Anecdotes

By Richard L. Croyton

Each person has their own goals in life. Even though they may have started out together, not one individual has the same expectations, abilities or ways of reaching those goals. This story is about a small group of recent university graduates, whose constant pursuit of ever-fleeting satisfaction in life, hurls them in directions none of them thought possible. This is a modern adventure story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483560755

Book preview

21

Several years earlier…

Chapter 1

Waves of pale morning light fought their way around a thick dusty curtain and crashed against a mountain of pillows on the bed. A girl's face among them opened its eyes and tried to focus on the ceiling. Slender arms appeared from under the covers as the girl threw off some of the heavy duvet. Lying in bed she reminded herself of all the meaningful, as well as insignificant events that she could recall: successful and failed plans, lives she had changed, people she let change hers and the opinions she formally held. Normally, depending on the side of the bed, from which she first saw the world that morning, those recollections would bring forth feelings of deep sadness or regret, a malicious smirk, a jolt of disgust or a little smile of happy nostalgia. That day, however, the sensation was not of happiness or sadness but of ravenous desire for something new.

Clara McNevin frequently went through this labyrinth of reminiscence before her first cup of coffee, which only resulted in a feeling of confusion for the initial hour or so. She was never one to hold on to the past and live in yearning for the times gone by but in her opinion, it was crucial not to lose track of one’s memories. They provided a framework for future events and helped tear her from the sofa and make a decisive movement in the right direction.

Clara cautiously swung her legs off the bed and buried her toes in the carpet, feeling a month's worth of crumbs under her soles. She slowly opened the door but there were sounds coming from the living room and she gave up trying to be quiet. Towers of plates, encrusted with a variety of sauces, and half-empty cups greeted her in the kitchen; it smelled like mouldy lettuce. She hoped there was still one mug left in the cabinet but she was out of luck. Mumbling under her breath she scrubbed the cleanest one she could find and poured in some of the steaming black fluid from the pot.

It took almost seven steps for the liquid motion and sloshing of the coffee to start forcing it out of the cup, down on the carpet and all over her hand holding the cup. On that occasion, not unlike most mornings, it dragged a loud profanity from Clara’s lips and made her quicken her step into the living room to place the coffee cup on the nearest surface. Her two flatmates, Erik Pryce and Robert Martin, turned around and gave her a quizzical look, while she wiped and blew on her burned hand. Then, with a soft chuckle, they went back to watching a program about home decorating. Although it was already half past eleven on a Wednesday morning, none of them had anywhere they needed to be. Their final university exams finished the previous week and having spent the following few evenings stumbling from bar to bar, they were now nursing the remains of a motivation-crushing hangover from the day before.

Since both sofas were occupied, Clara carefully lowered herself onto a beanbag in the corner by the window and glanced around. Plates, pizza boxes and cups had been scattered over the entire maroon carpet of the room. To make their way to one of the mismatched sofas, it was necessary to follow a path, cleared amongst all the rubble. There was a large dining table in another corner, covered in all manner of objects: a selection of glasses, magazines, a bowler hat and empty cigarette packets. Next to the table was a small cupboard, which contained almost empty bottles of alcohol and plastic cups. The room was large but made seem much smaller by the total disregard for cleanliness of the previous few days.

The door of the living room opened into an L-shaped corridor. On the left was the entrance to the flat and across the corridor was the kitchen. To the right, lay one of the bedrooms, Clara’s, further along was the bathroom and still further down the corridor and around the bend, the other two bedrooms. The walls of the whole flat, painted white, did not have many decorations - a psychedelic poster near the main entrance and a photograph of a mime in the kitchen, surrounded by images of friends and random party revellers.

The flat was on the ground floor of a small residential block, with another residence across the hallway and two more floors above, with identical flats on each. The block was mainly rented out to students and young professionals and was surrounded by similar housing, located conveniently close to a supermarket and not too far from the university.

