Accidental Crime - 28

Jarrod

It came as little surprise, to Jarrod, that there was a knot in his shoelaces. Fresh from a poor untying effort the previous evening, the knot provided a timely reminder of why it was rarely a good idea to leave problems until later, as his clumsy fingers frantically picked away while every passing second increased Nigel’s advantage.

Having failed to locate a nearby patent office – the latest research indicated possible bases in Wales and London – Jarrod doubted that Nigel was in fact steaming ahead to end Dawn’s dreams for good but he had made a promise that he would assist her in the chase and therefore he would do everything in his power to save the day, whatever that might actually mean. As the clock ticked by, his powers didn’t seem to even stretch to untying a knot, but at least, he felt, the tension was growing, the drama increasing, and it would make overcoming Nigel’s threat all the more impressive once he had overcome this minor inconvenience.

His eyes fell on the white trainers precariously balanced on the shoe rack. Knotless and ready, they begged him to be substituted in, one even sliding off the rack onto the carpet beneath as if to offer an unmistakable hint that they were prepared for action. He reached a hand across before replacing it on the rack above; he could just imagine being turned away from the patent office (running with the assumption that one appeared out of nowhere) because of wearing trainers, being forced to confess to Dawn that, yes, he did get there first and, yes, he did see Nigel but, no, he didn’t manage to stop him because he was wearing the wrong shoes.

The knot finally came free, the liberation of the lace bringing greater-than-usual joy. The distraction had given him time to question afresh his acceptance of the challenge set before him, as ten minutes of surfing had merely reinforced his initial reticence, the sheer lack of reason and logic in the plan reminding him why he had been so dismissive at first. There was no patent office, not anywhere within reach anyway, and no quick way of laying his hands on Nigel’s identity. Yet, here he was, tightly tying the laces of his suede shoes and gathering money for a bus journey towards an unknown destination. He was slinging on his jacket, despite the warmth of the day, and pocketing his wallet, along with the mobile that he would use to make desperate-sounding breathless calls to Dawn as he wandered the streets. He was striding confidently down the street outside their house, as if heading in the same direction he took every day of his life, hands in his pockets to imply casualness, so as not to attract unwanted attention from intrigued passers-by. Twisting his body away from a yapping dog, he was impressed at his balance as he sidled away, regaining his composure as the bus stop approached. He was clutching his mobile through the pocket of his jacket and padding his hand against his breast pocket to check his wallet hadn’t leapt to its death moments earlier. Within two minutes he was looking up at the bus driver and handing him an extortionate amount of money, using the vague phrase ‘city centre’ to indicate his destination, before taking a seat eight rows back next to a man with a nervous twitch who sporadically looks down at the bag clutched between his fingers, half-expecting it to have been snatched by one of the many criminals boarding the bus. Within half an hour he had departed Mansfield’s living room and found himself surrounded by the Neapolitan flavours of the city he apparently shared with such people, heading towards the city centre to heroically intervene as Dawn’s future happiness – or her mood that evening at least – hung in the balance. And all because he answered the ‘phone rather than putting his needs first.

Don’t blabber, care for your bladder.

He afforded himself a smile. It was like the anti-advert to BT’s campaign from years back where dads across the country were encouraged to talk to their daughters by a growling Bob Hoskins. He had always thought he detected awkwardness in the faces of fathers forced to engage in conversation, the actors no doubt unconsciously expressing their view that they would much rather have headed to the bathroom than find themselves having to fake an interest in topics they knew nothing about. He’d made one slip, allowing himself to imagine that maybe, just maybe, the call would be about his future success, and now here he was on a bus of all things, having spent an unbelievable £3.20 on a return ticket, ready to do whatever was necessary to save his house-mate’s career.

What the hell was Munch anyway? He hadn’t even thought to ask. Had the knot not proved so problematic, perhaps he could have Googled that too? In fact, didn’t he used to eat yoghurt called Munch Bunch years ago? Had Dawn simply got rid of the Bunch? Was this what he was spending £3.20 on?

