on to the couch with a cup of tea. She had promised herself a large glass of white, but that was before the booze from earlier started to wear off, making her feel grotty. More alcohol was the last thing she wanted.
She was flicking aimlessly through TV channels when her phone vibrated on the coffee table. Rather than Mike, it turned out to be Sandra, a fellow teacher and her closest friend at work. She’d sent her a text message from the taxi, hinting at what had happened and hoping for a girlie chat.
‘Hello?’
‘Lise, hi. Are you okay?’
‘Not really. Tonight’s romantic meal turned into a disaster.’
‘How come?’
She recounted the story, veering from tears to laughter and then back again in the process.
‘Oh my God,’ Sandra said. ‘I can’t believe you did that. Was it a full glass of red?’
‘Yes. Was that terrible of me?’
Sandra giggled. ‘Sounds like he had it coming. And he didn’t say anything afterwards?’
‘I didn’t wait around to find out. I jumped straight in a taxi and came home. I’m sure he’ll have something to say when he gets back.’
‘When are you expecting him?’
‘No idea. Do you think I should call his mobile or send him a message?’
‘Gosh, I really don’t know, Lise. Whatever you think is best. He’s had some time to cool down now, but it’s a tricky one.’
‘He’s probably getting plastered in a bar somewhere, moaning about his psycho wife.’
Sandra, who had only met Mike a handful of times, asked: ‘Don’t be offended by this, but, um, he’s not likely to hurt you or anything, is he? You know, if he comes back in a state. Because if you need somewhere safe—’
‘Mike would never lay a finger on me,’ Lisa replied. ‘He has his faults, but he’s not that kind of man. Thanks for caring, though.’
‘Well, you’re always welcome here. You know that.’
‘You’re a good friend, Sandra, but I’ll be fine. There’ll be a big row at some point, I’m sure, but nothing I can’t handle.’
Lisa felt better after ending the call. It was always good to chat to a friend for moral support at challenging times.
She finished her cup of tea and picked up the remote control to unmute the television. A programme about border control at Australian airports was showing. She was about to flick over but got hooked by the tales of people trying to smuggle in contraband.
Watching this made her think about her childhood friend Elliot, or El as she often called him. Although he’d lived down under for the past two decades, he still regularly popped into her thoughts. They’d been best friends throughout their years at secondary school, only for him to emigrate after their A-levels. They’d written regular letters to each other at the start, but eventually these had petered out as life got in the way.
Since Lisa had never been one for technology or social media, her only recent contact with her old friend had been infrequent emails and Christmas cards. All the same, she’d always dreamed of going to visit him one day. They’d been so close as kids – gone through so much together – she couldn’t imagine them not getting along any more. She was confident that they’d carry on where they’d left off, chatting away nineteen to the dozen and making each other laugh at silly things. Mind you, El was quite the success story these days. He’d set up a lucrative technology firm in Sydney and, according to the letter tucked into his card last Christmas, had recently created a popular app for smartphones and tablets. In fact, from what Lisa had read in the Sydney Morning Herald after searching online, this app was doing extremely well. It was some kind of fun educational tool for toddlers, which had already netted him a fortune, by all accounts. Maybe that meant he’d outgrown her.
Lisa was musing on this when the doorbell rang. Oh dear, it must be Mike, she thought, her heart sinking. Who else would call round so late on a Friday night? He was probably so drunk that he’d lost his key. She took a deep breath, turned off the TV and went to answer the front door. Time to face the music.
He was in a small, box-like room without a window. The plastered walls and ceiling were cream: smooth, unmarked and with no fixtures or fittings. A powder-coated white metal door was the only way in or out.
Somehow the room was brightly lit, although this puzzled him, since he could see no obvious light source.
He was sitting at a table in the middle of the room, struggling to grasp how he’d got there or, indeed, where that was. He needed time alone to review his thoughts and memories in order to try and make sense of this. But the man sitting on the other side of the table in the smart black suit and tie, the sort you’d wear to a funeral, kept staring at him and talking.
‘Are you in any discomfort?’ the man asked in a northern English accent. He’d introduced himself earlier, hadn’t he? So why couldn’t he remember his name?
‘Sorry, what was that you just asked me? I don’t seem to be able to, um—’
‘I was asking whether you’re in any pain. Sometimes, when people have been through such a major trauma, there’s a sort of residual … well, yes, discomfort. It usually passes pretty quickly.’
That word pain had thrown him; diverted his mind to unwanted memories. ‘Sorry to be weird,’ he said after taking a moment to regroup his thoughts. ‘I’m struggling to focus. Please could you repeat that once more?’
‘Wait. Bear with me.’ The man picked up a tablet-like device from the table and tapped something into it. He scrutinised the screen, which was directed so that only he could see it, rubbing his light stubble with one hand and nodding his head occasionally. When he looked up, he spoke slowly: ‘You’re disorientated, right? Finding it hard to concentrate?’
He nodded in reply.
‘That can happen, but it should also pass quickly. We need something to ground you. Cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
The man promised to return soon, grabbed his tablet and left through the metal door.
Alone in the room, he found himself tapping his fingers on the table and staring at the floor, which was coated in a shiny grey material with a hard yet rubbery feel underfoot.
His eyes wandered to the metal legs of the oak-effect table and the two brown moulded-plastic seats. They reminded him of school furniture.
But this wasn’t a classroom. It was … somewhere else, the implications of which made him fidgety. His right leg bounced up and down under the table as his mind whirred, fighting to get back up to speed.