Clara, Rob and Erik did not know each other, when they moved in almost a year previously but their lifestyles were more or less comparable, which was the catalyst for the closest of friendships. They had also experienced the great fortune of not getting on each others’ nerves too much. Avoiding this had always been the most dangerous gauntlet of the group’s relationships, because even the pitch and frequency of a loved one’s breathing would suddenly drive one of them into a hot murderous frenzy. Obviously, there were things that the three flatmates found irritating about the others, but as part of an unspoken rule, they agreed to only have one issue to be angry about. After all, there just wasn’t enough time in the day to be furious about everything.

‘Which one of you jerks has been stealing my cookies?’ Clara thought it was downright inconsiderate that neither Rob nor Erik really appreciated her dependence on coffee and cake, always finishing the last crumbs from the jar or packet, the crumbs that she would be looking forward to on the way home. ‘I bought a packet only yesterday and there was more than half after I was finished with them. This coffee and a cookie was the only reason why I even got up this morning and now even half of this stuff is on the carpet! Come on, guys!’

The guilty pair looked at each other sheepishly and Rob pushed the empty packet further into the depths of the sofa, 'Sorry, Clara, we will get you more when we go out. It's just that we got a bit peckish a couple of hours ago.'

'And making a proper breakfast was such a ridiculous idea that you had not even considered it?' Clara's voice took on a pitying and sarcastic tone.

Rob sat up and looked defiantly at her, prompting an angry groan from Erik, who could not hear what the problem with the skirting board was in the cottage on television.

'As a matter of fact,' Rob's finger was thrust furiously up in the air, 'I would have loved to cook something for breakfast and if you had asked nicely I would have even given you some! Unfortunately, some total numbskull must have broken into the flat last night and wreaked havoc inside the dishwasher! I woke up this morning and everything inside was covered in grease and tomato sauce!'

It was Clara's turn to look guilty, 'Well, I was only trying to help! Next time you do it and we will not have this problem…'

'Of course I appreciate you doing this but I do wish you had paid more attention when we were going through the best ways of loading the washer last time. Even Erik remembers!'

Erik shrugged, rolled his eyes and waved dismissively at Rob. There was no chance he was going to get drawn into this argument since he always ended up getting blamed for something. Every other month Rob, being the neat one, would try to start a campaign to promote a system for loading the dishwasher. In his opinion, it wasn’t too difficult to have forks with other forks, bowls on a separate rack to plates and wine glasses not mingling with frying pans. Needless to say, that this system was widely mocked and disregarded on a daily basis, much to Rob’s fury and dismay.

Erik held a pretty relaxed view about food ownership rights and general cleanliness but, being a non-smoker, he was not too keen on the flat smelling like an ashtray after nights out, which were taking place much more often now that the studies were over. However, regardless of how serious these issues might have seemed, they only resulted in some quiet grumbling and, on occasion, drunken complaining.

Eventually, the programme on the television finished and Erik turned and stared at Clara, inquiring in a volume too loud for a room that small, ‘Would you like to come for lunch? Rob and I are going to the Broom in half an hour. Get ready!’

Clara, slightly recoiling from the forcefulness of the question, did not hesitate, ‘Sure! Why not?! I just need to get my act together, so give me a few minutes.’ She was never one to refuse an invitation or miss an opportunity to get out of the house, even if it was only to go to the Broom.

‘Well then, don’t just sit there like a turd, get on with it!’ Erik waved her out of the door, ‘We are ready and starving, so go and get your ablutions sorted out and we’ll go.’ He then escorted her to the door of the bathroom, making sure that there was no unnecessary time-wasting along the way.

Rob remained lounging on the sofa, staring wistfully out of the window. From his position he could only make out the top of the hedge outside the house and a sliver of cloudy sky. His eyes, framed by cheap black glasses and locks of dark brown hair, were fixed on the top of the hedge and his mind was elsewhere. For him, there was no need for a panoramic view when all he could think about was the warm, deceptively brittle texture of a burger bun, the unique saltiness of blue cheese, mingling with an almost sweet taste of the grilled beef patty. In front of his eyes formed an image of him taking a great big bite, chewing it slowly, then putting the burger down and concentrating on a small side salad: a couple of pieces of refreshing cucumber, a few rings of onion, for variety, and three or four cherry tomatoes, the treacherous nature of which, normally guaranteed a spell of cursing from Rob and explosions of laughter from everybody else.

