So let’s take a look, shall we?

That’s better. Now that I’m up onto my toes, there’s just enough of a view over the powdered soups and 30-second noodle meals to get a decent look at the assistant, sat motionless there behind the counter. If I’d been wearing heels, of course, I’d have had a much better view in the first place, but as this isn’t exactly a formal affair I thought I’d opt for something a lot more comfortable instead – being on your feet all day long can be such a bitch.

But I digress…

So – where is it?

Ah yes, I see it now – four letters, poorly printed on some kind of white tape on a plastic badge pinned there beneath the dreadfully tacky Travsure corporate logo: AZIZ.

Now I have to say I do like what I’ve heard about Aziz.  He certainly seems to be an excellent choice, even if I do say so myself – a good worker and extremely conscientious, traits that are becoming far too hard to find these days, let alone in someone aged just… what is he now? Ah yes – 19. Usually such a difficult age I’ve found, particularly in boys. Still, my sources tell me that the lad is conspicuously polite and demonstrates an unwavering respect to his parents, which I always think is a good start, don’t you? Apparently, he has few genuine friends, but he maintains those relationships he does form preciously well, despite that overriding tendency for solitude. Most impressive of all, however, he rarely seems prone to any of those juvenile hang-ups that seem to affect each and every generation now with ever-greater severity. What is it with this country – all that chalk in the water, perhaps? Or just the inevitable consequence of war, famine and pestilence drifting so far from day to day consideration that simply being thankful for one’s health and security no longer registers in the thought-stream of your average teenager?

I don’t know – the kids of today, eh?

Anyhow, I’m rambling, which is particularly annoying as that happens to be a trait I despise intensely – must be nerves, I guess. And yes, I do have them, despite what the others may say to the contrary.

So where were we?

Ah, yes – Aziz. As I was saying, a fine young man and someone who always seems to generate genuine feelings of affection in those who’ve come to know him. The type of person, in fact, that people will all one day clamour to describe as ‘such a popular boy’.

But only once he’s dead, of course.

Dead? 

My, my – why such morbidity, I hear you ask?  Here, in the small hours of an August morning – a Sunday, if I’m not mistaken – in a petrol station shop devoid of customers and with nothing more threatening in the air than the continual squeak of Aziz’ dilapidated chair?

My apologies. I must admit that sometimes I just can’t seem to help myself – call it a professional interest, if you will. And before you start to fret, let me assure you that our good man has no need to fear for his life. At least, not through any intervention on my part.

Not today.

Of course, there are always other ways to die – ways in which neither my good self nor any of my associates might be involved. If you don’t believe me, just look at him now – elbow planted on the counter and the long fingers of one hand lodged fast in that thick, jet-black hair of his. Okay, so if you were here in my place, watching him absently spinning that pencil in his fingers, you could be forgiven for scoffing at any thought of possible danger. I mean – pencil spinning? Hardly a drama, is it? 

But consider this – what if the pins and needles, just now beginning to tingle in his hand, were to go on ignored and unchecked? And what if that tingle was to turn to a shallow numbness, causing his head – weary from a long shift and too little sleep – to topple forward? Just think of the potential damage to be caused if the young man’s fine features were to be pitted against the solid intractability of the counter – hardly a fair contest, wouldn’t you say? And that’s without the potential intervention of the pencil – perhaps resting in his fingers with the freshly-sharpened lead pointing skyward, ideally placed to first pierce the eye socket and then lodge itself in the soft tissue of the brain.

But fear not. I should say that the risk is less than minimal all the while those big dark eyes of his continue to focus on the wash of doodles spilling out from the hellish instrument of death that is a well-manicured HB2.

And why such confidence, I hear you ask?

Well – let’s just call it a woman’s intuition, shall we? You know, I think the lad could become quite the artist if he could just apply himself a bit more.  Sadly, his creative output has yet to stretch beyond a trail of unfinished works, many of which seem to convey a strange sense of… transmutation.  These odd – some might say bizarre – pictures only serve to underline the ease with which his mind tends to become bored of a concept, long before it’s fully realised.  But he’s still young of course. And for now, at least, he still has time.

“What the…?”

Excellent!

