From Hero to Zero
Mate, you can’t blame me. It’s just, you know, just human nature. I guess in the end, that’s how they knew. The wankers.
I still find myself wasting the little time I have left, wondering if the result would have been different if they’d chosen someone else. I wonder what would have happened if I had made another decision – taken the red pill instead of the blue one? It’s odd, isn’t it? Just being that one bloke in the wrong place at the wrong time … suppose I’ll never know now, eh? The only thing certain is my very bleak future – yours too. The domino effect, I guess it’s called; and mate, this big old world is about to come crashing down.
The wife and I had a miserable break up; turns out the old girl was cheating on me. Funny that. How you believe when you stand at that alter and say ‘forever’ in front of all those witnesses, the ones that matter, it could never go this wrong. But here I am: dragged into a shit-storm because of one moment.
So I went away. I needed some time to clear my head. The lads, bless ‘em, recommended somewhere sunny; somewhere away from the depressing, British winter. A new life, a new start, a new opportunity. So I went. I’d never been on holiday alone before, it was a bit of a daunting prospect. Where do I go? What do I do? Do I get a taxi from the airport, or what? It was always Mona’s thing to be the freakishly organised one – the way she fussed over details! Kinda miss that now.
Eventually, I arrived at my destination. The beaches, I tell you, were like nothing I’d ever seen. This place was paradise - straight out of a Hollywood film. The sea was crystal clear. Never in my life had I felt so peaceful. It was definitely just what the doctor ordered.
On my first day, I explored the area. Of course I spent time sampling the local beers and even those rainbow cocktails they serve in those coconut glasses with silly paper umbrellas, like in the films. In the evening, I had the full experience of all the nightlife the island had to offer. Usually I’d be a bit stand-offish; I’m not a bloke to go wandering all over a strange place alone. However after way too much of the good life, the good food, and the good tipple, I was feeling the old Brit courage. It served me a little too well, and I ended up in one of those beach hut nightclubs, with the cheap disco lights, and an odd looking DJ who, judging by his music choice – and his shirt, must have crawled out of the 1960s. Jesus. Talk about mixing drinks; made me wish I’d listened to Si back home – he’s always banging on about sticking to the same booze on a bender.
I still don’t know how I got back to my hotel. My head hurt. Lots. It hurt like the time Mona threw her dinner plate at me and caught me square in the temple. It didn’t bleed any, but the beat of the blood pumping in my ears was deafening, and the headache that followed felt like the earth cracked through the back of my skull and tore right through my brain – that throbbing felt as though the grey stuff had liquefied and was about to come pissing outta my nose.
I didn’t hit her. Mona. I wanted to; but I didn’t. That’s the important thing, right? You’d think it was a sign, if any, that there was something very wrong in our marriage. Mate, she was completely mental and her abusive behaviour was not exactly what you could call ‘happy ever after’ stuff. That night, she left. I didn’t know then where she went to, but it should have been obvious; probably was to anyone but this mug, this mug who so desperately wanted things to stay as they were.
But you know what? I never wanted to lose my wife. I loved her. I need you to know that.
On the island, I spent my last night with a local prostitute. You’d have thought after years of bad marriage and the complete lack of sex to match it would put me all over that island girl, right? And at first, it really did. She was gorgeous.
‘Would you like a drink, love?’ I asked her in my most charming voice.
‘Yes, thank you’ she blushed and nodded. She looked quite young, early twenties I reckon. Her blushing was a good sign. Maybe I still had it after all?
‘What’s your name, then?’ I asked, moving a little closer but feeling really awkward. ‘I’m from England, my name is - ‘
And then suddenly she lunged forward, her strong slender arms around my neck. She pushed her soft mouth onto my own, her tongue searching deep for mine. Completely overwhelmed, I kissed her back and let her walk me over to the bed. I noticed she was standing on her tip toes. Her delicate, manicured feet well in charge of the situation, like the salsa instructor who trained Mona and me for our wedding dance. Oh God. Mona? What the hell is wrong with me?
I wrapped my hands under the girl’s tight little arse and lifted her onto me. Skillfully she wrapped her beautiful bronze legs around my waist like a snake slithering around a charmer’s pole. We fell onto the bed at once. She was all over me like a bad rash, a really good bad rash, if you get my meaning. Her hands moved down my body; I was in a whole other kind of paradise. I gasped loudly, hardly able to keep my breath steady. She knew how to do things that Mona could never have. Mona. I have to stop thinking of her.
The island girl pulled me up, and sat on my lap. She looked straight through me with her huge, brown doe-like eyes – a guy could fall in love with eyes like that. She was beautiful. ‘Do you like me, baby?’ she teased with an innocent soft giggle.