Jarrod crossed his arms and let out a deep sigh. To his left an over-dressed pensioner rested her hand on the over-sized bag that would prevent anyone taking a seat next to her. Even the tattoos emblazoned on the vested man approaching the seat failed to convince her to move her bag, his argument consisting largely, no entirely, of a stare and a point, which was quickly rebuffed with a sharp shake of a head nestling beneath a furry blue beret.

Two seats behind him sat a teenage boy who seemed to be keen on drum-dominated music, the tinny rhythms blasting through his earphones in almost hypnotic regularity, whilst the occasional half a second of silence indicated that the track had changed.

To his left, one row ahead on the other-side of the gangway, a book was clutched between the youthful fingers of a blonde, spectacled girl in her mid-teens, her soft skin tantalisingly concealing the important information gracing the cover. Every time she went to turn a page, Jarrod would almost catch a glimpse of the front cover, each time perhaps acquiring an extra letter with which to construct possible words, the limited knowledge causing him to shuffle uneasily in his seat, wondering whether it would be inappropriate to walk over and ask to see the book, just to put his mind at rest.

At the front, just boarding the bus, was a woman called Carol or Karen – it was hard to be sure amongst the ruffle of over-filled plastic bags – who seemed to know everyone. She threw her shopping onto the luggage table, just missing a toddler’s head as the 99p store logo swept past his eyes, and shuffled herself into a seat, her left thigh overhanging the edge and creating an undoubted fire-hazard should the other passengers need to make a hasty exit.

‘Oh, hello Jean,’ she called out, apparently without a megaphone clutched between her chocolate-stained fingers, leaning across to ruffle the hair of the toddler she had only moments earlier been so neglectful of. ‘Is this your youngest then? Oh, he’s a darling, in’t he? In’t you, boy?’ she insisted, re-ruffling his hair so that it took him almost a minute to restore order once Carol/Karen had moved on to her next victim.

‘Doreen!’ she screeched, a lady four rows behind her raising her Boots bag in a gesture of recognition. ‘How’s yer Kevin?’

‘Oh, not bad, not bad,’ Doreen answered, turning to look out the window as soon as the words had exited her lips.

‘I bet he is!’ she cackled, nudging the poor man sitting to her right, who had noticeably huddled closer to the side of the bus after retrieving the trapped corner of his coat from beneath her bulging frame.

Her eyes soon shifted to a well-suited gentleman clutching a briefcase who sat three rows back to her left, as Jarrod saw her scrutinise him from head to foot, clearly wondering what he was doing amongst such company. Jarrod had wondered the same the moment he had seen him take his seat, his eyes furtively looking from side to side, as if he were afraid of being spotted, before turning his attention to his Blackberry and pretending to be indulged in some highly important business. As each new passenger passed by, you could see him lowering his eyes, his head bowing lower to conceal his identity, no doubt preparing to blame his presence on a ‘lack of good taxis’ or an ‘unexpected MOT’ should anyone pluck up the courage to question his appearance.

Sitting directly in front of Jarrod was a woman who looked faintly familiar or, at least, the back of her head did. There was something highly irritating about the angles the bus seating plan established, as nothing short of a full lean-round, with all its potential for falling to the floor or tumbling head-first into the lap of the passengers in front, would bring a sufficiently clear view to ascertain whether or not the hair belonged to someone he would immediately recognise if only she offered him a glimpse of her face. Occasionally, she would turn her head slightly to the side, providing a better view of an ear, perhaps even the curvature of a cheek, but it would take a far greater movement to finally lay the mystery to rest.

Sat two rows ahead of the mystery woman were a couple – at least, their shared affinity for tattoos implied such a relationship – who seemed to be engaged in a sporadic, and remarkably public, argument. Key details were thoughtlessly omitted and heavy pronoun use made it difficult to determine just who it was that had acted wrongfully. The man appeared to be getting more frustrated but whether or not that was because he was losing wasn’t clear. What was clear was that Carol/Karen had been listening intently ever since she boarded and was now turning around to offer her thoughts on how they could best sort the situation out. Shared laughter, pointing, nods and ‘oh dears’ – decorated with an array of fruitful language – made it clear that Carol/Karen was a far more effective counsellor than Jarrod had initially given her credit for.