Finally he considered, while laying there, the classic accompaniment to any meal, the cause of distress for the ambivalent and the indecisive – the potato. The variety of preparation in every establishment might have been limited but the correct choice would have either made or broken his whole food experience.

‘Hey, Erik,’ he called out as his flatmate returned and plopped himself back on the couch, ‘what are the chips like in the Broom?’

‘Just like normal chips, I suppose… Fried and tasting like potato, what does it matter?’

Well, I was just thinking about what I want to eat and I have had a craving for something potatoey for a while now. And I just cannot decide whether it is to be in baked form, encased in foil and split down the middle, with a spoonful of cottage cheese, or possibly, in a stack of fried wedges, spiced and covered in herbs, or simply the standard chip, crispy on the outside and way too hot on the inside…’

‘Alright, shut up now, you are making me hungry! Why bother thinking about it now? Your choice of potato dish will always depend on the mood that you are in. While right now your mind may be set on the baked potato with cheese, by the time we get outside, walk a while and sit down, you would have reconsidered at least twice.’

‘I know, it’s so frustrating, isn’t it? What is more annoying is that there will be nobody there, who will make the right decision for you,’ Rob sighed, licked his lips and felt his stomach gurgle. Knowing that the coveted burger was still about an hour away, at best, he built up a mental picture of everything in the kitchen cabinets he could steal and devour. He knew for a fact that there were no more cookies, as he finished them earlier in the day, Erik never had any food worth eating anyway, but, if he remembered correctly, somebody did buy a loaf of bread the other week and with a few minutes of thorough toasting, with a layer of butter, he might avoid leaping on the first edible thing he saw as he walked outside.

His imaginary rampage through the kitchen was cut short, however, when one of his own shoes, green and old, with a white sole, smacked him on the back of the head. It was shortly followed by the second one. Rob turned, bewildered, to see Clara and Erik standing in the hallway, grinning in their coats, ready to leave. It was never a good idea to assume that it would not rain or snow in those parts and ownership of a sturdy waterproof coat was a necessity. A cold gust of wind almost took their breath away once they got outside but each one of them felt grudgingly pleased to finally be outdoors, after a weekend of shuffling around a musty flat in their pyjamas.

They slowly made their way down a deserted street. It was a Wednesday afternoon and the majority of people were at work, while most of the students left for the summer, to flip-flop their way through exotic marketplaces. They did spot a couple of middle-aged drunks, arguing at the bus stop, but apart from them and a few pigeons, there was nobody in sight. After about fifteen minutes, they got into the town centre and the mid-afternoon hustle and bustle made them groan and roll their eyes.

Portly executives and business owners rushed from bank to bank, swinging enormous umbrellas and juggling their lunches. Caravans of new mothers, out for their afternoon stroll, suddenly stopped to admire something shiny in the window, blocking the street with their children and buggies. Likewise, people in cars cruised slowly by; now and again one of them would deem it necessary to stop in order to run into a shop, with no consideration for the drivers behind.

The town nutter and every town had at least one, who had seen better days yet with a jolly sparkle in his eye, would dart from one person to the next. On the day Rob and the gang were in town, he was wearing a long black and filthy coat, stretched over a faded red sweater. He had a pair of massive trousers on, with a camouflage pattern and from the waist band protruded the top of another pair, a dark blue one. The man towered over the crowd and made tiny children recoil in terror. He yelled for them to start being happy and to not despair. Apart from the little kids, it did seem to cheer most people up so, at the end of the day, a job well done.

Finally, the doors of the Crooked Broom shut behind Clara, Erik and Rob with a soft thud, blocking out the throng of busy shoppers. It was a small and quaint drinking establishment that also served hearty meals, perfect for an autumn afternoon. Owned by Terry and Samantha Stewart, the place was opened only a couple of years previously, as a form of rebellion against the high street ‘Bar and Restaurant’ network, renowned for its cold microwaved meals and seldom enjoyable music.

