The First Sixty Seconds of A Searcher
He'd heard it said that sometimes - in other people's lives, this would be - an adventure starts with a knock on the door. Which might have been a lovely thought for people who didn't get out much, but it wasn’t quite the same when he was the one doing the knocking.
This, here, now, was a matter of getting out on his feet and walking. Initiative. Journeying. Coming to the mountain. Mike knew that real adventures didn’t start that way. Only Outward Bound trips started that way. He was on the wrong side of the door. Fate abhors initiative. The universe hates a searcher.
Through the frosted glass, a shadow grew within a shadow, and the door opened. A short, slightly stocky man answered the door and looked at him; immediately he realised he’d be a stranger here.
‘Mike Briggs,’ he muttered by way of introduction, and flashed the wallet containing his Oystercard as if he’d done this a thousand times. ‘Cake Police.’
‘You can leave chuck your stuff in that room there,’ said the man regardless – possibly one of his cousins? – at any rate, the figure shuffled off towards a handful of people drinking from paper cups in the living room.
Mike didn’t have a bag. It wasn’t his way, and nor was a polite drinks session in the living room; which was odd, because nothing he’d ever done in his life would have remotely suggested otherwise. He went into the kitchen instead, and looked for signs of life. Nothing doing. An empty kitchen? At a party?
Some fifteen seconds or so after entering the party, he saw the kitchen door. He took it. Within thirty, he was round the back of the house and slumped in a plastic chair in the garden. He puffed his cheeks, and looked up. Shades of grey hung in the sky, not even mixing. It seemed set like concrete. Through the patio doors, he could see more shades of grey talking inside. No chemistry there. One test tube of water was being poured into another.
T+35 seconds after first entry, he realised he wasn’t alone. A man in a dufflecoat sat huddled atop of a large black rubbish bin in the corner.
‘Random,’ Mike muttered to himself.
Five more seconds passed. In the background, he could hear the passing traffic just the other side of the house. Slow, doleful rumblings. He watched the man, hoping for some sign of animation. The man watched him back, with no little suspicion. Perhaps he should introduce himself. Maybe this time he could avoid complimenting the house, asking the guy where he was from, talking about the weather, pretending he wasn’t just here for the refuelling. Was that too much to hope for?
‘Fucking delayed gratification,’ Mike finally said. Quietly, of course; he was pretty much a virgin when it came to free speech. Still, the chattering of the birds seemed to cease that moment, as if they were shocked by his language. He looked at the man more closely. A gold watch peeked out from under his sleeve. He was round shouldered, with slender hands. An accountant perhaps? A lawyer? A squash racket in its soft case, presumably his, lay leaning against the wall next to him. Possibly no-one had ever said such a thing in this man's hearing before. Almost certainly, in fact. He was probably someone’s husband. Involved in the community. Respected. But also, sitting on a rubbish bin.
The silence ended. It seemed like the dawn of a new age.
‘Word,’ said the accountant.
‘Not enough people here who could say fuck.’
‘Fuck no,’ said the accountant.
A thought struck Mike.
‘Are you cousin Vinny?’
‘Yeah. You Mike?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fuck, we’re predictable.’
‘Your lot going on about the weather too? The delays on Junction 14? Their lovely holiday?’
‘I expect so.’
‘And you fit in with it too? Nicey nicey?’
‘Like a fucking glove. And I wear the marigolds when I’m washing up. Practically grafted now.’
‘You swear like this normally?’
‘Fuck, no.’
‘We’re back yard people, Vinny. Under our sensible coats, anyway. We’re not house people.’
‘Cousin, let’s liberate a bottle from the wine rack. Something with a dusty label.’
‘Oh baby, we’re so good for each other.’
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