Lunch Time
by John Benson
Roger was crossing the road just in front of the Comédie
Française, on his way to his favourite brasserie for lunch, when he saw a
wallet drop out of the handbag of a young woman running for the bus on the
opposite pavement. There were lots
of people about, but when he reached the other side, it was still lying where it
had fallen. He picked it up.
He stood there for a moment, weighing it in his hand
and looking after the woman, who was now pushing at the back of a crowd of
people to get on a bus that had pulled up about 30 yards away.
He was tempted just to hand the damn thing in later on to the police.
It was always difficult to get a table, especially if you arrived after
one o'clock, but then again... With
a sigh, he started off at a brisk pace towards the bus stop, arriving just as
the young lady, easy to pick in the crowd because of her long blond hair, was
getting on. Roger raised his neatly
furled umbrella and cried out as he approached:
‘Excuse me, Miss!
Miss!’
She looked around, searching for the voice in the
crowd. Roger shook his umbrella to
attract her attention and repeated:
‘Excuse me, Miss...’
This produced a most extraordinary effect on her
otherwise pretty face. It twisted
into a horrible grimace of fear and revulsion.
Turning, she stumbled up the steps into the bus, the doors closed, and
the bus started off up the Avenue de l'Opéra.
The last glimpse of the woman he had was her horrified face peering out
of the back window of the bus.
He put his umbrella down, leaned on it, and raised
his eyebrows in surprise. There
must have been some misunderstanding. Why
had she reacted like that? Surely
she wasn't scared of him, after all he was just a 40 year old public servant,
respectable suit, neat, salt and pepper moustache, who was trying to do a good
deed. Nothing to be afraid of, damn
it. Another bus arrived going up
towards the Opéra.
He got on without really thinking about it.
Once on the bus he consulted his watch.
He still had time to catch up with the bus ahead, get on at the next
stop, hand back the wallet, and still be in time to walk back to the restaurant
and at least have a main course. The
waiters all knew him, they'd find him a table somewhere.
He was still bothered by the woman's reaction though.
It actually took 3 stops, all the way up to the Opéra
for the two buses to coincide. Throughout
the brief pursuit, Roger stationed himself at the front of his bus, eyes fixed
on the one ahead, ready to spring out if the young lady got off.
He thought he caught a glimpse of her through the back window at one
stage, but he wasn't sure.
At the Opéra,
he saw he get out of her bus just as his was pulling up, and walk over to the
entrance to the train station. He
leapt down as soon as the doors opened and once again strode over towards her
with his umbrella raised.
‘Miss! Miss!
Please...’
The effect of his voice on her was electrifying.
She stopped in her tracks and spun around, her hand involuntarily raised
to her mouth as if to stifle a cry, with the same look of horror on her face
that he had seen before. He stopped
where he was, a few yards away baffled, then advanced again opening his arms to
explain. She stumbled backwards in
confusion, clutching her bag to her body, turned, and then fled down the
escalator into the bowels of the station.
He just couldn't understand it.
Automatically, he looked down at his body to see what could be the source
of all the embarrassment. Nothing.
Just the same grey suit, striped school tie, handkerchief folded in
pocket. He looked up and caught
sight of himself in a shop window to his left.
The image that greeted him was of a solid-looking, cultivated older man.
A frown creased his forehead. This
had gone far enough ; after all, here he was sacrificing his lunch hour to
try and help a young woman, and she just kept running away from him.
He hurried over to the escalator and started down it, taking two steps at
a time, but being careful not to scuff the heels of his shoes against the metal
edges of the steps.
At the ticket office, he just caught sight of the
woman rush from the window to the turnstiles and pass through.
Quickening his step, he pulled his wallet from his inside breast pocket
and congratulated himself on having the foresight to always have a few spare
tickets just in case ; there was a fair-sized queue.
Passing through, he just saw her disappear down one of the tunnels
leading to a suburban line. He
hurried on.
The twisting underground connection was lengthy and
relatively deserted. He had only
just got her in sight again, she was half running herself, as she exited onto
the platform.
‘Hey!’ he called out in desperation, ‘Wait,
I...’
Far from stopping her, the sound of his voice made
her break into a full run. There
was a train at the platform into which she threw herself, and he could hear the
buzzers going, indicating that the doors were about to shut.
Still about 15 yards away, he sprinted like a madman.
Throwing himself at the closing doors, he managed to just get one arm
through, with the umbrella. He
winced with pain as they clamped together, bruising his arm, and then
desperately levered them apart again using his other arm, knee, and eventually
his shoulders. Once inside, they clacked behind him and the train started
off, with an electric whine.
Panting, angry, he examined his clothes carefully.
There didn't seem to be any marks, but he could feel the sweat under his
armpits and swore under his breath. Now
he'd feel uncomfortable all afternoon. Blast
the girl to all damnation and back! He
looked around the carriage, there were about 20 people and they were all staring
at him. Bothered, he straightened
up, brushed off his clothes, and walked with as much dignity as he could muster
towards the connecting door to the next carriage, into which the girl had got
on.
Strangely, she wasn't in that carriage, so he went
on to the next and then the following. The
train by this time had left the tunnels underneath the city, and was speeding
out to the suburbs. Roger noticed
with annoyance that it was an express ; he'd never get back in time for
lunch now.
In the fourth carriage, which was virtually empty,
he saw her walking along unsteadily on heels towards the connecting door.
He ran forward.
‘Hey you, stop!’
The girl had reached the door and pulled on the
handle frantically. It was locked. Looking
around frantically, she retreated into the last row of seats in the carriage,
and sat like a cornered animal, her eyes round with pure fear, her bag clutched
protectively across her chest. She was breathing very fast.
Roger slowed to a walk, and came up to her.
He took a breath to calm down, noticing in passing that she was actually
rather attractive, wonderful figure, and very young, perhaps only 22 or 23 years
old. He smiled, happy at last to be
able to explain the situation and give her back her wallet.
He waved his umbrella good-naturedly at her.
‘Listen, my dear...’
She screamed. She
screamed like an animal that is in pain, in a trap.
It was a scream that went on far too long, and drilled far into your
head, making you wince.
Roger took a step back. She was obviously deranged.
This was outrageous and he certainly wasn't going to put up with it any
longer. Decided, he put his hand in
his pocket for her wallet and took a step forward to give it back to her.
He'd get off at the first station. It
was then that he noticed she had something in her hand.
It was a small, nasty-looking gun.
He froze.
‘Now just a minute...’ he began sternly.
‘I hate you!’ she screamed, and shot him six
times in the chest. She kept on
pulling the trigger and screaming long after he had fallen to the floor.
A pair of police officers, and a female police
psychologist, went to see Roger's wife that afternoon.
She collapsed in the living room, holding her face in hands, weeping.
Quietly, the psychologist explained that the girl had been horribly
abused by her parents all through her childhood, until it was discovered by a
teacher at her school when she was sixteen.
The police had put the parents away, and the child had subsequently
suffered serious mental difficulties, the doctors called it acute schizophrenia.
She had only been released from a special institution the week before.
‘But why?’ sobbed the wife, ‘I don't
understand, why Roger, why?’
The psychologist took a breath, and looked
uncomfortably at the other officers. They
looked away.
‘It seems...it seems that the father abused the
girl using many...objects, but one of his favourites was an umbrella.’
