(Draft of part one of a possibly long-ish short story)
I.
One evening after work, Paul got off at the wrong bus stop. He ended up on one of those anonymous streets in the middle of England, lined with knackered cars, terraced houses, broken lampposts and no bins. As he fumbled about in his pocket for his phone, he caught sight of a man across the road, who was staggering in uneasy circles around the goalposts outside what looked like a disused leisure centre. Paul squinted through the mist: the man didn’t seem drunk, or deranged: actually, he looked as if he was dancing with himself or his shadow, or possibly someone else that he couldn’t make out under the dim floodlights that ran along the side of the football pitch. And even though Paul was exhausted and really did want to get home as soon as possible – the fuzzy image in his head was of his duvet, the TV, and a spaghetti bolognese ready meal, with a handful of pre-grated mozzarella cheese and a drizzle of sunflower oil – he carried on staring at the man, swaying away in his own little world, singing or maybe whistling to himself, who knows what…
It was only when Paul was confronted with his own gormless face in a passing bus window – two guys in hoodies got off, one threw a can of lager into a bush behind Paul – that he snapped out of this reverie, worried that someone had been watching him too. He turned to check. There was a little girl in her school uniform sitting on the bench at the bus stop (she can’t have been older than six), swinging her legs, humming away and eating a packet of crisps.
‘Where are your parents?’ Paul asked, in a quiet but stern voice. ‘It’s almost nine, what are you doing out by yourself?’
‘I don’t talk to strangers.’
‘Look, you can’t be –’
‘Leave me alone or I’ll scream.’
Paul sighed and shook his head. As he considered whether to respond, he found himself turning around and crossing the road. He walked alongside the football pitch, at first keeping a few feet wide of the touchline, which he could barely make out beneath the frost. In the far corner of the pitch he also saw a woman in a red coat, walking a couple of dogs. He was pleased: she’ll deal with this guy, he thought, or at least she’ll shield me from him.
He quickened his pace as he walked past the halfway line, where he intended to loop back and work out how to get home. He put his head down and pulled up his collar (as if it would make him invisible) and thrust his hands into his coat pockets. It was an extremely nice coat – a long, black, suede coat, with a mottled burgundy inner lining – which he’d found under the bed when he’d moved into the bedsit a few weeks ago. He couldn’t care less about clothes at all, but as soon as he tried the coat on, he liked it; he felt comfortable and it improved his mood. He considered contacting the landlord to tell him the previous occupant had left something, but decided against it. Why should he always be getting rid of things and giving them back, Paul asked himself as he paced around the dingy room, why shouldn’t he have a nice coat, something refined and elegant?
Still, even though he wandered around the city in the coat, feeling pleased with himself and sometimes even smiling at people (some of whom he was sure smiled back), it caused trouble. On the first day he wore the coat to the office, he’d also failed to wipe off a bit of white face paint from his right cheek – the night before, in a failed attempt to meet people and not just smile at them, he’d attended a mime workshop, which was abysmal — and it was his manager, Lee, who froze in his plush spinny chair when he saw him, squinted, and, through a horrid grin, asked:
‘Paul, have you been moonlighting as the Phantom of the Opera?’
His colleagues (the other couple of lawyers in the accountancy department) laughed; they were still laughing when he came back from washing his face in the bathroom, and had continued laughing ever since. Paul laughed a bit too. It was funny enough, as far as these things went. But they were already overdoing it: referring to him exclusively as ‘The Phantom’ in meetings (even with clients), playing the opening overture on YouTube every time he entered the room – The Phaaaan-tom of the O-pe-ra is here! – and spamming the workchat with stupid pictures: the Phantom sitting at Paul’s computer, or standing at the coffee machine, or fucking other fictional characters: Big Bird, Marge Simpson, Rambo – and in one, sucking off a stick man lying on a four-poster bed, with Paul’s profile picture superimposed over his face.
The man he’d been watching suddenly appeared in front of Paul. He’d somehow ghosted across to the other side of the pitch, and was standing completely still in front of him. He was very old and skinny. His face was pale, tinged with blue, and covered in pockmarks and visibly cracked blood vessels. A few stringy bits of white hair shot out from his head. He looked a bit like a gargoyle himself, Paul thought. He was wearing a pair of tattered green cords which were covered in mud and other ambiguous stains, a heavy duffle coat that looked brand new, and worn brown gloves. His right hand was inserted into a black motorcycle helmet, as if it were a kind of puppet. Before Paul could say anything, the man raised his left hand and said:
‘Sir – if the phone rings, please do not answer it. At this hour it’s usually dawdlers and lollygaggers who have had a few too many and didn’t have the good sense to make a booking; or, even worse, no-good swindlers who know that we’re stressed and occupied with our guests, on the cusp of exhaustion and vulnerable to being taken in and making rash decisions. And so, please: ignore the phone, it can ring all night for all I care. If you must answer, please say, as curtly as possible: we are fully booked, and that I, Leonardo Colpone, am currently indisposed.’
