With Age Comes Experience

"I was on my way home, Clem!" she said, reproachfully. "I couldn't answer you 'cos I left my mobile in my case and it was in the luggage rack on the train and the train was packed. I couldn't get to it."

"Okay, sorry," I said, trying to sound cool and in control, "But I've missed you! When are you coming over again? Hannah'll be back the day after tomorrow and it'll be more difficult."

"Oh. Well, that was the day I was sort of free," began Sammy.

"Well, what about tomorrow?" I was getting more agitated, coolness forgotten.

"I'm not sure Clem, Mum and Dad'll want me with them. Look, I've got to go – they're just coming in the front door. See you soon. Bye!"

And with that she was gone. Just like that. No 'I Love You' or 'I've missed you'. Typical thoughtless teenager! Didn't she realise how much I'd missed her?

The next morning, I just couldn't concentrate on my latest commission, so I decided on a plan of action. I would drive over to Sammy's house and sweep her out to lunch and maybe back here for an afternoon's fun. The pretext would be – for her parents' benefit – that Hannah had left a bag behind there. 'But Hey! Whilst I was there, would Sammy like to come out to dinner with us? We'd drive back together and pick up Hannah en route.'

I checked Sammy's address in the A to Z and set off in the car, arriving in a pleasant tree-lined suburban avenue within three quarters of an hour. The houses were mainly detached properties, all fake Tudor beams and tall frontages.

I pulled up outside Sammy's house and got out, walked to the front door. On the way, I noticed that a number of flowers in the flower beds lining the path to front door had been trodden on and recently by the looks of things. The immaculate front lawn had several tyre skid marks on it and an empty can of lager bobbed around in the fishpond.

I retrieved the can and opened the wheelie bin at the side of the front door to dispose of it. The bin was full to the brim with refuse sacks and loose rubbish – mainly bottles. Wine, beer, scotch, vodka, you name it, they were there. All evidence of a wild party.

I felt terribly apprehensive as I rang the doorbell, waited and then knocked. There was no answer. I pulled the doorbell chain again and knocked hard on the stout door. No response.

"They're away."

I turned to see a tall, rather distinguished looking man in casual shirt and cords, looking over from next door's front garden. I guessed his age to be somewhere in his mid 60s, but he certainly wasn't anyone's mug.

"Oh," I replied, "When did they go? It's –er – it's their daughter, Samantha I'm looking for."

The man's face clouded, and his cheeks flushed red. I thought the old boy was about to have an apoplexy.

"That little madam?!" he snorted, "Just as well she's not there! Made our lives a misery this week she has, her and her yobbo friends."

"This week?" I exclaimed. "I –I thought she was away –"

"No, her parents are away," snapped Mr Next Door impatiently, as though I should know. "Left her here. 'Oh, we can trust our Sammy. She's 18 now you know.' Yes, they can trust her alright – trust her to be a bloody menace!"

"What did she do?" I heard myself asking, not really wanting to know the answer.

"Loud music all times of day and night. Kids coming and going, in and out, in and out. Little buggers had a barbeque the other afternoon – my wife and I had to go indoors because of the smoke. And the language! And last night, she had a party. Well, that was the last straw, I can tell you. I'd already spoken to her about the noise, but that was it. I called the police. Oh, of course they didn't want to come, did they? 'It is not our remit to respond to noise nuisance, as this is a council matter.' Bollocks!"

I took a step back at his invective. This chap was clearly rattled.

"My friend's the Chief Constable, see him down the lodge often. I told them I'd call him at home, wake him up if needs be, tell him that his officers couldn't give a damn about us being kept awake by teenagers playing loud music in the early hours, in a house where they've got no business. She certainly wasn't in control of them at all, little sods – I saw two of them on my front lawn doing- doing – things!"

"Did the police come?"

"Yes they did, two cars, four officers. This lot scarpered quick. Bet they had drugs in there. One of 'em was a sergeant and he gave that bloody Sammy a good talking to. All went quiet after that, but one of the little buggers drove over my hedge on the way out. Do you see? Flattened!" To emphasise his point, he tried to tug a crushed and lifeless segment of his low, ornamental hedge back into life, a tyre mark clearly visible across the hedge and flowerbed.

"I shall be talking to them when they get back on Saturday!" he ranted on. "It's their fault. I shall tell 'em, I shall, Been good neighbours for years but they're too soft on that girl, spoil her rotten. Anything she wants, she gets. Only child, see? Too much money, not enough respect. Cocky little madam she is."

