going to bore me stiff about it. Oh well, that’s the least I deserve for ruining his twenty-fifth anniversary. A petty penance.
CARETAKER
She’s a real find.
He says it in a seductive, lascivious way as he makes his way back to his seat. I’m mid-sip of tea when I look up and realise it isn’t an Apple Mac. It isn’t anything to do with any sort of apple. He was indeed speaking figuratively when he referred to it as the ‘apple of his eye.’ It’s a sword!
He sits in front of me and polishes it with his hanky. He caresses it as if it’s . . . well, like it’s something he’d like to caress.
CARETAKER
An arming sword, also called a knight’s sword. Look at that. A single-handed cruciform hilt, double-edged blade.
He’s going to stab me. He was only pretending to be okay about me putting my foot in it but in actual fact, he’s going to stab me.
I look around the tearoom and for the first time, realise that all the windows have bars, and there is only one way into this room, which is the way I came in back down the hallway. And at the moment, he’s blocking my escape with his portly body and a rather large sword.
CARETAKER
A replica of course, but couldn’t you do some damage if it was real?
I choose to believe this is a rhetorical question and don’t answer.
I daren’t ask about the anniversary dinner or the intended weekend away and I can safely assume that he isn’t dishevelled from being up all night having make-up sex. Probably from doing sword practice. Thrusting and stabbing, or whatever it is you do with a sword. I can’t work out if he intends to stab me or his wife. Probably both.
CARETAKER
There are very few things you can rely on in this life, but this little beauty . . . well . . . she’s one of ’em.
He flashes it and does a slicing through the air motion. I’m recalling every movie I’ve ever seen that’s had a sword in it and am desperately trying to remember something useful. Blank. Nothing. Can’t think of a thing. Just say something, Pers. Anything. Keep him talking. Jolly him along until the client turns up.
ME
It looks very nice.
CARETAKER
The standard military sword of the medieval knight.
ME
Interesting.
CARETAKER
Yeah, gorgeous. But it’s how it strikes that’s important.
He holds it in front of him and takes aim at things around the room. Oh, shit. This is how it ends. Killed by a deranged, psychopathic metabolic caretaker who has a grudge against me because I let the cat out of the bag about the crappy citrine earrings he bought his wife for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I didn’t even like them. Not really. I know I said I did, but I didn’t. I often do that, say things I don’t really mean in an attempt to keep the peace, but this time in particular, it definitely seems to have backfired. The peace has obviously not been kept. This situation is anything but peaceful.
I should have spoken the truth about the earrings. They look like shit. It’s twenty-five years, buddy. I’m thinking the least the poor bitch deserves is some Tiffany. I mean, you’re no oil painting and as boring as bat shit. Splash out on a decent gift. Of course, I didn’t say that. I gormlessly went along with the oohs and the aahs about the bloody earrings. And now he wants to kill me!
ME
Look, let me reiterate how sorry I am about yesterday. Twenty-five years. That’s special.
CARETAKER
Not so special that she wanted to make it twenty-six. She left me.
ME
Left you?
CARETAKER
Yep. Last night.
The dinner obviously didn’t happen.
CARETAKER
Told me the dinner was crap, threw the earrings at me and left. Been thinking about it for a while apparently.
Seems to be going around, this “thinking about leaving your spouse for a number of years before you actually tell them” syndrome.
ME
I’m so sorry.
CARETAKER
Not your fault.
And he turns the sword on me.
CARETAKER
What do you think?
I think he’s going to kill me. Or her. Or me, then
CARETAKER
She’s a real find.
He says it in a seductive, lascivious way as he makes his way back to his seat. I’m mid-sip of tea when I look up and realise it isn’t an Apple Mac. It isn’t anything to do with any sort of apple. He was indeed speaking figuratively when he referred to it as the ‘apple of his eye.’ It’s a sword!
He sits in front of me and polishes it with his hanky. He caresses it as if it’s . . . well, like it’s something he’d like to caress.
CARETAKER
An arming sword, also called a knight’s sword. Look at that. A single-handed cruciform hilt, double-edged blade.
He’s going to stab me. He was only pretending to be okay about me putting my foot in it but in actual fact, he’s going to stab me.
I look around the tearoom and for the first time, realise that all the windows have bars, and there is only one way into this room, which is the way I came in back down the hallway. And at the moment, he’s blocking my escape with his portly body and a rather large sword.
CARETAKER
A replica of course, but couldn’t you do some damage if it was real?
I choose to believe this is a rhetorical question and don’t answer.
I daren’t ask about the anniversary dinner or the intended weekend away and I can safely assume that he isn’t dishevelled from being up all night having make-up sex. Probably from doing sword practice. Thrusting and stabbing, or whatever it is you do with a sword. I can’t work out if he intends to stab me or his wife. Probably both.
CARETAKER
There are very few things you can rely on in this life, but this little beauty . . . well . . . she’s one of ’em.
He flashes it and does a slicing through the air motion. I’m recalling every movie I’ve ever seen that’s had a sword in it and am desperately trying to remember something useful. Blank. Nothing. Can’t think of a thing. Just say something, Pers. Anything. Keep him talking. Jolly him along until the client turns up.
ME
It looks very nice.
CARETAKER
The standard military sword of the medieval knight.
ME
Interesting.
CARETAKER
Yeah, gorgeous. But it’s how it strikes that’s important.
He holds it in front of him and takes aim at things around the room. Oh, shit. This is how it ends. Killed by a deranged, psychopathic metabolic caretaker who has a grudge against me because I let the cat out of the bag about the crappy citrine earrings he bought his wife for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I didn’t even like them. Not really. I know I said I did, but I didn’t. I often do that, say things I don’t really mean in an attempt to keep the peace, but this time in particular, it definitely seems to have backfired. The peace has obviously not been kept. This situation is anything but peaceful.
I should have spoken the truth about the earrings. They look like shit. It’s twenty-five years, buddy. I’m thinking the least the poor bitch deserves is some Tiffany. I mean, you’re no oil painting and as boring as bat shit. Splash out on a decent gift. Of course, I didn’t say that. I gormlessly went along with the oohs and the aahs about the bloody earrings. And now he wants to kill me!
ME
Look, let me reiterate how sorry I am about yesterday. Twenty-five years. That’s special.
CARETAKER
Not so special that she wanted to make it twenty-six. She left me.
ME
Left you?
CARETAKER
Yep. Last night.
The dinner obviously didn’t happen.
CARETAKER
Told me the dinner was crap, threw the earrings at me and left. Been thinking about it for a while apparently.
Seems to be going around, this “thinking about leaving your spouse for a number of years before you actually tell them” syndrome.
ME
I’m so sorry.
CARETAKER
Not your fault.
And he turns the sword on me.
CARETAKER
What do you think?
I think he’s going to kill me. Or her. Or me, then
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