That was Mona’s favourite line when we were making love. She’d always stop at a crucial moment and ask me in that same teasing voice. I couldn’t. I was done.
The girl noticed the sudden change in me, and my …uh, well I couldn’t quite get myself to perform, know what I mean? Don’t get me wrong, I mean, yeah, I really wanted her; she was gorgeous, but … Mona.
The girl ran her skilled hands down my limp body to try regain momentum, but I quickly stopped her. I felt sick. Dirty. Like a cheat.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this’, I said, half to the islander, half to myself.
She reached up and gently brushed my cheek with the side of her petite hand.
‘We try later?’ she smiled. ‘Is okay. I dun mind’, she reassured in her broken English.
‘No. No, I just - ‘, I took her hands from my face. ‘Look. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave’, I said awkwardly.
What was I thinking? The lads back home will never let me live this down. Guess I’d have to take this one to my grave.
The island girl had three degrees of hurt in those big, beautiful eyes. That’s really not what I wanted. I never wanted to hurt anyone. Somehow, I seem to mess that one up - always. I tried to give her some money, but she just looked at me accusingly, like I’d broken her favourite teddy bear or something. Teddy bear? Shit. She was so young.
‘Look, lovely. It’s best that you go, okay?’ I tried gently.
‘You no like me?’ she whimpered.
‘No, it’s not that. I just … I …’
I couldn’t even look her in the eye. There really were no words to explain, but I didn’t have to. She grabbed her things and ran off.
From then on the only thing I felt compelled to do was feel guilty about it all. Thing is, on a technicality, Mona and I were still married. It obviously never meant a thing to her, but I swear I could still feel my wedding band burning into my skin that night. The ‘forever’ I promised certainly snuffed out any earlier carnal urges the booze had brought on.
Mona always did have a way of emasculating me; making me feel smaller and smaller until I felt worthless to anyone: until now. I guess she’ll be forced to remember me soon enough - for something other than the good screwing her lawyer gave me in the divorce proceedings. It was a good one too. They practically bankrupted me. Took the house, the car, even half the business – the one I built with buckets of my own blood and sweat. Not that any of that matters now. Kinda ironic, when you think about it. The crap that got me to this point, none of it will matter in a few days. Not to me. Not to Mona. Hell, not even to you, mate.
Other than my awkward last night, the holiday was great and I returned home with at least 6lbs more around my bright red belly, a few new friends on Facebook, and of course: that package.
You know how we are: the old “it’ll never happen to me, geezer”, and that surety of knowing you’d never do anything so stupid. That’s what everyone thinks. But it’s different when it happens to you. I often wonder about how random it was: were they watching me the whole holiday? Did the island girl decide I was a good candidate? Is it because of my passport? Maybe it was my silly tourist tan screaming, ‘This idiot! He’s the one!’ Did my wife arrange it all? God knows the life insurance alone makes me well worth it.
Then again, maybe that’s just me being paranoid. What else can I do now, but think? The coppers reckon the selection was completely random. The wrong guy in the wrong place – better known as ‘total mug’. That’s me.
Modern day tourists, we love our familiar comforts, and that’s how I found myself at good old Costa Coffee. You know, it could have been anywhere else in that shitting airport, but the glacial green ice tea was calling me away from the sweltering heat. Yep. I had date with a destruction, and I steam rolled right into it.
When he first casually plonked himself down in front of me, I just reckoned he had the wrong table. I waited a minute for him to look up, guessing he’d move when he’d realized his mistake, but instead he greeted me. I wondered if this was some strange local custom. I mean, the people I had met on the island were seriously friendly folk. I was surprised when I heard a British accent. I’ll never forget his first words, casual like we’d known each other for years.
‘I have something like a favour to ask’
Those words should have been a warning to get the hell out of there. But I guess initially, I stayed for the sake of good old curiosity.
‘Look’, he carries on. ‘I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I need you to take something back to England for us.’
He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world; as if asking me to break the law is just a bit like having your arse waxed on a silly lad’s dare, you know?
Of course, I’m not an idiot. It’s not like I was all bright eyed and bushy tailed - tongue out and drooling in acceptance. At first I didn’t quite believe the man. He looked like such a regular bloke. I thought dodgy guys like that wore business suits and were from Columbia, you know what I mean?
‘Look, geez’, I began. ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’ I growled under my breath.
I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I mean, I could get arrested just being in the same room as this bloke for all I knew.
‘Calm down’, he commands. ‘Give me five minutes of your time. Five minutes of your time and I will make you a rich man. If you don’t like what I have to say, I’ll walk away and you can pretend like you’ve never seen me. Deal?’ he says, oozing with confidence.
