Almost Breaking Point – Bentley 6

[For back story see lower numbers in archive]

Bentley sat in his flat, a zimmer frame in front of him, mocking the image he had of himself. However, he’d been fortunate. Very fortunate. His hospital team had been thoughtful and caring from start to finish. Smothered in as much protective gear as they could find, the ambulance team had lifted him from his resting place and ferried him to the nearest A&E. Much of it was a blur but he knew there had been X-rays, that he'd been kept in for a couple of nights, that no one had visited him – could anyone if there had been anyone? – and that he'd been ferried back home having checked out as being in good shape for someone his age. 

Someone his age. Should someone his age have a zimmer frame?

He was battered and bruised but not broken. And he had tested negative. The cough was as just a cough. Nothing more. Although ironically he may have caught something since then having been hanging out in what was, in his opinion, possibly one of the most likely locations for the virus. 

Whatever, there was no way Bentley would be doing anything more energetic than chair based exercise for the time being, together with an occasional shuffle to one of his other rooms when necessary. He wondered if Joe Wicks could help him on this and then determined never to speak of that man to himself again. 

Covid had survived her master's absence. She looked leaner and meaner than before but at least she was still able to walk around. Without falling over, Bentley thought, with envy and spite.

As he sat there, nursing a cup of tea and thinking about how people decorated their zimmers sometimes, as if they were Christmas Trees or something, he felt the last dregs of patience and goodwill drain through his slippers. Goddamit his life had been hard. He’d worked hard, he’d lived through difficult times, he’d had people take apart his working life and put it back together, better and brighter they said, less fun, less money, fewer people, drabber and greyer he said. As the suns’ rays came through the window it didn’t illuminate his world with hope and heat, it just showed up the dust.

He picked up his landline phone, not wanting to give away his mobile number, and diligently dialled. He got an answerphone. Relentless now he spoke:

“I’ve been in hospital. You might not know – I know you don’t know. But I’ve been there. I fell. I hope that makes you happy because it’s about all I’m capable of right now. Falling over to make you happy. I think that you’ll be satisfied with that, won’t you? It’s what you expect of me and it’s what I’ve achieved. I'm no Major Captain Sir Tom am I, eh? But you always knew that didn't you. Well look, our granddaughter rang me. Me, did you get that? Not you. Me. Granddaughter. So…. yeah. And it was the Orient Express. That date. We went. You forgot that, didn’t you? You loved that train, you absolutely loved it. And now it means nothing to you, just like me.”

He was about to slam down the phone to make his point but an automatic impulse kicked in, together with a complete change in voice tone: “Hope you’re well and stay safe, bye!”

And he replaced the receiver, feeling some kind of satisfaction. He wanted to feel like he’d told her, that he’d finally told his wife how he really felt and that now – or at least when she picked up that message – she would feel the remorse and regret he wanted her to. But would that really be the case? If you don’t care about someone do you even care if they’re having a bad time?

His mobile phone went off. Checking the number – forgetting she didn’t have his number he realised he didn’t want to talk to Shiela even if she’d listened to his message and was filled with remorse – he answered formerly and was told it was someone from his bank. 

Having run through a number of security steps, enough to ensure him that they were who they said they were and ensure them that he was who he said he was, the customer service person asked whether Bentley had mad any ‘significant’ payments to anyone recently. 

Bentley wracked his brains and said no, not that he thought. “Does the name Darren L. Sayers mean anything to you?” he was asked.

“Yes…” said Bentley, cautiously.

“And how much did you intend to pay this individual?” asked the customer service person.

Within seconds Bentley’s day ricocheted from bad to worse as his call swept from customer services to fraud and extortion.

“He said he was going to help me,” said Bentley at one point. “He still might!”

“Yes,” said the bank. “But just in case, let’s take some details.”

Bentley finally turned off his phone, seething. He knew he was an idiot, he just hadn’t realised how much of an idiot. But now he did, and now he would have his revenge. Darren would not get the better of him. 

Bentley pounded the table with his fist and if Covid had been any closer his foot would have propelled the animal across the room. But the cat wasn’t close enough and Bentley’s foot would have hurt too much to do it properly anyway.