I hope you’ll forgive me if I exude an air of smug satisfaction but, having lifted my eyes to see what deed has prompted such a mumble to escape Aziz’ young lips, I see that we’ve now been joined by a second figure, fussing over by one of those large refrigerators – ‘chiller cabinets’, I suppose one would call them. Granted, the image might not sound likely to set one’s juices flowing, but bear with me if you will – I do believe things are just about to become a little bit more interesting!

And if you’re worried about my judgement on that issue, perhaps you should consider Aziz’ own reaction to the situation – the mouth beneath that slightly beaked nose is now hanging wide open and making him look quite the half-wit, while those long, thick eyelashes continue to blink away quite furiously. Why, it’s almost as if the lad’s not quite sure whether he’s dreaming or not!

Poor Aziz.

If there’s one thing I can tell you for certain, it’s that this is definitely no dream.

“How… how did you get in here?”

You know, the human face such a wonderful canvass for sketching out every mood, feeling and emotion, isn’t it? See, even now, as the young man lifts himself from the squeaky chair to point over to the night-hatch, there can be no doubt as to what he’s feeling – needless to say, confusion tends to be a very frequent epitaph to my little visits.

“You’re supposed to come to the window if you want something!”

Well of course you are.

And in the circumstances I think you have to give him credit for putting up what is, in all fairness, a rather decent mask of composure. Especially when you take into account the fact that our new arrival has appeared inside the shop where, at this particular hour, no customer has any right to be.

And yes, now that he’s finally arrived – well, it would have to be a he, wouldn’t it – what can we make of our mystery shopper?

Well, based on what I can tell from this vantage point it would be rather generous to say that the fellow is particularly shabby-looking. His appearance could suggest an Afro-Caribbean or possibly mixed-race origin, although that’s by no means certain given the generally bizarre nature of his image. I’d say his head has recently – and rather hastily, it seems – been shaved, leaving several patches of white stubble to contrast with a collection of rather unappealing scabs and blemishes. Indeed, beneath several layers of dirt and grime it looks as though the map of some alien planet might actually be tattooed onto his scalp. And, as this most unlikely of intruders now turns to face his inquisitor, his features do seem filled with the confusion of someone who’s just have arrived at the end of a very long voyage from a far, far-distant galaxy.

If such things weren’t the stuff of nonsense, of course.

“Wass ’iss s’posed to be?”

Well, it’s hardly the most eloquent of introductions, is it? And I could certainly do without seeing quite so much of the inside of that mouth, I can tell you. I mean, just look at the stains on those teeth! And that’s before the added joy of all that thick, milky saliva with which they seem to be lubricated.

All in all, it’s a quite ghastly sight to behold – gross, as I do believe some of Aziz’ young friends might well put it.

Anyhow, he’s now holding out what I believe to be a pre-packaged sausage-roll, recently selected – no doubt with utmost care – from the aforementioned chiller cabinet.

“Is ’iss shit atcherly… eatidable?”

Eatidable?

I have to say it’s not a colloquialism I’m particularly familiar with, but never mind – I’m sure once he’s finished all that sniffing he’ll find the appropriate answer to his own question, even if he persists in ignoring poor Aziz’ opening gambit. And then, of course there’s…

Oh, honestly!

I can understand how the absence of suitable sensory stimulation from the plastic wrapping might cause our friend some degree of confusion, but that’s hardly an excuse for him to slip a dirty finger deep into his left nostril, is it?

“How did you get in here?”

Good question, Aziz, and one that takes us right to the crux of the matter. Although, I have to say I do think the lad might’ve been better off waiting for an answer before dragging that big bundle of keys all the way over to the shop entrance. After all, that door should’ve been properly secured right at the beginning of his shift and I hardly think someone as conscientious as our young man here would’ve overlooked such a core task. It would just be so out of character, wouldn’t it?

“Why d’ya ’ave to cover ev’ry flippin’ finggy in plastickity?”

Yes, well, perhaps not such a pertinent question. And not particularly well put, either, although…

For heaven’s sake!

And I was so trying to keep my eyes away from that little treat. Alas, judging by the way the fingers of our vocabulary-challenged friend are now flicking this way and that, it seems a pretty good bet that he’s trying to dispose of something sticky secured on one of those recent excavations. And if that isn’t disgusting enough – mega-gross, perhaps? – there’s also that flood of saliva dancing excitedly on his lips too. By the looks of things, it seems to be exercising some misplaced notion of free-will and trying desperately to escape that filthy orifice.

“Put it down, please!”