I didn’t really know what to say. Guess I was in shock. I looked him up and down slowly, examining his every detail. He was so … regular, you know? Sandy brown hair, your typical English complexion, average height, average build. In fact, I couldn’t think of a single memorable thing about the bloke when I was later forced to regurgitate all this shit to the police.
It crossed my mind that it was a joke, you know, one of those ‘Funniest Home Videos’ things. I wish it had been now. I looked around for a camera crew briefly, but we were sat in a corner. I doubted even the plain old Costa security cameras could get us at this angle.
‘Look, there really is no risk to you. It’s completely innocent’, he gently informed me. ‘We’re both already through airport security, so you already know that it’s nothing illegal or dangerous, right?’
I remained silent, unsure how to handle the situation. I thought about calling airport security right then, but I guessed I’d wait until he finished talking and then politely decline – maybe a little firmer this time so he got the message. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Beads of sweat formed on my already clammy temples. I just wanted him to leave … until he mentioned the money.
That’s always the case, right? Money. The greatest motivator. Up until then, I still half believed that it was a bad joke, or that he was some weirdo whack job. I had every intention of getting up and alerting airport security as soon as the bloke was outta sight. The whole thing was crazy, mate. But hell, I could really use money like that.
You might be quick to judge me, mate. But what I found out today is that everyone really does have a sellout price. Yep, that £50k made me sellout like Kurt Cobain in a Japanese Pepsi commercial. Was it worth it? £50k for life? I guess I thought so. Besides, he made a good point. We were already through airport security. Not like they were gonna check again back home if I played it smooth, right?
Then he cinched the deal. He pulled out a little white Samsung tablet.
‘I’m a Samsung man myself’, I joked like an absolute pillock.
My heart had become a speed train. He said nothing, but held up the screen, showing me the electronic transaction just waiting to be made. Just one simple swipe of a touchscreen button and the divorce, and a deposit on a little apartment, and all the associated furnishings of a new life could be mine.
Like an absolute bellend, I thought the electronic transaction was proof that the package was legit. I’ve seen the movies – these guys always have fancy offshore Swiss bank accounts. No self-respecting criminal organisation uses a tablet in a coffee shop and a high street banking app. Later when the police traced the transaction, they told me it was fraudulent. Turns out the account was cloned - belonged to a 60 year old widow who lived in Newcastle, hardly the hardcore suspect they were looking for. The old bird must’ve got quite the fright when they turned up at her door.
I took a deep breath to steady my pounding heart, and shoved my trembling hands into my lap.
‘I can’t believe I’m gonna say this’. I said. ‘Yeah, shit. Just do it. Let’s do this … I … I need the money’.
Why I felt the need to justify myself to a dodgy guy trying to do something that was probably illegal I’ll never know. But yeah, I agreed.
He handed over the package and informed me that someone would be waiting to collect it. He said his ‘friend’ would be able to find me easily once I got to Heathrow.
Mate, I was ecstatic. I just kept thinking of the money, you know? It went over and over in my head – fifty thousand squid! No more grubby little island breaks for me; I was going large!
Eventually my boarding gate opened. The sweat broke through my idiotic grin. What stupid thing had I agreed to? What if they were using me as a decoy in a drugs import deal? You always see those poor bastards on the 8 ‘o clock news; the ones being handcuffed in the customs queue at the airport. You think they must have to be total morons to get involved in something like that. I felt like I was going to be sick. I swallowed hard. Each step forward felt heavier than the last and filled me with a fresh layer of lead. I could taste sweat in my mouth; it was dripping down the back of my neck, and my forehead seemed to be swimming. It was sweltering. Was anyone else sweating?
Get it together, I told myself. If I was gonna make it home without being arrested, I needed to calm down. I wiped my face with my sleeve and tried to focus on the money. If I left the package on the plane, I could still leave with twenty-five grand. Did I really need the other half he promised on delivery? Was it really worth the airport security back home, and the possibility of being charged down by their dogs?
Police dogs are for drugs. It can’t be drugs. The man and his package were already through airport security. I reckoned it was probably a large sum of black market cash, or illegal diamonds. I didn’t think either of those things carry particularly high jail sentences, did they? I could Google it. Wait, that’s a stupid idea. Surely that would bring all sorts of attention to myself, especially if they found out.
Mate, just act natural, I told myself. You’re working yourself into a right old state. I exhaled deeply and got my balls back. The manically smiling air hostess took my passport and boarding pass from me. She did a quick check of my ticket without looking up. It didn’t seem so bad now that I was half way there.
Gullible twat. Thinking fortune had fallen into my lap like a fairytale.