I was aghast. "I thought her parents were very strict with her," I said. "Her Father especially."

"Ronald should never have given her a credit card. Told me he'd done it before he went, he did. 'I'm so proud of our Sammy. She'll do us proud at University. She did so well at school. We've given her a nice gift of some money for working so hard and I got her her own credit card.' Man's a fool to himself! Do you know she had a tattoo done a while back and then decided she didn't like it. So what does he do? He pays for her to have it removed privately. It's ridiculous! But I'll be telling them, and my friend the Chief Constable's promised to come round and tell them himself – I spoke to him this morning. Bloody teenagers! All the bloody same, the lot of 'em!"

"My daughter's not like that," I began, "She's a good kid and –"

"That's as maybe. But do you know what they get up to when your back's turned, eh?" he snapped, heading for his front door. "I'm glad my lot are all grown up and moved out, I can tell you!"

"I bet they are too," I muttered under my breath as I strode down the path back to my car, feeling my face flushing with anger. She'd lied to me! Sammy had lied to me! She said she'd been away looking after her sick cousin in London, and she'd been here all the time, throwing bloody parties and barbeques for god knows who. And who had she been with? Not only that she'd lied about her tattoo, lied about her parents, lied about being short of money – she'd taken my money and no doubt used it to entertain a bunch of piss heads!

I slammed my foot on the accelerator and powered the car down the avenue, my mind a seething turmoil of anger and resentment. Although much of it was directed towards Sammy, a fair bit was directed towards me, myself. With age comes experience? Forget that! Try that other well-known age saying: There's no fool like an old fool!

How I didn't kill anyone on that manic drive home, I don't know. I jumped a set of lights; I nearly flattened an old couple crossing on a zebra crossing (lots of fist waving and indignation) and nearly went into the back of a classic Capri. (Think of the insurance claim!). I was nearly home, trying to calm down and keep within the speed limit when I passed the Kings Head. I slowed down a little, contemplating dropping in for a swift half and seeing whether Bob or Reefer were in and whether they'd seen hide or hair of – Sammy!

There she was, wearing a fashionable black shirt and tight jeans, walking across the pub car park with a group of five or six boys – young yobbos by the looks of them – all tracksuits, silly hats and shaved heads. Looked like they'd just got up from a heavy drinking session on one of the outdoor tables, judging by the number of bottles and glasses littering the tabletop.

I'd missed the car park entrance now, but I pulled into the kerb suddenly, no indication, earning an indignant toot from the car behind which passed me, then I reversed at speed to the car park entrance, screeched forward and shot into the car park. I might've run the lot of 'em over if I hadn't swung the wheel to the right and jammed the brakes on. Even so, the front of the car overshot the flowerbed border of the car park and nudged the table and bench they'd just vacated, sending several bottles rolling onto the ground.

I simply was beyond reason at this point. I almost kicked the driver's door open and virtually slid across the bonnet to get to the little knot of yobs that were watching the whole thing open-mouthed. None of them looked more surprised than Sammy.

"Clem" She exclaimed, "What's up – are you –"

"Had a good party last night did you?" I yelled. "What's all this then?" I indicated the outside table and its contents. "Hair of the dog? Did you pay for it all with Daddy's credit card? Or did you use the money I gave you, you scheming little tart!"

Sammy tried to hide behind some lanky article wearing silly long shorts and a vest which looked two sizes too big for him, over which he'd thrown –and almost missed – a baggy checked shirt. He had lank, greasy hair, bum fluff-like sideburns and a bad case of acne on his chin. The little shit sported a tattoo on his neck, some sort of dragon-like thing.

"Is this him?" he sniggered, nodding towards me, a smartarse smirk on his face. "Fuckin' 'ell Sam, you said he was older, but I didn't think he was a pensioner!"

The little bastard's mates all hooted with laughter.

"Something amusing you, sonny?" I snapped, taking two steps towards him and realising that he was actually quite muscular in a no-spare-fat kind of way. And tall, too. I think I must've surprised him, because he took an uncertain step back, even though no one was more surprised than me. Anger and adrenalin had overtaken reason. There were, I realised, six lads all told, not one of them much over 20, and I could be in for a severe kicking if I handled this wrongly.

"Look Clem, just go, please," said Sammy, perhaps gauging the situation better than I had. "I'll call you, I promise, I-"

"So you let this old cunt fuck you, did you?" smirked the yob.