You see – such politeness, even in the face of what is clearly a most difficult and stressful situation. I told you Aziz was a good choice, didn’t I? Even if he will insist on rattling that shop door beyond any reasonable length of time. Enough, already!

I mean, surely he’s deduced by now that yes, the door is still perfectly secure, just as he left it at the beginning of his shift? Just as the Standard Operating Procedure says it should be.

Ah yes, don’t you just love SOPs?

Having moved to follow our young hero’s path from squeaky chair to secure door, I have to say I’m now much better placed to appraise the somewhat ridiculous appearance of our undesirable night caller. On his feet, he seems to be wearing a pair of trainers so old and filthy it’s impossible to judge whether they actually started out life together. Beneath a long, black raincoat – a coat, I might add, that looks suspiciously like it was designed for more feminine tastes – he’s sporting a pair of surprisingly clean khaki shorts and a very tight green and yellow striped top that seems to suggest something of Marcia Brady, circa 1973 – good year for the album charts, perhaps, but the least said about fashion, the better.

Anyhow, the legs exposed beneath the hem of those shorts appear to be suffering from the same kind of blemishes that mark the top of his head, whilst the dirt on his knees looks as though it’s mixed in with a fair amount of dried blood. And yes, before you start worrying unnecessarily about his intentions for our young artist, I think we can assume it’s his own.

“What are you doing?  You can’t do that, yeah?”

Oh, how sweet! I have to say it’s really quite refreshing to see someone prepared to voice some genuine outrage at such blatantly unacceptable behaviour. The lad should watch himself, mind – I wonder if he realises how closely he resembles his father, wagging a reprimanding finger as the vagrant continues to struggle with the offending wrapper and get to the sumptuous, high quality food-stuffs within?

“I said – leave that alone!”

“Wha’?”

Ah, I do believe we’ve established first contact. As well as the Neanderthal grunt, it’s the sudden, tell-tale jerk of the head that gives it away, as though a tiny creature that’s been annoying his subconscious for some time has finally registered in his thoughts – a fly perhaps, or possibly a bee, too drunk on the nectar it carried to worry about the smell emanating from the miscreant’s person.

And what a smell it is!

You know, for one such as I, the opportunity to witness the day to day events of the world at the pace with which the globe actually turns are few and far between. And it’s precisely because these occasions are so rare – when circumstances demand a very particular level of scrutiny on my part – that I sometimes find the accompanying flow of sensory information to be deliciously overwhelming. But do I now get to enjoy any of the rich and wonderful aromas the world had to offer? A bouquet of freesias perhaps? Or freshly mown grass? Or a pot of freshly brewed, Kenyan coffee?

Do I buggery!

No, all muggins here gets to savour is the disgusting, overly sweet hum of stale body odour. And do you know, it’s got quite a distinctive tang about it too, reminding me of a time one Guys Fawkes Night back in the early eighties when I had an appointment with a somewhat over-enthusiastic reveller – an accountant, would you believe – at the end of a particularly intense Twelfth Night gig in London’s Wardour Street.

Remember, remember…

Of course, I’m hardly in a position to complain about foul odours, disgusting sights or any other mildly offensive stimuli. This visit has not, after all, been designed for my own self-indulgence and I certainly wouldn’t expect my itinerary to pamper to the needs of my own long-starved senses. We are, let me remind you, in the less than salubrious surroundings of the Ganston Nine Services – silly name, but rather poetic in its own, sad way – and if I was to consider locations for some well-deserved R&R, this certainly wouldn’t have made my Z-list, let alone top the A’s.

A girl does have standards, after all!

Having said all that, I suspect the fragrant vagrant accompanying me here today is nothing less than a calculated choice – a convenient happenstance to remind me of the folly of my own youth and that decision of mine to…

But, of course, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? And if I’m not mistaken, our pungent little friend has just managed to prize open the packaging of the sausage roll – which is surely a feat worthy of closer attention, don’t you think?

“No!”

I have to say there’s a certain satisfying synchronicity in the way that Aziz’ horrified gasp and the captive sausage roll have both managed to find their release at the exact same time. Somewhat less satisfying, it has to be said, is the way the plastic wrapper has split right open to send a shower of flaky pastry all over the shop floor.

Trust the boys to end up making a complete mess!

“Look – I’m sorry, you’ve got to leave now.”