The name, ‘The Crooked Broom’, came from the main use of the tool and that idea was further expanded on the walls of the seating area, decorated with a dozen different types of ancient broom, each in its varying state of crookedness. Amongst those, hung small framed drawings, etchings and watercolours of men and women of old, sweeping and doing general bits of cleaning.

To the right of the entrance was a little alcove with a bay window, agreed by many to be perfect for watching the people outside, as they battled against the elements. When the three friends walked in, an elderly couple was occupying the place and their inaudible mumbling was sometimes interrupted by loud sniggering, possibly inspired by a well-dressed youth slipping in a puddle of vomit outside. The bar itself stood further along to the right. Although it wasn’t big and only displayed a limited selection of alcohols, mostly ales and liquors, without an extensive cocktail menu that was normally seen at more popular establishments, it did have a wide range of snacks and everyone was welcome.

Terry, a stout fifty-year old gent, was leaning over the bar and trying to see if there was anything that required cleaning. Otherwise, he would be exchanging local gossip with his pal, Davey, a bus driver of twenty years, who visited regularly and could always be relied on to make a filthy observation about any young lady on the premises. Sometimes, a head of curly hair would pop out from behind the kitchen door, just to see if Davey’s vulgar comments had any substance to them. This head belonged to Ryan, the son of Terry and Samantha, who proved to be an exceptional chef in his early age and now worked most days with his parents. It was largely due to his culinary talents that The Broom still remained open. It was definitely not because of Terry’s business know-how or his level of customer service. Ryan knew that and he also realised that if he left to pursue his dream of becoming a successful chef, he would ensure the ruin of the family business. So for now, he would stay, making the most of his situation for as long as he could.

Davey slid the top half of his body across the bar, as his bottom was firmly set into a bar-stool, and waved the local newspaper at Terry and prodded his thick finger at one of the stories, ‘Here, look at this! You know, Chris’s bakery? Apparently it got robbed the other day!’

‘Seriously?’ Terry managed to tear away from scraping congealed sauce off the bar top, ‘I just saw him last week!’

‘Well, check this out: it says here that some youth ran out the back of the shop with the till but as he tried to get through the fence, his head got stuck and he could not get through!’

‘Ha, what an idiot! What happened next?’

‘Chris called the police and then proceeded to kick the crap out of the young man… Good ol’ Chris!’

‘Hmm, I hope he doesn't get into too much trouble. He already has those warnings for fighting in bars.’

‘He will be alright; trouble just seems to roll off that fellow.’

‘Remember when he was here and that boozed-up student tried to give him grief? Chris knocked him out cold!’

‘I don’t think I was there for that, or maybe I was, just not… Ooh, you’ve got customers!’ Davey noticed Clara coming in and winked slyly at Terry, who wiped his hands and adopted a welcoming and friendly demeanour.

Ryan stuck his head around the corner again, when he heard some more improper murmuring from Davey, just to catch a glimpse of Clara, Erik and Rob disappearing around the corner to a table at the back. Those heavy wooden tables, sparsely varnished and covered in beer stains, were all part of a rustic feel that the place was trying to uphold and a result of a happy coincidence, since Terry managed to get a very good deal on them from his buddy down the docks. He didn’t have much luck with the seats and had to pay in full for matching chairs and heavy upholstered benches. The three friends slid around on the bench until they managed to get comfortable and reached over for the tattered laminated menus.

The barkeep leaned around the corner and inquired in a chipper tone, ‘Good afternoon! You lot ordering food?’

‘Erm, yeah, could we get two hamburgers with blue cheese and wedges and sausages with mash, please? Could we have a lemonade, a black coffee and a lager as well? Thanks.’

While the orders were barked to the chef in the kitchen and he dealt with the requests, Clara was busying herself with rolling a cigarette, in expectation of the coffee, while Erik and Rob cast an appreciative look around the room. Most likely, this would be one of the last times that they sat together like so, not a care in the world, appreciating each other’s company and mocking Rob for looking particularly rough.