He would, he was sure, have fared a little better had he not been distracted by a debate on the back row concerning who Damien fancied. From the sounds of it, Abbie was the best bet, although you couldn’t be too sure about Charlotte, and Kerrie remained worth a shot. Damien, naturally, deemed it inappropriate to confess to anything, especially not with people like Jarrod listening in, and repeatedly made it clear that he wanted the conversation to stop, his phrasing propelling the bus scene into the realm of a 15 certificate, whilst the lack of variety in his vocabulary disappointed Jarrod immensely.

Directly to his left, a boy who had delivered a series of celebratory fist-pumps as he marched down the bus in recognition of his achievement at having secured a child’s ticket (60% the cost of a full adult ticket), was discovering, most likely not for the first time, all of the ring-tone options his mobile offered. Strangely, he found it essential to test each tone on the highest possible volume setting, whilst taking an ungainly amount of time over each option, somehow imagining, it seemed, that a cackling monkey – what were Nokia thinking? – would any moment segue into a piece of Beethoven, or Eminem at least. He finally settled, or so it seemed, on the default Nokia tone, putting the mobile back in his pocket before pulling it out less than thirty seconds later to check for texts.

It was the mobile phone user that boarded the bus at the sixth stop since Jarrod took his seat that caused him the greatest agitation, as he slid into the seat directly behind and proceeded to make a series of calls to numerous people called ‘Mate’, apparently fascinated to discover their immediate whereabouts, before reminding them to ‘get some in for tonight’. As the man’s spittle settled on Jarrod’s newly-washed hair, his volume steadily increased as he explained to his inquisitive absent friend that he was ‘on the bus, yeah, the bus, the bus, I said the bus’, before pausing and asking ‘can you hear me? Oh right, yeah, I think I lost you for a moment. I said I’m on the bus. The bus! Yeah, the bus, yeah. That’s right, mate. The bus.’

If secret intelligence services really did listen in to people’s calls then this would surely give them reason enough to shut up shop now and head home for the day.

‘Are you going to get some?’ the man continued. ‘Yeah? Well, just get some, mate. I can’t do it for you, can I? I’m on the bus.’

Jarrod longed to shake his head in despair – and to shake off the spittle he could feel clinging to his hair – but he had found himself sitting in the one seat that made such a response impossible. He could, perhaps, seek to explain the shake if forced to by pulling out his own mobile and claiming that he had just read a message that had disappointed him greatly.

He became increasingly aware of the spittle, desperate to restore dry order to the hair he had briefly admired once more in the mirror before leaving the house twenty minutes earlier. He could hardly save the day with another man’s saliva in his hair.

The man behind him began to laugh loudly – presumably into the ‘phone – and Jarrod seized his chance. Running his fingers from the forehead to the crown, he paused briefly before sweeping down the back and smoothing down the slightly-dampened hair with a second swipe of his right hand.

What Jarrod hadn’t accounted for was the man’s laughter causing him to rock forwards in his seat at the exact moment that his hand swept rapidly down the back of his head. As if attempting to sabotage the man’s plans, Jarrod’s hand had knocked the mobile out of his hand, sending it flying into the gangway and skidding towards the front of the bus as gravity cruelly carried it away from the man’s despairing reach, the driver accelerating down the city’s steepest hill. Jarrod found his neck muscles stiffening, as the man’s rapid intake of breath signalled his sudden realisation at what was happening. The approaching bus stop was encouraging a few of the passengers to get to their feet in anticipation and it was then that Jarrod noticed a character he had given little attention to before.

