Hot Shoe Shuffle – Bentley 17

[For back story go here: Story so far at 27 July 2020 and more recent Bentley posts.]

"Do you have any idea where you are?" asked a male voice.

"Please God let it be Brighton," said Bentley.

The room was slowly swimming into focus. Unfortunately room was swimming backstroke into focus and Bentley realised he was staring too intently at a bare lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling. Obviously he had no idea how long he'd been there, along with having no idea where exactly he was or who was talking to him.

"I have a lot of questions," he began, trying to sit up and then thinking better of it as the room swam against the tide.

"So do I," said the voice. "And I think I get to ask them, don't you?"

"With all respect," said Bentley, "No. Last thing I knew I was about to have a refreshing drink in a pub round the corner from my home. I imagine you don't have the same amount of confusion as me, so I think I should ask some questions first."

"You think you're so smart, don't you?" Hissed the voice, close to his ear now.

"Not... Really," said Bentley, cautiously, "Although it does depend on who you're comparing me to."

"You are being a bit of a problem for me, Mr Bentley," said his interrogator. "I don't know what your game is but I intend to put a stop to it."

"I really have no idea who you are or what’s going on," protested Bentley.

“You've received a certain package. You’ve been poking your nose in where you shouldn’t. You've been hiring idiots in the belief they can help you get to me," said the voice. "And then there's The Transporter."

"The who?"

"The Transporter – you're working with the Transporter or rather he’s working for you. Which suggests you have some other plan going on – so I'm trying to work out exactly what you're doing with him and what your game is but let me assure you I will find out."

"Never heard so much rubbish in all my life," said Bentley. “Transporter, who the hell is..?”

“Old workmate of yours, right? Your transport. But not just yours, right? That’s why he’s called The Transporter.”

“What?” Said Bentley, “George?”

“I believe he goes by that name too,” said the man.

“He’s not The Transporter he’s a trainspotter,” laughed Bentley, incredulously and trying to sit up again.

"Stay where you are," commanded the voice. "Do you know how easy it would be for me to get rid of you?"

"No, do tell," replied Bentley.

"I could just throw you out into the middle of the beach. In the centre of the crowds. You'd last five minutes tops."

"A-ha! We are in Brighton!" exclaimed an excited Bentley.

"Don't be so sure," snapped back the man. "Bournemouth is pretty lethal too, it could be Bournemouth."

"If it's got a beach I'm in the right direction," said Bentley, finally.

“Where is the package, Bentley? You can at least tell me that.”

From his position on whatever it was he was resting on, Bentley allowed his eyes to fall to the floor and cast around a little. If he raised his head it hurt and he seemed to be told off. Maybe he could find out more, with less pain and shouting, by looking down. In addition, the mention of the package made him think of the black shoes which had come along with the money. He didn’t think anyone would be in bare socks as such, but you never knew.

The person who was doing the talking was wearing reasonably heavy duty walking boots. Bentley couldn’t discern if they were for rambling or for protecting your feet on construction sites. By carefully swivelling his head he found a pair of trainers on someone else. Not terribly flash, a bit old, perhaps, but trainers none the less. Maybe the wearer had lost his formal shoes? Or could they be a woman’s pair of trainers?

With this thought turning in his head he found another shoe to focus on. Just the one. Someone, he deduced, was sitting in a chair to his left, one leg casually crossed over the other which meant he could see only one shoe – unless the shoe’s owner really was one legged, and let’s face it, thought Bentley, the day was going in that kind of a direction. Mono or bi-pedal, one thing was certain. The wearer was female.

So, thought Bentley, three people, five shoes. One talker and one woman. Or a man wearing heels, he added to cover all bases.

“Never heard of a package,” said Bentley, determinedly.

“You’ve been spending money,” said the man. “Not lots, maybe, but some.”

“I want to see Lawrence,” said Bentley suddenly. “I demand to see Lawrence and I won’t tell you anything until I see him. Or at least I know he’s here,” he added, hoping he’d recognise Lawrence’s voice and not need to worry about not recognising him after all these years and in this light.

There was a pause. Then the walking boots moved out of his sight and evidently out of the door.

Suddenly another voice was at Bentley’s ear, whispering: “Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here.”

If Bentley wasn’t in such a state of confusion he’d have been certain it was Natalie.