I ignore her. I was enjoying my uninhibited monologue, and I hadnt finished. "I think Im better than those people because they seem to want to go through life expending minimum effort, and I think Im better than you not because youre thick, which isnt your fault, but because you were mean to Bodo Neudorf. And to the bald man."

"Bodo what? Who?" Lauren looks around as if expecting to see somebody she hasnt previously noticed. "What bald man? What are you on about?"

"Cast your mind back and work it out, or remain ignorant," I say, happy to demonstrate that what goes around comes around. Tell me about Mr. Innocent-of-Murder and Ill remind you of the man you savaged earlier this evening, the one who had his name clearly printed on his lapel badge.

"I dont think tonights a one-off for you, is it?" I say. "I know our current situation is far from ideal, but I bet youre mean and sweary even during the good times." No reaction at all. "The reason I dont mind saying all this to you is that youre so stupid," I go on, "its like talking to a piece of cardboard. No ramifications whatsoever. Youre not going to ramificate; you dont know what it means. You dont know which of the words I use are real words and which Im making up. I bet youve got the memory of a bottom-set-for-remembering-how-to-swim goldfish. Soon youll be telling me Im looking after you again, having forgotten everything Ive just said." I smile at her, feeling quite forgiving now that Ive unburdened myself.

"Youre a f.u.c.king cheeky cow, thats what you are," Lauren announces after a short silence.

"Thats what I am," I agree. "Well done. See? You have no trouble defining me without reference to Jason. Perhaps you could try doing the same with yourself."

She stares down at her phone, holding it with both hands. "Dont speak to me, all right?"

Jason. Now, theres a strange thing. "I dont get it," I say. "Youve never been abroad on your own before, youre talking about panic attacks, youve lied to your husband, taking a significant risk that h.e.l.l find out, since planes are delayed all the time . . . Why? What did you have to do in Germany that took less than a day and justified the risk?"

"Why dont you mind your own business? How do you know it took less than a day?"

I close my eyes. You mentioned seeing me this morning, but you might not remember having said it, so lets not overcomplicate things. "No suitcase," I say.

"So? Youve not got one either!"

I open my eyes, and the nightmare is still real. My whole world is still a coach. The moronic Lauren Cookson is still my significant other. "Thats because I too have been in Germany just for the day," I say patiently. "And Ill happily tell you why."

"Dont bother," Lauren snaps.

"All right. I wont."

Behind me, a young girls voice pipes up. "Daddy? Are you awake now?" One of the choirgirls, probably; I didnt see any other children waiting to board apart from a tiny baby.

Her father clears his throat. "Yes, darling. What is it?"

I steel myself, half expecting her to say, "The two women in front of us are being hateful to each other and its scaring me."

"You know how Silas wants to be a famous footballer when he grows up?"

I relax. Lauren is jabbing at her phone with her thumbnail. A few seconds later she says, "Mum? Its me, Lauren."

"He wants to play for Manchester United," says the choirgirl.

"Well, Im sure whatever team he plays for will be lucky to have him." The father sounds worried. I imagine he has woken up, looked out of the coach window and seen the same blank blackness and absence of informative landmarks that were all seeing.

Or perhaps hes wondering how significant a hindrance the name Silas might be for a boy whose ambition is to be a sports legend. Parents are such arrogant idiots. Im delighted Im not about to become one.

"Mum, Ive got myself in a right mess here. Im in Germany." Lauren is crying again. "Yeah, Germany. No, Im not in England."

This is likely to be frustrating. Shes going to take half an hour to tell her mother what I could summarize in twenty seconds, but, as a self-confessed hostile stranger, I can hardly hold out my hand for her phone and say, "Here, let me."

Should I ring Sean? Other women in my situation would want to phone their partners-for company, for comfort. Those would be the ones with partners who wouldnt immediately launch into yet another accuse-athon.

"I cant tell you now. I havent told Jason. No. Jason doesnt know Im in Germany, Ive not told him. What? I cant say. No. Not till I see you. Im on a coach with loads of people earwigging everything I say. Our planes delayed, and now theyre taking us to a hotel. Its horrible, Mum. Ive been having a right panic attack. Ive got a friend, though, thats one good thing-an older lady. What? Shes called Gaby. Yeah. Shes looking after me. Shes being brilliant. Youd get on with her. Shes saying everything youd say."

What? Oh, for goodness sake.

"If Silas did play for Manchester United . . . Dad?"

"Hm? Sorry, darling, I was just trying to get a sense of where we are."

"If Silas played for Manchester United, would you support them, or would you still support Stoke City?"

"Mum, listen, I need you to ring Jason for me. Youre going to have to make up some bulls.h.i.+t. Ive told him Im at yours. Yeah. Youll have to tell him Ive got sick and cant talk. Tell him Ill be back first thing in the morning."

I tap her on the arm, shake my head.

"Hang on, Mum, Gabys saying no."

