Short Story
Die seltsamen Personen im Sitzungsraum, der nette Herr, der sie am Abend nach Hause begleitet hatte, die Frau im Hidschab auf dem Platz neben sich im Bus – alles nur Einbildung oder vielleicht doch Wirklichkeit? Von JAMES SCHOFIELD
The Impressions (3)
”SO WHAT’S THE PLAN THEN?” SAID A VOICE IN HER EAR. “WE HAVEN’T GOT LONG, YOU KNOW”
Felicity sat up in bed with a start and looked around her room. It was reassuringly normal: her books on the bookshelf, pictures on the wall, mobile phone on the table — all very 21st century. What an extraordinary dream! She yawned, scratched her head and gave a little cry of pain as she discovered a large bump on her head. That must be the reason, she thought. She’d bumped her head, come home, gone straight to bed and dreamed about those strange people. All because of that bloody cupboard door.
She wandered into the kitchen of the flat she shared with two other young women, Julie and Paula, and put on the kettle for some tea. Julie was eating breakfast and texting.
“So,” she said to Felicity through a mouthful of toast, “who was that who brought you home late last night then? He sounded very posh.” Felicity dropped her spoon. “Brought me home? What time was that?”
“After midnight. I heard you come in and someone saying goodnight to you at the door. Lovely voice he had. Very respectful. Much nicer than that other boyfriend you used to bring back here — what was his name?”
“Aiden Duchenny,” said Paula as she sat down opposite Julie and poured the water Felicity had just boiled on to a teabag for herself. “Or Aiden the Douchebag, as I like to call him.”
At the beginning of her last year at university, Felicity had made the mistake of falling in love with Aiden, a guest lecturer on her course. Just before her final exams, she’d discovered he had a wife and two children that he’d forgotten to tell her about. Julie and Paula had had to spend the next four weeks making Felicity get up, study and go to her exams, when all she’d wanted to do was hide in bed.
“That’s it, Aiden! Nasty piece of work,” said Julie. “Always putting you down. Anyway, the bloke who brought you back last night sounded much nicer. Where’d you meet him?”
“Just somebody from the office,” answered Felicity, not knowing what she could possibly say. “Oh, is that the time? Got to go!” and she disappeared off to the bathroom to get ready for work.
On the bus ride, she thought hard as she looked out the window. So it hadn’t been a dream then. If Julie had heard Frederick Tumble after he’d insisted on making sure she got home safely, then it had all really happened. The meeting in the boardroom,
the strange group of people (what had they called themselves? Impressions… that was it!), the promise to help…
“So, what’s the plan then?” said a voice in her ear. “We haven’t got long, you know. Are you doing what you need to do?”
Felicity turned and found Mrs Twizleton, one of the Impressions, sitting down next to her. The ladydetective was now wearing a hijab and had a large Marks & Spencer’s bag on her knees, which helped her blend in, although the tips of her Victorianstyle boots could still be seen from under her long dress.
“I thought you could benefit from my assistance,” she continued. “I realized I may look a little unusual to most other passengers on this omnibus in my usual clothes, so I put on this disguise in case the ticket inspector can see me. But, as I said before, we must hurry. There is no time to waste.”
“Well… um… I…,” began Felicity.
“Tickets, please,” said a ticket inspector coming up the stairs to the upper deck. He was a large Sikh with a turban, an impressive beard and a fierce eye. Felicity never travelled without a ticket but hated the feeling of panic the inspectors always caused in her. Mrs Twizleton showed something to the man, who barely looked at her, as Felicity looked frantically in her bag.
“I know it’s here somewhere,” she said, wondering for the millionth time why bags were made with black interiors, making it impossible to find anything.
“Please hurry, miss. I don’t have all day,” the inspector said impatiently. He pulled out a notebook and started tapping it with his pen.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t find it now. I definitely put it in here…,” at which point she managed to drop her bottle of mineral water on to the floor. The top flew off, and it rolled around the top part of the bus, spraying water everywhere. Somebody behind her tuttutted. Mrs Twizleton looked straight ahead and ignored everything.
The inspector sighed, rescued the bottle and returned it to Felicity, who was by now redfaced with embarrassment. He opened his notebook.
“Name?”
***
At St Paul’s, the two women got off the bus together and headed towards the bank.
“Here you are,” said Mrs Twizleton, handing Felicity back her missing travel card.
“You stole it from me? Why did you do that?” “Well, I thought it best if he didn’t notice me. If I hadn’t shown him a ticket, he’d have paid too much attention to me.”
“But now I have to pay a fine! And how did you get it out of my bag without me seeing you, anyway?”
“Learned that from ‘Fingers’ O’neill,” said Mrs Twizleton. “Finest pickpocket and cutpurse in 19thcentury London. He could steal the socks off a man’s feet while he was still wearing his shoes. Taught me everything I know. But that’s enough about me. You still haven’t told me about your plans.”
To be continued in the next issues
“HE COULD STEAL THE SOCKS OFF A MAN’S FEET WHILE HE WAS STILL WEARING HIS SHOES”