Paul didn’t say anything, and didn’t feel like laughing. He just stood there staring, as the man who had just introduced himself as Leonardo Colpone started rummaging about in his coat pocket. He seemed to have lost something, and after a few seconds, he looked up again at Paul, now with apparent horror:
‘Ah, sir! I didn’t recognise you, of course your table is free! Please, let me just get the drinks menu…’
He continued rummaging, and then held out his left hand. It contained a bunch of scrunched-up receipts, some loose coins and a filthy yellow handkerchief. He turned his hand over to drop them, like a toddler keen to get rid of whatever rubbish they’d just picked up at the park; Paul automatically lunged forward and cupped his hands underneath. Some of the items landed in his hands (which were pale and very small) but most fell to the grass. Leonardo Colpone did a little bow, turned around, and started whistling.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Paul said in what he thought was a loud-ish voice, ‘let me just take a look at the aperitifs.’
As Paul scrabbled around in the frost, lifting his coat so he didn’t step on it and rip it, Leonardo Colpone took a couple more steps forward (he walked with a severe hobble) as if wanting to provide him with the requisite privacy to consider his order. Paul tried to make out what he could of the receipts. As far as he could tell, they were a hotchpotch of disconnected purchases, all from local-ish shops: a packet of batteries, a pork pie, some bin liners, a bottle of bleach and a newspaper. A couple were several months old, and one was so faded that he couldn’t make out anything at all. He turned them over, wondering if anything had been written on the back, but there was nothing. He looked back up at Leonardo Colpone, who was still whistling, and drumming on the brim of his helmet with his fingers.
‘Leonardo, could I see a list of today’s specials?’
‘Of course sir,’ Leonardo said, as he started feeling about in his pockets again. ‘And while there’s no rush,’ he added, ‘it’s quite late, and I’m not sure the kitchen will be able to prepare anything at this hour’
‘What time does your shift end, Leonardo?’
‘It feels as though it never ends, sir, but we close in the next half an hour.’
This apparently knowing little flourish irritated Paul. (He was also irritated with himself: why was he saying the man’s name so insistently, in such a slimy tone, as if he was speaking to a client?)
‘Look, Leonardo, do you have your phone with you, a wallet?’
‘Sir! I would not have those items on my person on the restaurant floor!’
Just then, Paul felt a little jolt against his chest. His phone was ringing. ‘I already told you, no more bookings,’ Leonardo muttered. Paul took his phone out of the inner pocket of his coat: unknown number. He turned his back to Leonardo.
‘Hello?’
There was a crackle and then a couple of coughs.
‘Hello?’
A few seconds later, he heard a tinny echo of an organ and some violins, and then a pair of trembling voices singing:
‘In dreams he came to me…’
Paul hung up. ‘Fucking dicks,’ he muttered. He started writing a message to his manager – Lee, sorry to bother you outside working hours, but I think this has gone far enough now. I’m perfectly capable of taking a joke, and have been more than happy to go along with it so far, but I really don’t think – when he heard muttering behind him:
‘Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy…’
He turned around. Leonardo Colpone had pulled his hand out of the helmet, which was now on the ground, and was tugging at the fingers of his right glove with his teeth. His mouth was juddering and his whole body was shivering like mad.
‘Leonardo, are you alright?’
Leonardo didn’t answer. He got the right glove off, then the left, and held both hands out in front of him. They were knotted and blue and looked more like feet. Paul put his phone in his pocket, and reached out to take hold of Leonardo’s arms.
‘Leonardo?’
The old man looked him in the eye, and in a slightly higher voice, said:
‘Sir, if you’ll excuse me, I think I may need to go home. I’m very cold. Oh boy, I’m cold! Oh boy, what trouble!’
‘Yes, alright Leonardo, let’s just calm down.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’
Leonardo Colpone took a few deep breaths, and started smoothing down his duffel coat, composing himself. He put his hands back into his pockets. He took out another card and handed it to Paul.
‘The desserts, sir,’ he muttered, though without conviction.
It was a driving licence, which confirmed that the man’s name was Leonardo Colpone. The photo was recent: it had been renewed only two weeks ago. Paul checked the address. It was about two miles away. He looked back at the old man, who had taken a couple of small steps back towards the goal posts.
‘Let’s leave the desserts tonight,’ Paul said, ‘we can close up for now and go home.’
Paul tried to wedge the gloves back onto Leonardo’s hands, but gave up after a couple of attempts. He gathered the receipts, the handkerchief and loose coins from the grass, stuffed everything into Leonardo’s pocket, tucked the helmet under his own arm and called a taxi. Then he took Leonardo’s left arm in his right and guided him slowly back down the pitch, leaning into Leonardo’s hip to counterbalance the hobble. Across the road, he saw that the little girl was gone.
‘Oh boy,’ Leonardo kept muttering, ‘oh boy…’
[…]