"If you were sick you wouldnt know when youd be better," I say. "Tell her to tell him youll ring him as soon as youre well enough-hopefully tomorrow morning, but you cant be sure. Keep it vague."

Lauren nods. She pa.s.ses on a less coherent version of my instructions to her mother. If shes lucky, theyll work.

I have just helped the willing facilitator of a serious miscarriage of justice to avoid getting b.o.l.l.o.c.ked for lying to her husband. If asked why I did it, I dont think Id be able to explain. Oh, well. Since Im doomed to live out the rest of my days on a German coach, I dont suppose it matters much.

"Ah, this must be the hotel!" the man behind me says to his daughter. Other people have spotted it too. Exclamations of relief erupt all over the coach. I wipe the condensation off the window, take one look at the building weve pulled up outside, and wonder whats wrong with them all. All this inconvenience, and Fly4You couldnt even put us up somewhere decent? Were to spend the night in this squat, gray, featureless building with tiny windows, by the side of a dual carriageway?

"Lauren." I jab her in the ribs with my elbow.

"Ive got to go, Mum, were at the hotel. Ill ring you in a bit. But youll tell Jason, yeah? Yeah, Ill stay with Gaby." She drops her phone into her bag. "Thank f.u.c.k for that," she says. "Here at last. My mum says I have to make sure I stay with you." She stretches her arms above her head, releasing a gust of sweat mixed with floral deodorant.

"Were not staying here," I decide aloud.

"What do you mean were not staying here? Why have they brought us here, then?"

"Everyone else is staying here, but you and I are going to find ourselves a different hotel. A better one. This one looks like condemned council flats."

"What f.u.c.king planet are you on? Its the middle of the night!"

"Trust me: this place will be bad in every way." I pull my BlackBerry out of my bag. "Well find the nearest five-star hotel to Cologne Airport."

"Five-star hotel?" Lauren does a whole-body twitch, as if Ive given her an electric shock. "Are you s.h.i.+tting me, or what? I cant afford to stay in a five-star hotel! Im a care a.s.sistant. I dont earn that kind of money!"

"Ill pay for everything. Ill pay for your room." Which Ill try to ensure is several floors away from mine. Im starting to crave s.p.a.ce-specifically, s.p.a.ce that doesnt contain Lauren. "My treat."

"No!" She bursts into tears.

Im so taken aback, all I can do is stare at her. "No?" Her reaction makes even less sense to me than my offer. Why arent I taking this opportunity to go my separate way? Theres nothing stopping me from finding a five-star hotel on my own.

Except that Ive heard her tell two people that Im looking after her. And her mother and stepmother both seem to think she needs to stay with me.

In my real life, I wouldnt put up with it; in this alternative universe, my role seems to be to supervise Lauren with a view to improving her. I can think of lots of ways: first break down her resistance to good hotels, then boost her vocabulary, then tackle her willingness to see blameless men framed for murders they havent committed . . .

"No!" She shakes her head vigorously, sobbing. One of her tears lands in the corner of my eye. "No. Im not the sort of person who stays in a five-star hotel."

"All right, forget it."

"I cant do it. I wouldnt know what to do."

"Youd do exactly the same-"

"No! I cant!"

"Fine. It doesnt matter. Well stay here. Lauren? Im sorry, just . . . pretend I never said anything. This hotel will be fine."

She wipes her eyes, mollified. "It looks all right to me," she says, a.s.sessing it through the coach window. "I hope its got something I can eat. Im starving. Havent eaten a thing since six oclock last night."

"You must have had something," I say.

"No. Nothing. My stomachs not been right all day. Ive not been able to face the thought of food."

"You were nervous," I tell her. "About whatever you had to do today, about lying to Jason. Now youre on your way home, youre starting to feel better. And hungrier."

She gives me an odd look, then nods. Barely.

What illicit reason could a twenty-three-year-old care a.s.sistant have for needing to come to Germany for the day? A lover? Wouldnt she have wanted to stay at least one night, if so? Perhaps she and Jason are one of those couples that never spend the night apart. Sean would approve. He ought to move in with them and form a threesome; theyd probably annoy him less than I do.

Eventually, theres a gap in the line of moving people filing off the coach. "Come on," I say. My legs buckle when I try to stand up.

"I cant feel my a.r.s.e, Ive sat on it for so long," Lauren announces. She stands, pulls off her silver bullet belt and stuffs it in her bag. Her jeans slide down to reveal sharp hip bones, a red thong and a tattoo of some parallel wavy lines. I dont know if this is purely decorative or if it means something to Lauren; to me it says, "This accommodation has a swimming pool."

Sean would claim this is my fault, not the tattoos: I spend a disproportionate amount of time surfing where-to-stay websites because my work involves so much gadding, swanning and gallivanting-three words Sean prefers to the more simple "traveling." For Christmas last year, I bought myself an antique gold Saint Christopher medal that I wear on a thin white-gold chain around my neck whenever I swan or gad, even though I am not at all religious. I needed something to make me feel better about all the time I spend surrounded by flecks, speckles, splodges, square wall and ceiling tiles and small silver lines on metal, so I developed a relations.h.i.+p with Saint Christopher that involved him accepting my atheism and me redefining his role a little: the patron saint of gallivanters with whiny, selfish partners.