He seemed to appear even more dishevelled than after waking up, with strands of hair stuck to his forehead and wound around the frame of his glasses. His skinny arms, encased in a loose-fitting black and purple striped sweater, were pressed close to his torso, with long bony fingers barely holding onto a full pint of lager. Now and again, he would take a long sip and stare into the glass, as if searching for answers to riddles hidden within.

‘Finally!’ he thought, ‘To be leaving this place soon is rather exciting. I hope Clara will miss me – serves her right for rejecting my romantic advances!’ He recalled lunging drunkenly at her on a sofa at some bar at three o’clock in the morning. Rob chuckled inwardly – this was silly, he only wanted to seem a bit malicious for no reason. The first sips of alcohol were just playing a trick with his mind. He snuck a quick inquisitive peek at Clara and instantly suppressed his past desires.

Her thin delicate frame lounged, with an air of confidence, one leg up on the seat, a dark green cardigan draped over the top of her leggings. Thick wavy red hair cascaded down the shoulders of a blue t-shirt, framing a small face, much like a porcelain mask, with a straight nose and large green eyes. At that moment, they displayed total concentration and her eyebrows were slightly furrowed, a tiny wrinkle appearing between them. She had been trying, for the last few minutes to open the tiny packet that contained the complementary coffee biscuit. Finally, Erik got fed up with observing this struggle and handed her a steak knife from the cutlery basket, which she graciously accepted.

‘So, have you decided on how to start off the work assignment?’ he asked her, ‘You said you had to pick a story for the first week, right?’

Clara had just finished her journalism degree and by a lucky coincidence, a major news network had recently opened an office in the city and was looking for young graduates to fill positions in the local newspaper and magazine department. She did not think twice about applying and two weeks later received a phone call asking her to take part in the interview phase. As a way of testing the potential new staff during this probation period, the Human Resources lady asked her to select her own story on local issues and write an article.

‘I have a few ideas but they seem to be pretty difficult already and I haven’t even started yet! I could always write about the rising stray cat population in the suburbs but I cringe, even thinking about it. I was talking to this old man in the dental clinic and he told me about a string of disappearances that happened around his area, near the edge of the city. He said it started a few months ago, when his next-door neighbour’s lady-friend went off camping into the woods and hasn’t been seen since. Two weeks later, his grandson’s teacher never came home from work. Someone saw her being led away by a really tall, well-built geezer. And the old man was talking to a guy in a bar, whose wife’s gardener was feared kidnapped. What do you reckon, should I do that one? Sounds promising!’ Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she took a sip of coffee from a mug that was bigger than her head.

‘How exactly are you planning on solving this mystery? You are hardly a private detective with a score of police officers on the payroll,’ Erik scoffed, ‘and what are you going to do? Blow open some drug cartel involved in kidnappings and run away from gangsters for the next few years?’

‘Thanks for your support, as always, Erik!’

‘I do support you, only there is no need to jump right in without knowing what you are getting into…’

‘Don’t listen to any cynics, Clara! I think it’s a great idea! A bold and interesting first story, bound to grab somebody’s attention.’ Rob looked up from having buried his face in a burger, cheeks glistening with grease and bits of blue cheese at the corners of his mouth, which spread into an evil grin. Just as suddenly, he became serious, put down the burger and wiped his face with a napkin. ‘Actually, I have heard a similar thing from a guy on my course. His sister went hiking a couple of months ago and never came back. They alerted the police and but she is known to be a bit unpredictable, independent and fond of wandering off. The police don’t seem to be taking it very seriously. However, I do agree with Erik on one point. How are you going to find out more relevant information?’

‘Alright, I have no idea. First, I thought I would talk to the people who have known the missing people and then maybe ask the local police. There must be some articles out there about the incidents. Either way, I am not looking to solve a major kidnapping ring, like you say, just to get the more jaded minds out there to listen. And if it turns out to be a crap story and I don’t get hired, there is bound to be someplace that will give me the job! Alternatively, I will just go travelling, swim with the dolphins or volunteer somewhere.’

‘Ha!’ once again Erik has let his opinions be known, ‘Why would you want to swim with the dolphins?!’

