Lonie14

Lonie kept slaloming between his own desk and Audrey’s all day. He couldn’t help himself. He was like a drunk with an empty pint glass in his hand and only tuppence in his pocket, enough for the bus fare home. Audrey treated him the same way each time. She ignored him and diligently got on with the stack of work in front of her. Lonie had gone for a quick drink in the Press Bar at lunchtime. He’d returned a bit bleary-eyed and hung his coat over his chair. She was still sitting straight backed, making the keys on the Olivetti in front of her chatter the kind of noise that only a thousand monkeys could manage on a holiday wrecking spree. If he didn’t know her better, or at least think he did, he’d think she wasn’t human. She didn’t take a tea break. She didn’t take a lunch break and she didn’t even seem to take a toilet break. He stumbled over to make sure she was human. The empty desk opposite her had become a leaning post for him to get a look, another skinful’ of her face and tits. ‘You’re due a break.’ He tapped his wrist and an imaginary watch.

Audrey’s head stiffened and her eyes darted to the side. He seemed half-drunk, as were most of the reporters on a Friday, on wages day, as if that was their due. But it left even more of their work, piled up on her desk, which she had to finish before 4pm when she left for home. ‘I need a break from you,’ her fingers’ battering out the message that she wasn’t for stopping. ‘I need to finish these shorts,’ she said in exasperation.

Lonie settled his bum on the desk, lit a fag and made it his home. ‘Leave that. Leave that. We’ll get it sorted later.’ He waved his arm in her general direction. ‘We need to talk.’

Audrey glanced at the clock, near the door. The last of the trucks making deliveries were long away.The walls had stopped vibrating. The dust had settled. She had about an hour before she finished. ‘Well talk then.’ Her fingers moved quicker,tattooing words to the page.

Lonie’s mouth dropped open. ‘Ah want to see you again,’ he whispered and looked about to make sure nobody heard.

‘You’re seeing me now,’ Audrey said.

‘Ah don’t mean it that way.’

‘What way do you mean it?’

Lonie didn’t know what to say. One of the fatman’s cronies was looking over at him. He stood up, stubbing out his fag into the floor. ‘Ah’ll let you get on with you work.’

‘That’s good,’ she said, with a hard voice, but her fingers faltered and she made a mistake in her typing. She reached for the Tippex, dabbing it on, waving it dry, conscious she was making too many mistakes, too many basic and fundamental errors. She looked across at Lonie. ‘You still here?’

‘Ah’m just goin’.’ He stood up, moving closer to her. ‘You goin’ for a drink after work?’

Audrey banged the carriage of the typewriter across making it ring and started typing again. ‘I don’t drink.’ She kept her eyes on the page, her back straight and her fingers on the keys she was hitting.

‘Don’t worry about that.’ Lonie crouched down at the corner of Audrey’s desk, level with the typewriter, so she had to look at him. ‘Ah’ll drink enough for both of us.’

Glancing at him, her lips and eyes almost crinkled into a smile. ‘No,’ she said decisively.

‘Just an orange or a coke.’ Lonnie’s eyebrows shot up and he grinned, ‘or something?’

‘No.’ Audrey allowed herself a sidelong look. His head hung down with dejection. ‘I really need to go home,’ she said more softly.

‘For your wee boy?’

Audrey stopped typing. ‘Shsss,’ she whispered, her head darting right and left. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that.’

‘Why not? You ashamed of the little fellow?’

Her elbows rested on the rounded armrest of the swivel seat and her feet pushed back as she created a space between her and the desk. She turned to meet his gaze. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m ashamed of you. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention him, or our little assignation, to any of your colleagues.’ He nodded in that stupid way of his that he understood. She took a deep breath. ‘Because I quite like this job. It’s the only thing I’ve got. I’ve worked my way up and I’ll not likely get another job like it.’ She paused, to see if he understood. 'But like most men I’m supposing that will be a bit too much for you.’ She rolled her seat in close to her desk and started typing again.

Lonie drew himself up to his full six-foot- two. ‘Fine,’ he snapped out, but stood in the bucket next to her desk almost tripping over. He extricated his foot and leg from the reams of paper and added, ‘Ah’ll see you Monday.’ He leaned closer, almost shouting in her ear, ‘About work.’