Rising to his feet – seemingly in slow motion – was a tall man with long-dark hair running down the back of a full-length leather jacket. As Jarrod’s eyes returned to the floor of the bus he saw for the first time that the man was wearing heavy-duty boots, boots which were now shuffling away from their seated position and beginning to step into the gangway. Jarrod was sure that everyone must be seeing what he was seeing but there was no time to check their eyes – the man behind him barely had time to enunciate the ‘n’ of his screaming ‘No!’ when a crunching sound sent a reverberating hush around the bus. The tall man lifted his left boot, his head bowed low, before bringing it forwards again and continuing to stride past the driver and out onto the street. Jarrod’s eyes remained on his stony figure as he walked back past the length of the bus, his face displaying little recognition of what his feet had just done, before returning to the mangled mobile that was attracting the attention of every eagle-eyed passenger.

It was Carol/Karen’s outburst of ‘well, would you look at that?’ that finally broke the silence – the comical applause Jarrod had hoped for never did materialise – but it was the sound of the man behind him panting and cursing that rang loudest in Jarrod’s ear, particularly as at least some of the words seemed to be directed at him. A hand landed on his shoulder and Jarrod knew that this was it. Killed for brushing his hair. It was no way to go.

The bus doors were still ajar but everyone who planned to leave had shuffled away and it was only the steady flow of traffic that was preventing the driver from pulling away and continuing the journey. Jarrod pushed his hands against the seat and propelled himself forwards, half-skipping, half-sprinting down the bus, not looking back to see if he was being followed, and hurled himself through the doors, Indiana-Jones style, just before they shut. This time there was applause, as the toddler clapped his hands together frantically, giggling and pointing from the window at Jarrod’s crumbled heap, along with the elderly couple he had inadvertently collided with upon his unscheduled exit from the bus.

It disappointed Jarrod greatly that his first thought upon getting to his feet was not concern for those he had felled but rather irritation that, after all that, this wasn’t his stop. As a more proactively helpful member of society eased the couple to their feet, Jarrod came to his senses and muttered a string of apologies and explanations that seemed to do little to wipe the look of horror and disgust off their faces. Thankfully, the fall had been cushioned by a tartan shopping trolley and Jarrod was pretty sure that the man’s limp could be explained by his walking stick and had nothing whatsoever to do with being pushed to the ground by a man leaping from a departing bus.

He smoothed his clothes down, as if to suggest that he had complete control over the stuntman-like tumble he had taken, and looked up at the street sign ahead. Slightly-limping, he strode forwards as quickly as he could in the vague direction of the city centre, his mind punishing him by pointing out that he would now be the enemy in the story that elderly couple would tell their grandchildren later that evening, reminding him that he would forever more be needing to watch his back while walking these streets, never knowing when vengeance might come. It was, in fact, a crushing blow to his determination to be a hero that afternoon and, as he casually jay-walked while others stood waiting for the green man to signal their safe crossing, he realised that it would take some effort to become the saviour Dawn had expected him to be.

His mobile vibrated.

How’s it going? Stuck in traffic L  Any sign of Nigel? Dx

He may have destroyed a man’s mobile, leapt off the bus three stops early and knocked an elderly couple to the ground, but Jarrod had achieved an ‘x’ from Dawn.

He paused where he was and considered his reply, his sudden stationary figure causing a stressed mother to swerve dangerously past him with her pram, whilst all he could think about was the way in which he should end the text. Forget the details, forget the information. What mattered was, was this the moment, was this the time, to join Dawn in her use of the ‘x’?

About 300 yards ahead he saw a man hurtling down the street, fists clenched, barging aside any who dared stand in his way.

‘You!’ he screamed in Jarrod’s direction, pointing his finger before returning it to the fist and increasing his speed.

Jarrod had forgotten how little distance there was between the stops. Clearly the past minute hadn’t proven long enough for the man to forgive and forget Jarrod’s assistance in the murder of his mobile.

This was no time for considering the pros and cons of adding an ‘x’ after his name. This was a time to run.

He knew he should have worn the white trainers.

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