‘I have always considered them to be absolutely fascinating and they do say that a dolphin is smarter than a human,’ she nodded towards Rob at that point, who he looked up and frowned.

‘What are you staring at me for? I look absolutely nothing like a dolphin…’

Erik scoffed, ‘That is absolutely no reason whatsoever to go swimming with one, just because they may or may not be smarter than you. You know, I have always wondered why people are amazed by things that other species do, if they are even a little similar to what humans do. We go absolutely mental for a dog that sounds like an angry drunk or a monkey giving another monkey a high-five! Why shouldn’t we do similar stuff to other species? After all, we are more or less, biologically similar. Back me up, here, Rob – you are the scientist! We are just a different variety of thing, moving along the same trajectory.’

He paused took a breath and a sip of his lemonade. ‘Ok, imagine going along in a taxi, on a rainy afternoon and you see another taxi alongside yours, with some high-class banker inside. It’s safe to say that your lives are not exactly comparable but there are probably a couple of things that you do, which are the same. However, that is no reason to seek him out and go swimming with him…’

‘Well, it all depends on how successful a banker he is,’ Rob butted in with a wink. He was getting fed up with Erik mocking Clara for the past few days. ‘If you want to do something fun, why do you need someone else to agree with you about whether it is fun or not? Also, there is absolutely no need to overthink the activity, otherwise it will definitely stop being fun and seem more like a chore, especially if you are not the one actually doing it…’

‘Exactly! And anyway, stop shitting on my dreams!’ Clara folded her arms and puffed up her cheeks in a mocking sulk.

The reason for Erik’s new-found attitude and lack of respect for the other friend’s plans and ambitions was becoming apparent to the two companions. Having quit his studies, for some reason or other, he decided to enlist into an infantry regiment to the south and, after a whirlwind of all the necessary paperwork, was told to report at the centre in five days. The fast approaching date of departure, coupled with the notion of spending the next few years marching in unfamiliar streets, had been making him increasingly nervous, which was something he had been trying to hide behind the veneer of self importance.

Another cause of concern for Erik was the idea that he had to reduce all of his possessions to an easily transportable rucksack. Over the course of three years at university, he had accumulated enough useless apparel to open a small shop. The top of his desk at home was littered with an extensive and barely explored music collection. The wardrobe was bursting with some of the most ridiculous fancy-dress costumes, as well as equally obnoxious shirts and his drawers were still jam-packed full of random bits and bobs that might or might not be useful in a hypothetical situation. And, with only four days remaining before he had to leave the house, the nagging presence of all these belongings was beginning to make him rather irritable. Therefore, he quickly realised that making Clara angry with him was neither diplomatic nor funny at that stage, since he was hoping to leave her with the majority of his stuff. He should instead be concentrating on making her realise just how beneficial the ownership of a gigantic furry coat and random bits of string might be.

‘I am sorry, Clara. I have been in a rather rotten mood the past few days. Swimming with dolphins does sound quite nice.’ He scratched his head and grimaced apologetically. ‘Nicely handled’, he quietly mumbled to himself, ‘that should do it.’

‘Yeah, yeah, shut your face and get me a drink!’ was Clara’s response and turning to Rob she changed the subject, ‘Have you managed to find somewhere to live yet?’

‘In a way… I might just stay at my uncle’s flat until something better comes up and I get enough money to afford it.’

Most of Robert’s family had committed their lives to science and were spending their time either working for drug companies or lecturing at universities. The only exception was his cousin Frank, who chose instead to pursue a dubious career of an artist and musician, with variable success. Rob’s parents, David and Isobel met and fell in love across the tiny metal scaffold and intricate glassware of a chemical research laboratory. Since then, they happily worked in the same place where they had met. The only difference was that they moved in together and raised a son.

Isobel’s brother, Marco, after getting fed up with being outsmarted by his sister at university instead decided to veer off into the depths of biochemical engineering. Following several years of tedium as a laboratory technician and assistant, he was eventually picked to lead a team investigating types of fungi. Surprised and overjoyed that his incessant applications had finally paid off, Marco jumped at the opportunity to impress his new bosses and flex his innovative muscle. With a large corporation funding his research and with a team of sufficiently motivated scientists, he was able to make impressive strides towards achieving the final objectives of the research.