Lonie sat at his desk, looking at the phone, with a fag in his hand. He’d a meeting with Bresslen pencilled in-him and Audrey had a preliminary meeting with Bresslen pencilled in- but he was just going to blank it. Lonie would meet the fatman in the Press Bar. He figured there was little point talking to the horse when he’d be meeting with the jockey later. He watched Audrey making the mazy run from desk to desk, the few reporters that were left watching her tits, as she made her way across to his desk. Lonie leaned back in his chair, his head tilted and to the side to look up at Audrey. He licked his lips, not sure what he was going to apologise for, but sure he was going to apologise anyway.

Audrey’s long fingers carefully placed his house key down on his desk beside the phone. ‘That’s your house key back.’ She squinted out of the side of her eyes to check whether anyone could see what she was delivering.

‘I’m sorry.’ Audrey’s hands clasped at each other as if in prayer. ‘Your front doors been open all day and I didn’t even tell you. I feel awful.’

Lonie reached for his Woodbine, which was beside the ashtray He picked up his key, stuck it in his coat pocket, and he put his feet up on the desk and lit a fag.

‘I made sure it was shut over.’ Audrey looked for a chink of understanding on his face, but there was none. ‘But I just couldn’t lock it.’

‘Fine,’ said Lonie.

‘I just couldn’t be late for work. Sorry,’ she said again.

Lonnie nodded as if he understood and his left hand shooed her away, back towards her own desk. He blew a smoke ring up into the air and watched her walk away and then dart back again.

‘The guy next door said he would keep an eye on the place.’

‘He’s an arsehole. Probably nosing about my stuff right now.’ Lonie blew another smoke ring and watched her disappearing back to her desk and away from him.

‘See you Monday.’ Audrey tried on a smile, but there was no reaction. ‘I do hope we can be friends.’

Lonie shrugged, stretched his neck, and looked behind him at the clock. ‘Not about time you were leavin’?’

Audrey looked over at the clock. ‘I’ve still got another ten minutes.’

‘Nobody gives a shit. Especially on a Friday. The bosses are all away, but if you want to knock yourself out for the company, you go right ahead.’

‘I will.’ Audrey bit at her lip, ‘I’ll just go and get my bag.’

Lonie finished his fag, the smoke swirling about his face like unfinished thoughts, and watched her leaving. He checked his back pocket for his wage packet again and divided it up. Five £10 notes in his back pocket. Two £5 notes, one in each side pocket. A couple of £1 notes and loose change in his coat pockets, with his fags and he was ready to hit the Press Bar before staggering home.

The Press Bar always did a turn, even during the week, because there were so many workshops and workplaces nearby. Lonie had to push his way in the door. Come the weekend, the jukebox was belting out Steely Dan and punters had to fling money at the bar staff to buy a drink. Lonie, his Crombie swirling about him, was drenched in sweat and drowning in fag smoke before he battled like a three-legged horse, being pushed this way and that, through to the lounge.

A coven of editors sat in their usual seat in the corner of the lounge-bar cackling away to themselves and plotting the next breaking news’s story. The fatman spotted Lonie and waved him over, with a shout of ‘I’ll have a half.’ Lonie dipped into his side pocket then his back pocket. He’d been caught at the bar and those seated weren’t slow in letting him know what they wanted to drink, either by holding up a pint, for him to see, or shouting out for a half-and-half. If Lonie looked harassed Barbara who was serving him looked frantic. Her dyed brunette hair was plastered to her face like a mock up red-Indian squaw’s and her face was like a turnip on a diet. As she poured the drinks and put them on the bar, Lonie ferried the drinks back and forth to the tables in the corner. Punters with bad hair knitting together cranial bone, and empting eye-sockets, pushed in and around Lonie. They megaphoned at the barmaid what they wanted to drink, but with close-mouthed efficiency she waited them out. ‘Is that you?’ squawked Barbara at Lonie.

Lonie handed her the money without thinking about it too much. He’d put his change in whatever pocket he got it back in, or whatever pocket made him feel richer. That way he always ended up with enough shillings in his coat pockets to feed the meter and sometimes himself. He looked over and checked back at the table to make sure he’d bought everyone a drink. Barbara was handing him his change when he remembered. ‘Hing on. Hing on,’ he said to the emboldened and blood shot eyes round about him. He pulled a pound note out of his change. ‘Barbara can I get a Glenfiddich please, ah forgot to buy myself a drink.’ She was pouring a pint.

