standing tall, something military about his bearing. For a second or so, Toby is convinced that the man believes him to be homeless and is about to press a coin or two into his hand along with an injunction to spend none of it on booze. Then he understands—a folded copy of the Evening Standard is held in the stranger’s hand.
“First edition. Hot off the presses. Found it at the station. I’d only throw it in there otherwise.” He glances towards the litter bin which stands beside the bench.
Years of training—upbringing and education—mean that courtesy is Toby’s only consideration. He thanks the man and takes the folded paper.
The stranger nods. “Thought you might like something to read with your chips.”
“I appreciate it.”
The man lingers. “Course I remember when they used to wrap them in it. Chips. Fish and chips in newspaper.”
Toby nods with feigned enthusiasm.
“Isn’t allowed nowadays, is it? On account of a few youngsters feeling sick on the taste of the newsprint. Well, we did—we all did at first—but we got used to it. One of the things which marked out my generation, that was: ironclad stomachs.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s probably true.”
“We fought a war on it. Bellies of steel.”
“I don’t suppose I’d ever thought of it that way.”
“Of course it’s rare to even find them wrapped in any sort of paper at all these days. It’s all plastic and Styrofoam now. Shouldn’t be surprised. We live in a plastic and Styrofoam world after all. Don’t we? Nothing real. Nothing natural.”
“Oh, I agree.”
The two men exchange a look of unexpected intergenerational camaraderie. Then the older of the two nods again—“grand chatting to you”—and steps, with stately briskness, away.
With a swell of melancholy, Toby watches him go, as the old man’s stern figure dwindles to a dot along the front. Then he opens the Evening Standard and glares, with an almost lackadaisical quality which will soon seem in retrospect to be absurd, at the newspaper’s headline.
Three seconds later, he is doubled over, his head between his knees, regurgitating his lunch onto the tarmac, feeling all at once more bleak and hopeless than he ever has before.
U PON HIS EVENTUAL recovery, acting instinctively and forgetting the facts of the matter in the pure sensation of the moment, Toby’s first thought is to attempt to phone his wife. Stumbling away from the bench and from those terrible words that are upon the front page, he reaches for his mobile, summons up her number and presses the call button. Oddly yet, somehow, not wholly unexpectedly, there is no connection, only a shrill, elongated sound, then silence. He tries again. The result is the same. Another number. Same again. The battery is fine, his credit should be ample. He gives it one more attempt. A shriek, then silence.
He wonders—and he has no idea if such a thing is even possible—whether the phone might not be interrupted, or blocked, in some way. After what he has just read there is nothing now which seems entirely beyond the pale.
Overhead, a seabird whoops and screeches as if in mockery of him.
Then, in the distance, like something glimpsed from the past, Toby catches sight of a red phone box. That most antiquated of notions: a public telephone. Wondering at their continued existence, he reclaims his sports bag, then walks on. A breeze picks up and he smells salt for the first time. He hurries on. Behind him, the pages of the Standard turn in the draught, rustling and sighing slyly.
T HE BOX IS further away than it first seemed and, for a while, as Toby walks towards it, as quickly as his churning nausea will allow, he even begins to speculate that the thing might be some optical illusion, a mirage conjured by a mind still grappling with horror. In painful increments, however, the cherry-red booth hoves gradually nearer until at last his hand pulls open the heavy iron door and he steps inside.
How
“First edition. Hot off the presses. Found it at the station. I’d only throw it in there otherwise.” He glances towards the litter bin which stands beside the bench.
Years of training—upbringing and education—mean that courtesy is Toby’s only consideration. He thanks the man and takes the folded paper.
The stranger nods. “Thought you might like something to read with your chips.”
“I appreciate it.”
The man lingers. “Course I remember when they used to wrap them in it. Chips. Fish and chips in newspaper.”
Toby nods with feigned enthusiasm.
“Isn’t allowed nowadays, is it? On account of a few youngsters feeling sick on the taste of the newsprint. Well, we did—we all did at first—but we got used to it. One of the things which marked out my generation, that was: ironclad stomachs.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s probably true.”
“We fought a war on it. Bellies of steel.”
“I don’t suppose I’d ever thought of it that way.”
“Of course it’s rare to even find them wrapped in any sort of paper at all these days. It’s all plastic and Styrofoam now. Shouldn’t be surprised. We live in a plastic and Styrofoam world after all. Don’t we? Nothing real. Nothing natural.”
“Oh, I agree.”
The two men exchange a look of unexpected intergenerational camaraderie. Then the older of the two nods again—“grand chatting to you”—and steps, with stately briskness, away.
With a swell of melancholy, Toby watches him go, as the old man’s stern figure dwindles to a dot along the front. Then he opens the Evening Standard and glares, with an almost lackadaisical quality which will soon seem in retrospect to be absurd, at the newspaper’s headline.
Three seconds later, he is doubled over, his head between his knees, regurgitating his lunch onto the tarmac, feeling all at once more bleak and hopeless than he ever has before.
U PON HIS EVENTUAL recovery, acting instinctively and forgetting the facts of the matter in the pure sensation of the moment, Toby’s first thought is to attempt to phone his wife. Stumbling away from the bench and from those terrible words that are upon the front page, he reaches for his mobile, summons up her number and presses the call button. Oddly yet, somehow, not wholly unexpectedly, there is no connection, only a shrill, elongated sound, then silence. He tries again. The result is the same. Another number. Same again. The battery is fine, his credit should be ample. He gives it one more attempt. A shriek, then silence.
He wonders—and he has no idea if such a thing is even possible—whether the phone might not be interrupted, or blocked, in some way. After what he has just read there is nothing now which seems entirely beyond the pale.
Overhead, a seabird whoops and screeches as if in mockery of him.
Then, in the distance, like something glimpsed from the past, Toby catches sight of a red phone box. That most antiquated of notions: a public telephone. Wondering at their continued existence, he reclaims his sports bag, then walks on. A breeze picks up and he smells salt for the first time. He hurries on. Behind him, the pages of the Standard turn in the draught, rustling and sighing slyly.
T HE BOX IS further away than it first seemed and, for a while, as Toby walks towards it, as quickly as his churning nausea will allow, he even begins to speculate that the thing might be some optical illusion, a mirage conjured by a mind still grappling with horror. In painful increments, however, the cherry-red booth hoves gradually nearer until at last his hand pulls open the heavy iron door and he steps inside.
How
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