Ali

Guy didn't think he’d ever seen Ali out of her student uniform of jeans and t-shirt; but the wedding-day attire of posh frock and heels, of a sort, was bringing out his lodger’s inner Katharine Hepburn. Ali had even done something wavy to her hair, which reinforced the impression already given by broad, high cheekbones, square chin, generous mouth...

Mouth that was uttering the unHepburn-like, “No fucking card?”

“All that palaver in the shop drove it out of my mind.”

“Ha!” With a grimace Ali drew the last drag of her cigarette. “And turned you into a book thief.”

“I’ll take it back.”

“You would too, wouldn’t you.” She flicked the butt behind a nearby gravestone, which informed Guy that the poor sod below had suffered “a rapid illness” before his demise. The bloke in the shop had been suffering a pretty swift illness. How had he fared?

In sharp contrast against the dark green of a distant yew hedge, tendrils of smoke drifted from the cigarette’s last resting place. Nearby a robin warbled for a mate, like a reminder that life also had a starting point.

Ali pulled a beret over her newly tamed brunette curls. “I know what you're thinking and it’s biodegradable, I’m sure.”

“A fag end? My arse. It'll still be there on Judgment Day.”

“You’re just as bad after you’ve sunk a few.”

Guy scratched his beard, fiercely trimmed that morning at Ali’s insistence. “I've still got to get a card. And something to eat: I know what weddings are like.”

“Good idea.” Ali flipped open her pack of Lambert & Butlers. “I need same more of these... perhaps I'd better get some baccy.”

“Student loan finally exhausted, Miss Player?”

“It’s your extortionate rent that does it.”

“Wait till you hit the real world – not long now.” Guy stood, with remarkable ease for a wedding morning: the blushing bridegroom, Matthew, had held his stag night the previous Saturday.

Drinking buddy, Saul, being on some crackpot course out of town, Guy had spent this Friday evening on a rerun of The Quiet Earth at the Watershed, and in sobriety had exited at ten o'clock to the inebriated, vomiting city centre crowds. With a strange disgust he had gone home and even got to sleep before Ali had crashed in at about three. He didn't want to imagine what she had looked like then but she didn't appear too clever now, trying to stand up.

She removed the beret as though it were hurting her brain. “Oof! I don't do champagne.”

“Champagne. The night before. Stretch limo. Not very Rebecca; I thought she’d be a modern bride.”

“Yes, yes, Mr Smug. Come on. There's a newsagent over the road.”

They eventually dodged streams of post-shopping, pre-lunch, God-knows-what-other-reason cars, Chelsea Tractors, the odd idiot trying to navigate a juggernaut through suburban Bristol and even one bus belching fumes as if to make up for the vehicles its passengers would have driven. They wound up outside a pub next to the shop.

“Hair of the dog?” Guy asked.

“You,” Ali emphasised, “don't need that.”

“I need the courage to ush or whatever an usher does.”

A tall, slender blonde issued from a door between the two buildings. A blonde with spectacles that somehow served to make her even more attractive. Guy revised upward his estimate of that part of Bristol. Ali shook her head and led them into the newsagent, where she picked up a copy of The Daily Mail.

“Put that down. I’ll get us a Guardian. At least –” Guy paused in mid-stoop. The Evening Post had caught his eye: Bird Flu Death Hits Bristol. He pulled the paper out: last night... Royal Infirmary... Blackwells... “Look. It’s him.” Guy waved the article at Ali. “The bloke in the shop. Jesus Christ, I was stood right next to him. The fucker was sneezing all over me.” Guy read on. “Far East... epidemic... pandemic – what's the difference?”

Ali was cradling The Mail and supporting herself against the Lottery stand. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“An epidemic... one in 250. Is that a lot?”

“I’m going to the pub.” Ali rushed out.

Guy had a Bloody Mary waiting for her when she reappeared, not too much dishevelled, from the Ladies. He was halfway down a pint. “Recovered?”

“A little. You?”

“Yeah.” Guy picked The Times out of a pile of papers that occupied the rest of the table. “This has the lowdown. At his probable stage he wouldn’t have been infectious, bird flu doesn't transmit readily between people and it takes twenty-four hours, tops, for the symptoms to show.” He tapped his phone, lying between the drinks. “Thirty minutes to go.”

Ali sipped her cocktail. “Thirty minutes to show time, too. We’d better get over.”

Guy finished both drinks and gathered all the purchases, including packets of crisps and Mini Cheddars. “They only had these or Wotsits or Hula-Hoops... all that shit.”

“We’re not in Clifton now, you know. What about the card?”

“Fuck me. The card.” ⇐ ⇒