The Good{Expat}Life

#1 Under New Management

Under New Management 

The hammering in George's head would wake the dead. Just for a fleeting second, George thought that maybe he was. Dead. 

He tried to shift his position but the muscles in his legs had turned to jelly and he could not stand. The slightest movement caused his brain to throb inside his skull. His hands, were secured behind his back, numb through lack of blood supply. He willed his brain to make his fingers wiggle. It was dark, he was cold, and the minute this registered in the deep corners of his brain his teeth started to chatter like a pair of castanets. 

'Damnation! Why can't someone turn on the lights?'  

Silence greeted his outburst. His mouth was dry, his tongue furred and there was a distinct taste of stale whiskey. He tried to create some saliva smacking his lips together but to no avail. He tried to think warm things; hot sweet tea, a Vindaloo, the sun. He tried to think living things; ants, bees, elephants. He tried to think of sexy things; Meg Ryan, soft silky underwear. He smiled. Penny.  

'Penny!' 

The image of his fiancée revived him as good as cold wet flannel treatment. Their wedding plans had gone on for an eternity. Lists about everything from flowers to porta-loos. He had wanted to whisk her away, just the two of them. He concentrated hard forcing himself to think through the fuzziness in his head.  

No, he decided, they hadn't done the deed yet, he was sure of that.  

'Ooh,' he drew up his knees and lowered his head. All this thinking was making that incessant banging in his head even worse. He tried to refocus his vision, but it remained an inky, dead black. It was as if the sky had been switched off. He blinked and felt his eyelashes brush against something soft. He concentrated hard and heard the beginnings of a dawn chorus, so why was it so damn dark? 

It was then he heard footsteps, slow measured paces as though someone was circling him. He gulped and the hammering in his head was now his heartbeat. 

'Hello?' George said to the darkness. 'Anyone there?' His voice cracked and squeaked at an octave higher than usual. He swallowed trying to find some saliva; his throat was scratchy as though he'd been eating sand. Whoever 'it' was coughed and George was sure he heard a suppressed chuckle. 

'Oh come on now, stop messing around. Where the hell am I? And who the hell are you?' 

As the chuckler tugged at something around his head, light flooded George's vision like a pyrotechnic flash, blinding him for a few moments. All he could see was whiteness, like a never-ending cloud. He wanted to rub his eyes but he still couldn't move his hands. Moments later the glare wore off and George found himself staring at a pair of shiny boots. Black shiny boots. Did God wear boots he wondered? He raised his gaze taking in the blue-black trousers with a knife-edge crease, matching double-breasted jacket with twinkling buttons, a radio, a gun. A gun! George panicked and tried to scrabble backwards. He took several deep breaths before looking again. It wasn't a gun, it was a truncheon. He groaned. 

'Good morning, sir.' The police officer smirked and held up a black mask, like those given out on long-haul flights, between two fingers as if it were a piece of lingerie. He couldn't have been older than George's youngest nephew, pre-pubescent at least. 

'Is it?' George snapped. Why should he be pleasant to some spotty faced policeman? 

The officer raised an eyebrow, his smile replaced with a grim stare and tapped his black shiny toe. 

'Is it morning and is it a good morning, officer? I really have no idea.' George wanted to bite back his words, he'd never been in trouble with the law. Why start now?