Rob, after completing his degree in chemical engineering, was offered a place on Marco’s team as long as he stayed out of the way and didn’t inhale any valuable spores. An opportunity to see a different city and an easy way out of months of unemployment were a much stronger incentive than actually doing what he enjoyed. However, it was about time he had a break. He did consider packing it all in and leaving for a year or so to stay with his cousin and take on work at a local bar or coffee shop but simply the thought of his father’s pursed lips and his mother’s raised bushy eyebrows was enough to cement his resolve.

‘So what, are you thinking of living on your uncle’s couch for a whole month? I am starting to feel quite sorry for… What’s his name?’

‘Marco. And no, I hope not. I would not wish that on my worst enemy. He has a spare room, apparently. The only problem is that I haven’t seen him in a few years. I remember him as being quite a nice chap but my parents always said he was a bit strange, so we shall see. If there are rows of jars with severed heads in the living room, I will just have to move to a bed-sit somewhere. Either way, you would have to be a bit strange if you spend your whole time staring at mushrooms.’

Clara chuckled, ‘You say that now but I bet you a drink that in a couple of years you are going to have a massive beard and cackle, whilst heating a beaker full of kittens!’

‘And what a glorious day that would be!’

By that point, Erik had come back from the bar, holding three shots. The others stared at him suspiciously and cautiously accepted the tiny glasses.

‘Right, guys, this is what is going to happen: we're finishing this and going elsewhere. I am in a mood for a drunken adventure and you have been volunteered to accompany me!’

Rob and Clara simply shrugged and downed the clear viscous fluid. It smelt sweet, yet not too sweet to be horrible and pleasantly burnt the back of their throats, spreading the warmth and fuzziness around to the top of the brain and leaving nothing but a satisfied grin. The bar was beginning to feel even cosier.

‘Aw, man, that was interesting stuff! What’s the name?’ Rob’s body began to protest and he felt his burger coming back up but managed to suppress his nausea.

‘…Uhm, I don’t remember, sorry mate – think of it as a Surprise Fluid Number One… Plenty more to come!’

‘You better warn me before you surprise me with any more fluids!’ Clara added sarcastically. ‘I have not planned for a heavy night out, especially since it is only lunchtime! I’ve got stuff to do!’

‘You should have done it before, instead of lying in bed until midday!’ Rob helpfully suggested, getting a playful slap around the shoulder in return.

‘Come on guys, let’s move on!’ Erik noisily pushed the chair back, stood up and threw Clara’s coat at her head.

Rob and Clara lazily got up and began building up the courage to venture outside again. It seemed as if they had spent the whole afternoon in that bar and there was no desire to leave, especially once they nodded their goodbyes to Terry and opened the front door, to be greeted by a light drizzle.

Chapter 2

Just after one o’clock the next day, Rob packed the final scraps of his possessions, called a taxi and inspected the empty space with a slightly smug grin. It had been extremely liberating for him to throw away his possessions, most of which had been unused for as long as he could remember. He then shuffled into the kitchen, where Clara passed him a mug of ‘farewell’ tea, and followed her into the living room. Erik, who had a few too many shots the night before in desperate search of adventure, was already there, bleary-eyed, slowly ripping apart a piece of toast.

‘Good morning, beautiful,’ he croaked, ‘and where is my cup of tea?! Two sugars, please!’

Clara groaned and staggered back into the kitchen.

‘How are you not hungover, Rob?’

‘I’ll tell you how! It’s because after a while you stopped buying us those stupid drinks and continued on your own. Up to the point, where we had to drag you away from some girl at the bar, who you were trying to talk to. The boyfriend sitting next to her was not very happy at all.’

‘Ah, yes, from what I remember, I was especially charming in that half an hour!’

‘You were not.’

‘When is your taxi getting here?’ Clara inquired from the doorway. She then handed Erik his cup of tea, who yelped