Just Before You Jump

Its 9 am and he has not yet gone to bed after the longest shift in history. Arriving back home two hours previously, the first thing he had done was check that the mobile had charged before glancing at the messages. There were none, but he had been neither surprised nor disappointed; the device had been bought for one purpose only and it wasn't socialising. Reaching for his land line, he had repeated the process and when he heard the excited message "Its finally on.. ..ring you about ten", he had grinned broadly while the judder of the simultaneous rush left him light headed with anticipation. Instinctively, he had double checked the mobile again to make sure it was working properly, before finally removing his flash jacket and turning on the shower...

...He studies the cracked face of his strapless watch and sees it is only five minutes past nine. He should have gone to bed, but sleep, fitful even in normal circumstances, certainly would not have blessed him with a visit today. This is the long-awaited conclusion to eight pre-occupied months of teases and disappointments. Just maybe, it signals the end of years of misery, and the chance of a fresh start. But he dare not think like that, the excitement that dream may be fact by the end of the day is almost too much to contemplate. Today could have so many ramifications and on cue the inevitable, irresistible image of her face springs from his subconscious; still so sharply focussed, an age since their last goodbye. Suffering that hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, that physical ache in his chest that yearns for her presence, he carefully retrieves the treasured photo from his wallet. Drifting deeper in to sentimentality as he studies the smiling faces in the picture, the lad is suddenly embarassed at his self indulgence, despite his solitude. The photo is quickly, but gently, replaced with a whispered rebuke and shake of the head.

..Time eventually creaks onwards to ten o'clock. He does not know how many occasions he has had to stop himself from checking the mobile, while he has stayed away from using his land line, frightened of missing the eagerly awaited call. Too excited to eat, far too restless to concentrate on the television, he had filled that long hour with a walk to the newsagent, stocking up on cigarettes and a newspaper. Even then, it had been impossible to contain himself from jogging back, scared of being parted from the security blanket of that telephone.

After much pacing, accentuated by constant and ever more outrageous expletives, it finally rings at exactly eleven minutes past ten, handset snatched from cradle before the first chime has faded.

"Answered that bloody quick, gadge."

"Buzzing, you know. Been waiting for your call. Please tell me its all go this time."

"Oh yes.. ..don't panic.... Ring the number at 2.25 and he'll give you the name. Its a bugger because it could mean 2.30 or 2.35. But I think our man is 2.35. Don't mess around though and make sure you are handy, you'll need to act fast."

"Ok, fella. Christ I am on one today. You all set then.. ..plenty of 'ammo'?"

"Yep, theres enough, this has been a bloody long wait. The old man is a complete wreck. Going to have a stroke at this rate and he's starting to get on my nerves... ...Anyway better shoot. Need to ring the skinny fella and let him know the score. Speak to you later... ...and don't lose the plot!"

He still has the handset glued to his ear as the monotonous tone of disconnection hums hypnotically. Coming to his senses but with a thousand thoughts streaking around his head, he hangs up. Another check and the mobile is, of course, still working. Unlit cigarette in mouth, he makes a coffee in the alcove, generously named a kitchenette by an imaginative landlord with a sense of humour. No milk in a small fridge which contains two eggs, well past their sell by date. No sugar either in a cupboard that houses a single can of soup and bread that certainly should not be green at the edges. He knew he had forgotten something at the shop. Black coffee it is then, scrapings from a cheap blend that is bitter and unpleasant.

Lying on the bed is the mobile, a slip of paper and an envelope, full to bursting. The latter is so worn that it has the texture of a tissue, but he cannot stop himself repeating the daily ritual, emptying and then studying the contents before replacing them again. A glance at the watch followed by a sigh, only twenty past ten. Turning to the newspaper, he ignores the news and automatically flicks to the only page that will kill time. After five minutes, a name jumps out. Without hesitation he turns on ceefax and enters three numbers. Finding what he needs, he hastily makes a note on the back of the envelope.

By two o'clock, he is heading out the door. Early, but never mind. He has paced a thousand miles around the damp, musty room and he cannot take any more confinement. Reaching the communal entrance, he checks his pockets and realises that he has left the envelope on the bed. With a sheepish grin, he tells himself to calm down, though he still rushes the stairs two at a time to retrieve the item from his bedsit. Tripping over a bucket, a legacy of the morning's half hearted attempt at housework, he snatches his prize and is out the door with an impatient slam.

The lad continuously fiddles with the contents of his pockets as he reaches the high street, empty now the office workers have trudged back to their buildings. The pleasant weather is ignored, even as the glare of the sun glimmers on the face of his sorry timepiece. Five minutes past two. Contemplating the way to kill the next twenty minutes, his decision is made for him by an interruption. "Hey there." He turns slowly to see the smiling face of a colleague. Mick is a new lad from work; not long in the area and eager to fit in. His greeting is returned with an unenthusiastic, "Oh hello mate. Hows things?"