Lauren and I are among the last to get off the coach. Two other coaches are parked alongside it: limping, yawning people spill out of all three vehicles. On our way into the hotel, we pa.s.s a crying woman who is holding up a very old man. "Come on, Dad," she says. "Were here now. Youll be in bed soon."

"Look at them, poor sods," Lauren says to me. "Its terrible, what those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have done to us tonight. They f.u.c.king owe us, big-time. I havent got a toothbrush with me or anything."

"The hotel should have some," I say. Though probably not enough for all of us. I try not to think about the top drawer of my bedside cabinet that contains at least seven unused miniature toothbrush-and-toothpaste sets, collected from various airlines business-cla.s.s goody bags over the years. Next time I travel-in six days time, another dawn-cracking day trip, to Barcelona-Ill bring them all with me, just in case my flight is delayed overnight and six unstable dimwits decide to appoint me as their primary carer.

"Why would a hotel have toothbrushes?" Lauren asks, looking puzzled. "Dont people normally bring their own?"

Saint Christopher? Do you want to field this one?

The hotel reception area is packed. Lauren and I can only just get in. Were standing at the edge of the built-in brown welcome mat. The automatic doors keep half closing on us, then springing open again as they sense the presence of bodies. I catch a glimpse, in the distance, of a plump blonde woman behind a desk. She is speaking, but I cant hear what shes saying.

"Why 'Father?" I ask Lauren, looking at her arm.

"Its my dad," she says.

"Whose name is Wayne. Do you call him 'Father?"

"No, course not." She giggles. "I call him 'd.i.c.khead most of the time. I love him to bits, though. He wanted it to say 'Father. 'Wayne could be anyone, couldnt it? It was my birthday present to him, for his fortieth. Hes always wanted me to have his name tattooed somewhere on me. Somewhere decent-hes not like that, or anything. Lisa had one saying 'Husband at the same time."

A low rumble is making its way toward us from the reception desk through the crowd of bodies: the sound of ma.s.s discontent, growing louder as it approaches. Bad news. The first distinguishable words I hear come from the American woman with the dyed red hair, who is standing about a meter in front of me: "They cant do that. They cant make us." She turns; of course she does. In this kind of situation, people know its their duty to pa.s.s on the misery as soon as theyve received it. "Unbelievable! They havent got enough rooms," she tells all of us who are behind her. "Anyone whos on their own has to share. With someone theyve never met before!" She lets out a cackle of outrage and throws up her hands. "I cant see Hugh Grant anywhere in this crush, so . . . Im out of here, gonna find a hotel with room service, satellite TV and a spa. Im done with Fly4You."

Shes saying all the things I want to be saying. Except the bit about Hugh Grant-Id prefer the young David Bowie, but hes not here either. I want to be walking away, like the redhead, out of this c.r.a.ppy hotel. So why arent I? I cant-cannot, will not-share a bedroom with Lauren.

I feel something around my wrist. Her. Shes handcuffed me with her fingers again. "Dont you even think about it," she says tearfully. It ought to sound like an order she has no right to give me, but all I hear is desperation. Something bad has happened to her, I think suddenly. It isnt only the delayed plane. Shes traumatized; thats why her reaction to hearing that the flight had been rerouted to Cologne was so over-the-top. Something to do with her reason for coming to Germany. Maybe something to do with a murder.

Does her mother know whats wrong with her? Is that why she told Lauren to make sure she stayed with me? Is the former Mrs. Wayne Cuffley, first wife of "Husband," so worried about her daughter that shes pinning all her hopes on a woman shes never met?

"Promise you wont go off and leave me," Lauren hisses reproachfully, as if her imagining my betrayal and it happening are one and the same.

"I promise," I say blankly. Part of my brain has gone numb. Theres no way out. A sleepover with Lauren Cookson in the worst hotel in Europe. No point thinking about it. Not when you have to do it.

She lets go of my arm. "Thats all right, then."

It is as far from all right as Cologne is from Combingham.

"Were lucky, we are."

"Are we?" If we are, I must be suffering from cognitive dysmorphia.

"Were together," Lauren says. "A lot of these poor sods are going to have to share a bedroom with a total stranger."

4.

10/3/2011.

Simon was making coffee for Regan Murray, spilling water and granules everywhere. Subconsciously deliberately, Charlie guessed, so that hed have to waste ten minutes cleaning up after himself, and perhaps make the drink again because his first attempt was a mess. "Waste" wasnt the word Simon would have used: in his book, if it succeeded in postponing a difficult conversation, it was time well spent.

Was there any reason to a.s.sume the conversation with Prousts daughter would be difficult? Stupid question.