damokelly
07-05-2009, 10:37 AM
She recognised herself in him; he’d been hurt before, as she had. In all the same ways and in all the same places. Watching him leave court she’d discovered they even used the same personal injury firm. They'd shared a brief.
She’d noticed him first. His spectacular electrocution at B&Q had inspired her to have a very similar accident in Dixon’s not six months later. Their eyes actually met for the first time beneath some poorly stabilised scaffolding overhanging a bus shelter on High Street. One of her spotters had phoned her before they’d even finished erecting it. She’d raced down on her bike. He was already there. Accidents of fate.
It took the fire brigade almost an hour to dig them out. He never spoke, just wheezed and blew blood-slick spit bubbles. But he’d smiled encouragingly and she’d never known a friendlier face. Weather-warmed and scar free; obviously he was lucky. She believed in luck. In fate. They’d shared a brief and got fifteen grand apiece.
They didn’t meet again until Christmas. A nightclub had opened in the precinct near the university. With festive goodwill it could be relied upon to be dangerously overcrowded by midnight on Saturday night. There’d already been eight successful claims against the owners, who’d become fairly comfortable with settling.
He was lounging against the bar that first night. On the job, sticking to his lemonade, surveying the crowd for likely lads. He’d spotted her early on and smiled, but when his gaze moved on she was crestfallen. She couldn’t concentrate on work as a result. He’d had no luck either, as it went, which should have somewhat compensated her injured pride. But it didn’t.
She’d noticed the reflective nylon jacket as he left. A little research revealed that he was working construction on the precinct itself, next to the nightclub. Attacked in his local; what loving attention to detail. She loved him. She got a job that afternoon answering the phones in the port-a-cabin that served as a site office.
He took his lunch from a box on one of the benches surrounding the island of grass in the main square. She took to doing the same on a bench that backed up to his and they ate together that way every day, still without speaking, each listening to the other working the newly laid terracotta paving stones loose with steel-capped boot and stiletto heel. Saturday nights they always went back to the nightclub, sometimes sharing silent signals if they spotted someone who might spell trouble for the other.
But he never crossed the floor. A floor perpetually slick with beer that he could have easily broken his neck on.
He obviously wasn’t interested.
Then it happened. She’d been spilling drinks all night and money was running short when the champagne appeared, ice bucket and everything. He’d sent it over. She held his gaze as the bubbles fizzed down the cleavage of the girl beside her. He stared back, clearly deliberating; chewing his lip and his opening lines. Finally, decisively, he downed a double Dutch courage and made to come over. But didn’t. Halted instead and then left. Head turned down but unruly eyes lingering, he snatched up his coat and he left.
Afraid?
He's never afraid, is he?
She’d never considered that he could even be afraid. Their kind never were.
Of what? That she might hurt him?
She ran outside, but he was already in the car. She stepped up to the kerb, shook her hair out and waited. When he turned that corner he’d see her waiting and realise there’d been no need for that double after all.
The double.
What hateful fate. He'd be right, after all; she would hurt him.
She stepped off the kerb without looking.
She’d noticed him first. His spectacular electrocution at B&Q had inspired her to have a very similar accident in Dixon’s not six months later. Their eyes actually met for the first time beneath some poorly stabilised scaffolding overhanging a bus shelter on High Street. One of her spotters had phoned her before they’d even finished erecting it. She’d raced down on her bike. He was already there. Accidents of fate.
It took the fire brigade almost an hour to dig them out. He never spoke, just wheezed and blew blood-slick spit bubbles. But he’d smiled encouragingly and she’d never known a friendlier face. Weather-warmed and scar free; obviously he was lucky. She believed in luck. In fate. They’d shared a brief and got fifteen grand apiece.
They didn’t meet again until Christmas. A nightclub had opened in the precinct near the university. With festive goodwill it could be relied upon to be dangerously overcrowded by midnight on Saturday night. There’d already been eight successful claims against the owners, who’d become fairly comfortable with settling.
He was lounging against the bar that first night. On the job, sticking to his lemonade, surveying the crowd for likely lads. He’d spotted her early on and smiled, but when his gaze moved on she was crestfallen. She couldn’t concentrate on work as a result. He’d had no luck either, as it went, which should have somewhat compensated her injured pride. But it didn’t.
She’d noticed the reflective nylon jacket as he left. A little research revealed that he was working construction on the precinct itself, next to the nightclub. Attacked in his local; what loving attention to detail. She loved him. She got a job that afternoon answering the phones in the port-a-cabin that served as a site office.
He took his lunch from a box on one of the benches surrounding the island of grass in the main square. She took to doing the same on a bench that backed up to his and they ate together that way every day, still without speaking, each listening to the other working the newly laid terracotta paving stones loose with steel-capped boot and stiletto heel. Saturday nights they always went back to the nightclub, sometimes sharing silent signals if they spotted someone who might spell trouble for the other.
But he never crossed the floor. A floor perpetually slick with beer that he could have easily broken his neck on.
He obviously wasn’t interested.
Then it happened. She’d been spilling drinks all night and money was running short when the champagne appeared, ice bucket and everything. He’d sent it over. She held his gaze as the bubbles fizzed down the cleavage of the girl beside her. He stared back, clearly deliberating; chewing his lip and his opening lines. Finally, decisively, he downed a double Dutch courage and made to come over. But didn’t. Halted instead and then left. Head turned down but unruly eyes lingering, he snatched up his coat and he left.
Afraid?
He's never afraid, is he?
She’d never considered that he could even be afraid. Their kind never were.
Of what? That she might hurt him?
She ran outside, but he was already in the car. She stepped up to the kerb, shook her hair out and waited. When he turned that corner he’d see her waiting and realise there’d been no need for that double after all.
The double.
What hateful fate. He'd be right, after all; she would hurt him.
She stepped off the kerb without looking.