Well, you have to admit the young man continues to display an impressive calm, even if the panic starting to show in his eyes rather undermines that determined set to his shoulders and the steady hand with which he’s pointing to the door.

“Come on, out you go…”

“Know wha’ I reckons?”

Well, to be honest I’m not sure we really care, do we? Although, on second thoughts, if that mischievous glint in his eyes is in any way connected to the sausage-roll he’s just retrieved from the shop floor, then perhaps…

“I’s reckons that… like, I’m of a thinkin’ mind… that this ’ere pastry… what I’s have ’ere…”

Oh, just get on with it, man!

“… belongs to yooze. Wha’ ya thinkin’ o’ that then, eh?”

“What… what do think you’re doing, yeah?”

Well, I have to admit Aziz is certainly possessed of some impressive reflexes – if dodging flying pasties ever gets selected as an Olympic sport, our young fellow could yet make an inspiring team captain!

“Look, I’m doing my best to be reasonable, yeah, but if you’re going to be difficult then I’m going to have to…”

“It’s all just processed shite…”

Quite possibly. But I do think, on balance, all those pies and pasties would be better left in the chiller cabinet where they belong, don’t you?

“… and you’d be blinkin’ mad to wanna be eatin’ this stuff. Mad, mad, mad!”

Suffice it to say, our interlocutor is hardly one to throw stones, is he?

“I’ve warned you…”

You know, that’s a really decent glower the young man’s got going there, not to mention some pretty accomplished finger wagging. And all whilst being subjected to a continuous rain of pastry-based products. You see – men can multi-task when they really need to!

“… this is all being taped you see…”

Ah, yes, the security cameras.

“… so they’ll know exactly what you’ve been doing, yeah? They’ll know I’ve given you plenty of opportunity to… hey, stop it!”

Alas, judging from the way our mischievous little friend is now literally running in circles around the small aisle of convenience foods in the middle of the shop I can only conclude that he’s not really listening. Particularly as he’s now singing a joyful little ditty, apparently entitled “Ain’t fit for a ’orse” – at least, judging by the monotonous regularity with which those words seem to appear in both verse and chorus.

“You listening to me? This is your last chance, understand? Listen… I’m calling the Police, yeah…”

Ah yes, the Authorities. What a damn fine idea.

“An it ain’t even fit enough for a fitless flyin’ ’orse…”

Well I must say, it’s always so nice to see someone enjoy themselves with such gay abandon. And our cross-dressing friend seems to be gaining immense pleasure from his song too, hopping now from one foot to the other whilst showing no sign at all of tiring from all this revelry.

“They’ll lock you up, yeah, if you…”

Ouch!

I do believe one of those rather unappetising packets of spicy noodles has just caught Aziz square on the temple. I mean, okay, so it’s not like it was a tin of tomatoes or chilli baked beans – now that would’ve been serious – but I still think it must’ve stung quite a bit, don’t you? 

“Hello – yes, it’s the garage at the Ganston Nine Services. I’ve got a nutter in here… he’s broken in, yeah, and he’s throwing stuff all over the… hey!”

Oh dear.

For a moment there, I’d thought all that giddying-about must’ve made our friend feel sick – and it would’ve jolly well served him right, too – but as the now-wilted swan stands before us with his head slumped down and one arm stretched out to the to support his weight, it’s clear he’s got other things on his mind right now. Yes folks, unless I’m very much mistaken, it’s time for a long-overdue comfort break!

And that’s not really playing by the rules, is it?

“That’s it – I’ve had enough!”

Well, the lad’s certainly given it a good go, for sure, but the sound of his patience finally snapping can definitely be heard echoing through every one of those syllables. And with this point in proceedings satisfactorily attained, now comes the really tricky bit…

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Alas, for one so recently inducted – albeit unknowingly – into the hero game I have to say Aziz is, physically speaking, a tad on the slight side. Certainly, a regular weekly trip or three to the gym wouldn’t go amiss, but such deficiencies do only make the way in which he’s just put his shoulder into the tramp’s side and bundled him over to the door all the more impressive, don’t you think?

So, anyway, with the offensive little chap having been ejected out into the night with a few of Aziz’ own choice insults following after, everything’s finally back to normal. Job done and a grand evening’s display all round – some storming performances from our central cast, all brought out by some damn fine direction.

But what of the next act in this as-yet unwritten drama?