‘A single or double? Barbara had slapped on the Lager tap and was pouring a pint for someone else.

‘Double.’ Lonie held out a £1 note for her to pick up.

‘You’ll need to wait in the queue, like everybody else. Am serving,’ said Barbara, with practiced disdain.

Lonie leaned against the bar and lit a fag. Jock, the bar manager, was out collecting empties, when he spotted him and their eyes met. Lonie tried to look the other way, kidding on he hadn’t seen him, but it was too late. Jock wasn’t his real name, of course. His real name was Jack, but because he was Scottish everybody in the merchant navy had called him Jock. That’s what Ron and Reggie Kray called him, or so he said, and if it was good enough for them, it was good enough for him. He had a slack jaw and a bottom set of teeth with gaps like Rottenrow Maternity hospital. He had a huge girth and a way of walking with splayed feet that carried all before him and one shoulder that punched out in front of the other. There was no avoiding him.

‘What the fuck you been fuckin’ up to you fuckin’ cunt?' Jock breenged across and put some empty pint tumblers down on the bar beside Lonie.

‘Nothin’ much.’ Lonie blew some fag smoke in Jock’s direction. ‘Tryin’ to get served.’

Barbara put his Glenfiddich on the bar beside him and waited for him to pay.

‘Fuckit. That man’s not payin’ for fuck-all. It’s on the fuckin’ house. That man’s a fuck’in shagger.’ Jock waved Barbara away. He winked at Lonie. ‘Know what we fuckin’ found in the fuckin’ staff toilets. Pair of fuckin’ woman’s knickers. Did you give her one in the toilets? Did you? Did you? I’d ‘av’ fuckin’ givin’ ‘er one.’

‘No.’ Lonie swilled back his Glenfiddich and signalled for Barbara to pour another. He knew from experience Jock often boasted he’d give any woman one, from Barbara behind the bar, to a ninety-year old in her coffin, as long as she was female.

‘Thought you’d be fuckin’ well in. Didn’t I?’ Jock pulled a pair of woman’s pants out of his cardigan pocket. ‘Thought about gettn’ them fuckin’ well framed and fuckin’ well put up behind the fuckin’ domino trophy. Didn’t I? But then fuckin’ well thought, can’t have your little lady friend walkin’ about with no fuckin’ knickers on. Can I?' He handed the pair of pants to Lonie, who quickly stuffed them in his coat pocket. Jock nudged his arm, almost making him spill his drink and winked again. ‘Your secrets safe with me; you fuckin’ shagger you. Loose lips, fuckin’ sink ships. Don’t they?’

‘Appreciated.’ Lonie held his drink up in salute and went to join the company in the corner.

The fatman’s face was flushed, but he didn’t miss much. He made everyone push round so that Lonie could get a bar stool near where he was sitting. He pushed out belly and shuffled forward in his chair so he could lean across. ‘What did that big poof want?’ he asked.

‘Usual pish.’ Lonie took a sip of his whisky. ‘He wanted to talk about women.’ Everyone laughed.

‘Talking of which,’ said Tilby, who was drunker than everyone else. His lips puckered and he tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger, a signal that somebody's secret was safe with him, only it wasn’t. ‘Heard about your little bet?’

‘Bet?’ Lonie took another drink of his whisky.

‘With big tits!’ said Tilby. He was getting aggressive. ‘I want in on the action. I’m telling you, you’ll not get anywhere near her.’ He searched through his pockets. ‘I’m willing to put my money were my mouth is. I bet you £100 you don’t…’ He put all the money he had on the table, which amounted to about £30 including loose change and fell back onto his seat. ‘I’m betting you…’ He wrestled his watch off his wrist and put it on the table with the money. ‘That's a Rolex.I’m betting you don’t get a sniff of her pussy.’

Lonie put his hand in his pocket where Audrey’s knickers were. He looked at the money on the table and laughed. ‘If that's a Rolex then Ah'm James Bond. Ah’m bettin’ you don’t get a fuckin’ round in.’ He took a fiver and tossed it towards Tilby. ‘Ah’ll have a double Glenfiddich.’