The two men seat themselves in a nearby cafe. Mick has been warned that his companion only has ten minutes to kill before he has to make a call. One orders a diet coke, while the other sips a sweet, white coffee through a fog of blue cigarette smoke. Fortunately, conversation flows. Its all one-way however and its incessant. He stares out the window, vacantly nodding his head before noticing the tap on the arm. "So what do you think?" He looks at the expectant face across the table, "Sorry, what do you mean?". Mick patiently repeats himself, "The parachute jump for charity. On the board at work. You fancy it? Done it before you know, great fun and that feeling just before you jump is unbelievable. Pure adrenalin rush. It costs a bit, but lifes too short. Everyone needs a bit of excitement."

His mind returns to the conversation as he smiles. "Not for me, fella. You're right, life is too short and why risk it jumping out of a bloody plane?". Mick takes this in the genial manner with which it is intended. "Besides why pay £200 just to shit your pants." The other man laughs, before enthusing "Its not quite that much and its just such a buzz, honestly you wouldn't believe it. I love that sort of thing." "Well, maybe I am just a coward. Just can't understand the appeal I'm afraid." "Chicken!" comes the gentle rebuke. He agrees with a distracted but friendly "Guess I must be", before taking a long draw on a fresh smoke and making his excuses. Outside, the two men part amicably. Two twenty.

He can't wait any longer. It takes two attempts to dial the number but on the second he gets the same recorded answer that has lain dormant for three weeks. He swears, a little louder than maybe he should have done for a young woman passes, pursed lips and reproach etched on her face. A man possessed, he is oblivious to all around him, eyes intent on the lazy minute hand of the watch. Too bad, he tries again. The mobile is lifeless. Panic engulfs him and the giddiness returns with a vengeance. Frantically pressing the power button, his fustration a rage expressed in the foulest of language, he eyes a phone box. Is it empty? A blind dash across the road and the answer is soon apparent; the dark shape framed by the glass reveals a public telephone is out of the question. He does not have time to wait. Stabbing the power button on the mobile again, he groans at his incredible misfortune as the plastic box remains lifeless, greasy from the sweat of his palms.

Desperation and utter dismay almost have him in their grasp. He feels nauseous, this opportunity has been too long in arriving that he just cannot let it pass him by. There is no alternative. With a determination that will not concede defeat, he hurries back across the road and in to a shop. It is almost empty except for the ever present Bob, a very slow witted man and the only window cleaner in the world who, on account of his vertigo, will only wash the panes downstairs. The affable pensioner once explained that everyone called him 'Bungalow Bob' because of this aversion to climbing a ladder, to which the answer, illustrated by an index finger to the side of the head, had been "I don't think thats the only reason, Bob." The man had taken that as a compliment at the time, which said it all really.

He immediately zooms in on the left wall above the pinned newspapers, barely acknowledging Bob's cheerful greeting. The entrants for the 2.30 and the 2.35 are up on adjacent screens, but no prices as yet. Grabbing some white slips and a pen, he sticks another unlit cigarette in his mouth but his eyes barely leave those screens. Focussing so hard, it takes a second or two to register as the opening odds flash up on the right hand side of each television. Rudely awoken from the trance, he is quick to spot the 2.35 and a horse being backed already from 16/1, 14/1, 12/1. He has never seen the odds tumble as rapidly as this.

By the time he has handed over his completed slips, he gets a price of 7/1 on some and 6/1 on the others. Shame but no need to be greedy. Without the confirmation of the horse's name on the phone, he has had to guess but the decision has not been difficult. Precious brown envelope now all but empty and carelessly discarded, he returns to the screens, far more relaxed than he he has been all day. A wave of relief has washed over him and he smiles, head clear and a huge burden lifted from his narrow shoulders. Job done, its out of his hands now. He has even ventured a double on the 20/1 shot that he spotted in the newspaper earlier that morning. Within the chaos that ensued at the till, he is happy to know that wisdom played a part and he had also placed a reasonable each way single stake on that same selection, just in case the unthinkable were to happen in the main event and the 'plunge' horse lose.

Eight long months of overtime, abstinence and ruthless saving have been invested in under a minute - all without question from the bookie, a lax man and the very reason he was always going to use this shop. He had to be careful not to just lump in with one large amount of cash and so he spread the sums over several slips, just to make it look less obvious, though the ploy was hardly subtle. However, cigar smoking Roy may know what is happening but in his case, apathy always wins over his responsibilities as shop manager. From the other side of the shop, this flurry of activity had been witnessed by a bemused Bungalow who slowly wanders over to where the lad now stands, foot tapping and arms folded in front of one of the corner screens. "You had a tip, son?" "Yeah, sort of. Nothing major, you know", comes the response, an unconvincing effort to sound nonchalant. The uneven voice and another long drag on the freshly lit cigarette tell their own story. His eyes don't leave the screen as the horses are loaded in to the stalls.