“Just look at this mess!”

Yes, well there’s no point crying over spilt milk, is there? Even if the flood from that two-pint carton our miscreant friend accidentally stomped all over during his dance has now emptied itself out under the refrigerators. I dare say it won’t start smelling really bad until much later. Tomorrow, probably, or even the day after.

And let’s face it – by then, an awful lot of people will be past caring.

Still, you probably think it quite harsh of me not to feel some degree of sympathy for the young man as he’s left now to gather up the products left scattered by the transvestite-super-tornado, and you may well be right. Truth is, I’m afraid that’s just the way it has to be.

Once bitten, as they say…

So what’s Aziz up to now then, eh?

Ah yes, there he is – still gathering up packets of pasta, teabags and biscuits and generally doing a damn fine job of…

Bingo!

See that? It was right there in the way that his deflated body suddenly tensed, leaving his eyes now practically standing on stalks.

“Oh shit!”

Oh now look, that’s just a waste, isn’t it? I mean, having spent the last few minutes picking up all those displaced items there’s no need to just scatter them all over floor again, is there?

Men, eh – why do they always have to hide at the back of the queue whenever common sense is being handed out?

“Hello?”

Well, it’s about time he returned to the phone. Question is – will the Emergency Services still be holding on the other end of the line?

“Hello – oh yes, I’m back, yeah… sorry… yeah… look, I…”

Oh, do stop all that aimless swishing and concentrate boy – it’s only an insect, for goodness sake, and your flapping hand isn’t going to help it home any quicker, I can assure you. 

“… I managed to deal with him on my own, yeah, so…”

“Excuse me?”

Well, well – who have we here, I wonder?

“Look, you need to go out and pay… at… the window…”

Is it just me or did those last few words escape the young man’s lips in a slow and unnaturally deliberate measure, like a musical box slowly running out of steam? It’s as though he’s found himself in the grip of some strong inebriation, making it difficult for him to get his brain into gear.

“Pay?”

Now, of course, it’s the turn of our new arrival – a young woman, a year or two older than Aziz – to look confused. And with much better reason, I must say.

“I … I don’t want to pay.  I seem…”

See how hard she swallowed?

That’s panic, that is. And you can see it even more pronounced in the way her eyes continue to flick left and right as if absorbing the substance of her surroundings for the very first time.

“… I seem to be hurt.  Can you… help me?”

Of course, it would be rude of me to try and speculate on the thoughts that might be racing through the minds of these two young people, much less the more intangible feelings they might be experiencing. For my own part, however, I must admit that in watching Aziz consider the question posed by the young woman it almost feels as though – ridiculous an idea as it might be – it’s now my turn to feel nervous. 

Once again, his eyes are stretched wide and disbelieving as he and the slim white girl before him both drop their gazes to stare at the condition of her blouse. Clearly, it had been a vivid yellow at some point in the past. But, as she takes hold of the damp fabric between finger and thumb and gently pulls the clinging material away from her body it is, I concede, difficult to register anything but the huge blood-stain that’s decorating her chest.

“Hello? Yes, I’m still here… yeah… yeah, that’s right – we do still need the Police…” 

Ah, yes – such calmness when it really matters.

Very reassuring.

“… and an ambulance, too, yeah? Yeah, of course someone’s hurt – please hurry.”

And what now for the young woman before him?

Well, she’s still glancing from side to side, anxiously taking in more of her surroundings as the long, platted pony-tail slowly bobs behind her shoulders. And there – was that a slight wobble, coinciding with a gentle flutter in her eyelids and…

Oh, well done that man!

True to form, Aziz has leapt forward and caught the bloodstained and unconscious form of the young woman at the very moment she slowly began to collapse, so denying the counter yet another opportunity to pit its robust construction against flesh and bone.

So there we have it. Before us, our hero has the girl cradled tightly in his arms, his wide eyes readily absorbing every contour of her narrow face and his bearing already marking him out as her protector.

And that, I do believe, is job done.

And what of me?

Well, for the first time in a very long time, it feels as though everything is actually now under control. The hardest part of this task has successfully been accomplished and I don’t think I’m being too premature in saying that, this time, everything’s going to turn out all right.

Which means, of course, that when I report back on all this they will have to finally get off my case… 

© Justin Peter Beaney 2008 - No part of the above text may be reproduced in any format without the permission of the Author.

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