Professional Excellence Ch. 12

'I always swallow.'

The innocence of Sybil's interjection got a snort from Michael and I almost wet myself. She looked at us both and just smiled. Confused.

'On a busy night, he'll reluctantly accept hard cash. Twenty quid a punter is what I hand over and worth every penny. But, tonight, he obviously doesn't want our money. You must have caught his eye Sybil. What say Michael? Should she come round and transport you to heaven?'

Sybil was already beginning to ease herself off the stool. Michael went suddenly white and held up a hand to stop her.

'Stay where you are missy. Sybil was it? If you believe a word that comes out of her lying mouth you'll find yourself on the fast track to trouble. OK, I'll take your money. Its going straight in my Get Out of Town fund. My priest tells me its the only way I'll ever escape you. Check your pocket Sybil.'

He fled to serve a customer with a look of evident relief. Sybil patted the breast pocket of her jacket and fished out a fiver with her finger.

'Where did that come from?'

'Its our change. Perrier's two-fifty each, twenty each for Norman and Kevin so we get a fiver back. He won't accept a penny over twenty. Believe me I've tried.'

'But how did it get in here?'

'He's also an amazing magician. Some nights I really like it if its quiet in here. I could sit for hours winding him up and watching him do tricks. He'd be on TV if he wasn't such a miserable sod.'

'I don't think he likes me.'

'Michael doesn't like anyone. Come on, drink up. Its time to go. We don't want to be here when Norman and Kevin come round.'

We counted up the money by the light of the car. I gave her seven hundred and took six myself. She tried to quibble for a distribution in my favour, but I wasn't having any of that. She turned down my invitation to come back to my place - she had a seven o'clock start the next morning. I pulled up outside the tiny terraced house she rented in the very worst - according to estate agent friends of Howard's - section of town. She hugged me, to the extent seat belts would allow, and then looked down at her feet. I realised she was crying.

'I don't know what to say.'

'Is everything alright - obviously not. Is there a problem? Do you want to talk?'

'I do want to talk, but I don't know what to say.'

We sat like that through two of the songs playing on the car radio. Then she reached for the door handle so the light came on and she turned her head to give me a watery grin.

'It was epic. Is it OK if I call you in a few days?'

Of course, the enigmatic finality of her line was spoiled by the need to retrieve bags from the back seat. Particularly so as we had to go through the hold-all looking for her soiled thong - no one, apparently, is allowed to wash her smalls, its a thing she has - before concluding either Norman or Kevin had taken them as a souvenir. The second goodbye was jollier and I watched her into the house before going home.

If you're of a historical bent,.you could look up the date of these events. It was the night Town won a third round FA Cup replay for the first time since records began. Howard and Nigel came home drunk in a taxi. The great thing about beer is that it makes Howard frisky. Very frisky. He offered Monique an extra twenty quid to fuck against the wall in the garden. Apparently the tarts in town had been doing epic trade in the alleys around the ground after the final whistle and he wanted to try it. We compromised on a knee-trembler in the garage. But only after I'd put the heater on to take the chill off.

There was a knock on my bedroom door at about two in the morning. It was Nigel complaining that he couldn't sleep. I barely woke and only worked out I must have given him a blow job when I got up with the tell-tale taste of semen in my mouth.

I had a lot to think about over breakfast coffee the next morning.