"Hit him Baz! Do him! Take him out!" his mates yelled, egging him on.

"Yes, she did, sunshine," I said, evenly. "Long before you came along. So how long's this been going on?" I demanded of Sammy.

Baz pushed her back and took a step towards me, eyeballing me, looking menacing. He stank of booze, but he wasn't unsteady on his feet. "Listen granddad, it ain't been goin' on long, but she's shagged me seven times and given me three blow jobs and I've had her up the arse once. That all right for you is it? All in a week, good eh?"

"Piss off sonny and press your spots," I growled.

His mates yelled to him to 'do' me.

"You an' me then, granddad?" he smirked, shrugging off the baggy shirt, to cheers from his friends.

My anger was still high, but dissipating. The adrenalin flow decreasing. Reason was taking over I noticed several people spilling out of the pub door to see what all the shouting was about, so imminent rescue was at hand - hopefully. Then I caught a glimpse of Bob and the Reefer. Bastards! They'd seen her in there and they hadn't called me! How long had they known she was two-timing me? My anger flared again.

"Right, just you and me," I snapped. "You and me. Okay?"

He nodded and bunched his fists. I adopted what I hoped was a fighter's stance, fists up, almost laughably Queensbury-rules style. The thing is, I've never been a fighter as such. Oh yes, I'd had scraps at school, but my last full-blown fight was in 1980 at a disco and we'd both knocked each other down, got thrown out, made it up with a handshake and went for a pint down the road. I desperately tried to recall a few moves a client of mine who was into security had taught me. First rule: Let him make the first move.

Bad move. Even though I ducked back, his fist caught me a glancing blow above the left eye and it bloody hurt! I heard his mates cheer and Sammy scream. He was pissed, but he was fast. He was also over-confident. He lurched forward and swung at me. I sidestepped as I'd been taught and caught him a hard one – a lucky hard one – full on in his stomach. It was so satisfying to hear the breath explode out of him and see him doubled up. I seized my chance – as I'd been told - and piled in with punch after punch after punch – all uppercuts – into his stupid, ugly face, knocking the smirk off it, feeling the pain of bone on bone, feeling wetness spreading across my fists.

Sammy was screaming at me to stop, literally trying to drag me off, but I couldn't hear anything except the roaring of blood in my ears. Everything else was a blur.

Then he was up again, lashing out at me. I blocked one blow, more by luck than judgement and delivered a right hook that Tyson would've been proud of right into his jaw. Down he went, sprawled on the deck like a bad stain.

Any exhilaration I might have felt quickly evaporated when I felt a bony arm lock round my throat and a bonier fist pounding my back. One of the little shits – and I guessed it was the thin ferrety one – had jumped on my back and was trying to pull me down. Another one, a thickset skinheaded type with a red baseball cap on his thick cranium (wrong way round, naturally) was advancing towards me, fists bunched.

So much for honour and one to one!

My reactions must've been pretty quick. Guessing I was near the car, I furiously backpedalled, using my greater weight to propel the ferret and myself backwards. A loud metallic thump and we were on the car bonnet, with me literally sitting on the little bastard. I could hear him yelling and struggling, flailing out at me. The big yob was nearly on me so I instinctively brought my leg up. Contact! My foot caught him beautifully in the groin, right into the danglies, actually lifting him several inches off the ground before he keeled over sideways, moaning and gasping, thrashing around on the ground, holding his bruised assets.

The ferret was becoming a nuisance, so I jumped up, grabbed his bony arm and swung him around in a circle and brought him crashing down, face first across the bonnet, grabbed the back of his hair and banged his face down hard into it. I saw specks of blood decorate the paintwork and he, too, slid to the ground gasping and coughing, holding his bloodied nose with both hands.

I turned to face any others, but no attack was forthcoming. The other three were holding back. In fact, Reefer was standing very close to one of them, hugging him almost, and saying something. As the roaring in my ears decreased, I thought I caught him say "Don't even fucking think about it sunshine, got that?" The yob nodded, almost respectfully. I saw Bob fighting his way past the crowd to get to me.

I swung away and stood over the crumpled Baz, who was sitting up, holding a handkerchief to his nose, whilst Sammy knelt next to him, stroking his hair and asking him if he was all right.

"How's that for you then, Samantha?" I gasped, my heart almost exploding, chest heaving, lungs on fire. "You want a real man or a long streak of spunk like that?"