"Which one are you on?" No answer. "Which one are you on?" "Oh, Shairi sun." He still does not look at Bungalow who shuffles off to view the latest odds, before returning with "Lot of money for that one. But that won't win, no son, that won't win..." his voice trails off before he adds "Done yer money there, son. Done yer money. Never win" He is impatient and the niggling interruptions from the old man are grating on his nerves, so he finally turns to face him, asking "What'll win then Bob?" The question is put a little more sharply than necessary, but Bungalow doesn't seem to notice. He names his view of the winner, the 6/4 favourite ridden by the only big name jockey in the race. Unsurprised, the lad turns once more to the screen adding, "Inspired choice there, Bob. You really live on the edge."

All of a sudden the commentator announces the off. Slips held vice like, his attention is exclusively fixed on the black and green of his selection. Its a one and a half mile race, so experience tells him there is no need to worry as the horse settles at the rear. However, his heart is still trying to escape through his chest and he cannot prevent a continuous muttering to himself amid the tap, tap, tap of his foot on the worn carpet. Half a mile travelled and his horse is halfway up the field, nestled on the outside of the pack. The rather average looking grey could not be better positioned. Spirits are rising, his throat is dry and the adrenalin is making his head shake involuntarily. Its then that his experienced eye spots the first subtle movement as the arms of the diminutive jockey start to push with a little more urgency than should be required at this stage of the proceedings. Not a good sign for sure, and while that little optimistic voice reminds him that it does not mean all is lost, the fact remains that there is still a mile to go.

The next minute flashes by in a haze and by the time the race is over he is laughing quietly but with more than a healthy mix of hysteria. You have to give all credit to the pilot on 'Shairi sun'. If ever a man earned his riding fee, it was him. It was just a shame that he didn't pick up his share of the winnings. 'Shairi sun' was beaten with a full half mile to go. No amount of whipping and vigorous cajoling through silk clad arms made any difference and he finally trailed in second from last. The lad is gutted but the build up to this plunge has been so long and the performance of the horse so mediocre that he just cannot stop giggling at the ultimate futility of it all. It was so abysmal, it defied belief and this thought stimulates more uncontrollable sniggering, as Bungalow looks on with a furrowed brow and obvious puzzlement.

The manic grin is still there when the bemused window cleaner thoughtlessly shows him his own slip for £2 each way on the facile winner. Just as the lad is starting to advise Bungalow that you don't back a 6/4 shot each way, the beep of his mobile halts him mid-sentence. Its miraculous and untimely recovery induces hesitation, accompanied by a look of complete bewilderment, before he eventually answers. He knows who the caller is, even before the first tirade explodes in his ear. His friend is just a little unamused at the farce that has unfolded. His suggestion that both trainer and horse should be led out to a field and shot is understandable. Ever more imaginative fates are promised as the fury rises before finally, anger vented, he hangs up with another expletive and a weary goodbye.

The disappointment of reality quickly displaces the comfort of shock, especially as his confidence in the 20/1 shot is severely shaken. But like the true masochist, the young man stays in the shop. You never know, he could recover the four figure loss if this obliges. Emotionally numb and resigned to defeat, he takes little interest in the race as it unfolds, however. Only when his selection grabs the lead in a desperate rally on the line does he leap in the air with a cry and a shake of the fist. He has got his money back and a little profit. The euphoria is short lived as the instinctive gambler is never satisfied and within moments he is as much annoyed as he is relieved. If the sting had come off, the double would have brought an enormous return. Never mind, this reprieve has him buzzing again and, belatedly trying to appear casual, he reaches in to his pocket to find the winning single.

A first glance through the slips and he cannot see the winning ticket. The double is there but of course with the loss of 'Shairi sun', the ticket is a loser. Panic once more kicks in hard as he scours again with increasing desperation. Not there. Checking the floor, he sees nothing and as the shop has been virtually deserted all afternoon, there is little rubbish. Another rummage through the pockets and again he draws a blank. Thoroughly shaken now, he adds up the price of his useless tickets and the maths tells him that in the haste to place his bets, he must have forgotten to hand in the single on the 20/1 winner. But he was so sure.

He decides to check with Roy, but from halfway across the room he sees a small rectangle of paper lying on the floor, peeking from the shadow of the counter. On closer inspection he recognises his writing, dashed across the page in a careless scribble. Its the winning single, only its not been processed. He never placed the bet. A missed winner hurts far more than a backed loser and there is only so much he can take in one afternoon, so head down, he makes the familiar beaten retreat out the door and in to the glare of the afternoon sun. Even Bungalow has the sense to merely nod a farewell as he counts his meagre winnings.

Depression and bitterness are mixed with a strange sense of acceptance that borders on a cleansing after the exhaustive emotions of the last twenty four hours. It does not dispel the hurt. He has tasted defeat many times before, however on this occasion he has come down with a bump that surpasses all the previous disappointments. The recovery will take a little longer this time. There is no regret and no guilt at the lost fortune, just a melancholy dejection and, suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue, he heads for home. Half a dozen punch drunk paces up the street and a black bin rattles with the violence of a new deposit, an incredibly expensive mobile phone.