The flight home was anxious. My shirt was decorated with dark patches of sweat, and despite the heavy air conditioning that had been blasting out of the cheap orange plastic dials on the Easy Jet airbus, my hair was drenched. My breath was sour with fear and the bitterness of my desert dry mouth. I forced myself instead to focus hard on the rewards. It seemed to drown out the manic thudding of my heart.
Shaking, I walked towards the officials at passport control. The men, in black from head to toe, looked as though they were ready to pounce on me at any moment – as if they could smell the dread pouring out from my overheated pores. I just wanted this to be over. I’ve read that the airport staff are given special training to spot suspect passengers. Just cool it, son. I must keep calm. I got past the smiling maniac at the boarding gate, right? Surely I can handle a few border guards and a couple of dull customs muppets? I can do this. I know I can. And suddenly, it was over. I was through.
I ambled through the airport like kid starting summer break. My bags felt lighter, my head free of hornets, and my tummy no longer churning cement. Finally, I burst through the glass cage of the airport, out into the smoggy air. Grizzly London rain ran down my face but I embraced it all the same. I’d just won the most important race of my life. I felt like I could do anything.
But the plan was a failure. No one came. No bugger even looked for me. That should’ve been a warning, right?
After a few wasted hours, I made my home on the tube and alighted at Golders Green Station, package still in hand. Okay, I admit, out of curiosity, I had gently shaken it a few times, wondering what all the fuss was. It seemed to me that there was something weighted in there though; some sort of fluid maybe? I wasn’t sure. It didn’t have a smell, and it didn’t make any sounds. Once I thought I’d heard scratching around in there – some kind of bug maybe, or perhaps a scorpion? I shuddered at the thought.
Sinking into the sofa of my recently rented apartment, I let out a deep sigh. I looked at the package from across the room, hearing the kitchen clock ticking away like a time bomb. Should I open it?
The big, white room seemed to widen as I stood up, rubbing my temples. The package glared at me from where it sat; taunting me to open it and just get it over with - just to end this bloody nightmare. I could untie that bow and rip off that flimsy bit of paper. Maybe just a little hole to take a cheeky peek? It wasn’t my fault the airport geezers screwed up! I held up my part of the bargain. I picked up a pair of sharp silver scissors and walked towards it. My footsteps were concrete.
The bed creaked slightly under my holiday weight, as I positioned myself next to the little angst-ridden package. I gently put the end of the steel kitchen scissors under the string. Without resistance, the tightly bound string sprung open.
I dry-swallowed hard. I wiped furiously at the sweat beads forming on my temples with the back of my shaking hands. My heart was pounding in my chest, my blood pumping so fast it made both my head and my stomach spin.
Then suddenly a firm knocking on the front door.
My hands froze. I tried to speak but all that came out was a pathetic broken sound. I threw a blanket over the package - seemed like the logical thing to do. Legs trembling, I advanced towards the door. It may have been on the other side of the world, rather than a few steps away. Was it the package’s owner? My hands were shaking so hard now that I had trouble undoing the latch. I pulled open the heavy white door.
The hall was empty. Finding my voice again, I shouted down the empty hallway.
‘Anyone there? Hello? Come on, mate. This isn’t a fucking joke!’ I shouted angrily into the nothingness.
There was no reply. Just me, alone in a hallway, scissors in hand, and the faint echo of my own voice.
I felt something inside me snap. Something that was sick of all the shit. Sick of that bitch, Mona. Sick of lawyers. Sick of being pushed around, and sick of dickheads with packages at airports. I was hell for leather, mate. Nothing could stop me now. I’d been pushed around my whole life, but I wasn’t having any of it this time.
Marching across the shiny wooden floorboards, I tore off the white cotton bed covers. I grabbed the package with both hands, and tore it open.
Inside the box was a white box with ‘Open me’ written on the top in bold green letters. Relieved at its silliness, I opened the lid. A cold mist puffed around my face, some sort of liquid or gas, I couldn’t tell. I threw the box across the room disgusted. Then the bitter burning started in my eyes. The acidic smelling liquid dripped from my face as I stumbled to the bathroom, desperate to stop the burning, desperate for the cooling water in the icy taps.
That’s how it started. I infected the city’s water supply. Clever fuckers, eh? Not that it mattered because the virus was airborne too. Something a little extra, you know?
By the end of day one, the outbreak had spread across the city. By the end of day two, the airports were closed – but it was too late. Flights had been coming in and out for about 48 hours; almost two days of infected people in one of the busiest airports in the world.
It was just curiosity. Human nature, you know? I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but yeah, I played my part perfectly: I am patient zero, and this is how our world ends.