"You're – you're fuckin' mad you are, man," muttered Baz through the handkerchief. "You're fuckin' psycho!"

"Want some more do you?" I almost screamed, although I doubt I could've even raised my fist, let alone hit him.

Sammy sprang up and slapped me once, twice, there times across the face, the ferocity of her attack beating me back.

"You leave him alone, Clem!" she screamed. "Leave me alone! You're too fucking jealous! Why can't you just take the bloody hint? I don't want you any more!"

I stood and faced her. She stood and faced me, tears in her eyes. I snarled and raised my hand.

"Go on then!" she screamed. "Hit me! Go on, fucking well hit me! Why don't you rip my gear off and rape me while you're at it?" She grabbed her shirt and actually ripped it open to her cleavage, revealing a black lacy bra. "Like you did at Easter! I've still got the dress and the undies! Maybe we should show them to the police, see what they have to say about it?"

"Shut your mouth, you fucking liar!" I hissed, aware of the onlookers listening. "I did no such thing! Look, let's talk about this, work something out –"

"No!" she screamed. "You don't get it, do you? You're too fucking old!"

I staggered. Of all the blows I'd received that day that was the worst. I suddenly felt a hand grip my arm and pull me away. It was Bob.

"Come on, Clem," he said through gritted teeth. "We're going, get in your bloody car!"

He manhandled me towards the car, but pulled me to the passenger side, yanked the door open and pushed me in. I slumped down dumbly, compliantly. "I'm driving!" he snapped, jumping in the driver's side and turning the keys in the ignition. The engine coughed a bit then roared into life and he reversed us out of the car park. I saw Reefer standing at in the middle of the car park, watching us go and the knot of yobs shuffling off, supporting their bloodied comrades, Sammy with her arm round Baz, still stroking his bruised cheeks. The other onlookers were drifting back into the pub, some of them calling out to the yobs.

Rob straightened my car out and roared onwards. "I'm taking you home, Clem," he said grimly. "You were lucky to get out of that alive."

I said nothing. We flashed past the pathetic bunch of yobs and I saw Sammy, still ministering to Baz. Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds. I saw nothing in her blue eyes but sheer contempt. And it was directed at me.

* * * * *

Bob stuck with me for the rest of that day. Throughout the early afternoon at my place, we put away most of a bottle of Scotch between us, while I alternated between ranting and raving about Sammy being a conniving little trollop to sobbing uncontrollably because I loved her so much and wanted her back. Bob made all the right noises, he patted my shoulders when I was blubbering, he told me to pull myself together when I wasn't and he even joked with me a bit when we were both well oiled about how nicely I'd put the three toerags down earlier.

"You were lucky though," he said, suddenly deadly serious and catching my eye. "If the other three had got onto you, they'd have killed you or at least put you in hospital. It's just as well Reefer and I came out and a lot of the other regulars who actually like you for some reason would've stopped them. The Guv'nor was all for calling the police, that's why I got you out of there so fucking fast."

"Reefer saw one of 'em off, didn't he?" I said quietly fingering the throbbing bruise above my eye where Baz had managed to catch me one, "I guess he must still be pretty tasty with his fists."

"It also helped that he was holding a flick knife to the guy's ribs," replied Bob. "That sort of thing usually concentrates even the densest of minds."

"Same old Reefer, then." I said.

At about 3.30 Bob phoned for a taxi.

"You off home then?" I slurred. "Stay with me Bob – I don't want to be alone. It's, well – it's painful."

"Taxi's for both of us," said Bob briskly. "We're off to the Golf Club and – " he held up a hand to stave off any protests from me – "You are going to play a round with me even if I have to drag you round every bloody hole on my back!"

"I haven't got any clubs," I protested.

"Then you can hire a set of the Club's own, can't you? Now – go and get cleaned up, have a pee and we'll be ready to leave."

I won't say I played the best game of golf I'd ever played in my life – in fact I'd only played gold twice before, once with Bob and once with an influential client and I'd lost on both occasions – but it certainly was one way to sober up. I also think my anger got me round the course, as I sliced and hacked the balls along. I probably cleared more divots than balls, but Bob insisted we finish the round, even if I had a shocking handicap. After that, we had a few jars in the rather well-appointed clubhouse bar, where I lapsed back into a maudlin diatribe about how ungrateful and devious Sammy had been, how she'd betrayed my trust and how great the sex had been and why did she have to go off with that lanky pig-shit-thick tosser Baz?