Fit For Purpose by Julian Parrott (scary books to read .TXT) 📗

the familiarity of her kitchen and her things. She had headed home to London to prepare for the BFI event and to make some last-minute arrangements for Christmas day. Tom was heading down the next day. She sat at her kitchen table with a hot coffee and opened her phone to see that Tom had sent her a link to some playlists. She liked Tom’s playlists although her musical tastes differed, having been formed by the mid-1990s’ Brit pop scene. She had memories, some fuzzy and altered, some mirror clear, of hanging out with some of the era’s bands. She liked a lot but not all of Tom’s selections, but she also appreciated his subtle sense of humour and irony in his choice of tracks. She saw that he had linked two new playlists, one named ‘Welsh Music’, and one he had simply labelled ‘Nia’.

She opened the Welsh songs, saw groups she had expected; Manic Street Preachers, Catatonia, Maria and the Diamonds, Stereophonics, Tom Jones, Bryn Terfel, a few unexpected; John Cale, Andy Fairweather Lowe, and Paul Young’s ‘Wherever I Lay my Hat’. She texted Tom. “Hey, Paul Young isn’t Welsh. I know, I even met him once.”

Tom responded, “Ah, but the bass player, Pino Palladino, is Welsh. Great vocals, sure, but that version is driven by the bass.”

She listened to it again. Yeah, okay, I can see that, she thought.

She refreshed her coffee and sat down and moved to the link for the ‘Nia’ playlist. No one had burned music for her since the late 1990s; she found herself excited with the anticipation to see what Tom had curated for her, about her?

The first track was Nick Drake’s ‘Northern Sky’. She had never heard the song even though she had once acted on stage with Nick’s sister. The song was, perhaps, the most beautiful she had ever heard. She teared up and played it again. “What the fuck,” she thought. “Being moved to tears through a song. I’m never like this.”

***

Tom made the now familiar trip down in the Land Rover and then across London via the Tube. They met at the Duke of Wellington pub just off Covent Garden and, after a drink, Nia took Tom across the street to the London Film Museum for a James Bond exhibition. They both enjoyed the exhibition’s collection of Bond related vehicles. They shared a pot of tea in the museum’s cafe and they argued good naturedly over Bond’s problematic relationship with women. Tom feeling that the films objectified women, Nia pointing out, that from an actor’s perspective, many of the female roles were solid ones. Nia was recognised by a patron and asked for an autograph.

“You would have been a great Bond girl, Nia,” the patron stated.

“Thank you,” said Nia generously, ignoring the ‘would have’.

She leant into Tom, “There’s hope yet. Me and Daniel Craig. Yummy.”

They took the Tube south of the Thames. Nia knew the way, walking Tom through some dark and close streets to a traditional Italian restaurant she knew well. The small restaurant was still family owned, and still decorated with red and white chequered tablecloths, iconic Italian prints on the wall, chubby bottles of Chianti served as candle holders, and bunches of plastic grapes garlanded the room. A cheap and cheerful Christmas tree had been placed in the corner. It was, as Nia noted, a step back in time to an era when small restaurants such as this, often run by former Italian prisoners of war who remained after the peace, provided colour, spice and flavour to the bland and over boiled regular British faire. As Nia promised, the food and wine were excellent and the laughter that emanated from the kitchen simply added to the elevated level of happiness both Tom and Nia were experiencing. Tom told Nia that his ravioli was the best he had ever had. Nia smiled, pleased that Tom had enjoyed the meal and this experience with her. They held hands across the table as they finished their bottle of a ruby rich Primativo.

It was late and raining when they settled the meal’s bill. The restaurant owner offered to call them a taxi but both Tom and Nia were content with stretching their legs after their dinner. The streets were dark and slick with the rain. As the warm lights of the restaurant faded behind them, Nia held Tom’s hand a little more tightly.

“Maybe we should get a taxi,” she said.

“It’s only a couple of streets,” Tom replied. “We’ll be fine.”

They turned right into a small street. The high stone walls of the Victorian church to their left, darkened by over a century of city grime, cast a fog like darkness across the entire street. One streetlight buzzed bravely but only dimly about halfway down the narrow road. A boarded up, ready for demolition and redevelopment, brown concrete two-storey1960s’ block of flats ran down the right-hand side of the street. Tom tried to imperceptibly increase their pace; he had heard an additional pair of footsteps behind them. His military training was alert to the fact that the street was an ideal landscape for an ambush. Then, he noticed a figure emerge from the deep shadows of the church wall in front to them.

“Fuck,” Tom said, and he slowed his and Nia’s pace.

“What?” Nia asked with barely disguised fear in her voice.

Tom steered her towards the streetlight as the two men approached. One from the front and the other one from behind. “Could be nothing,” Tom said. He watched as the men clearly moved towards them, one reached into his bomber jacket’s inside breast pocket and pulled out a hunting knife.

“Get behind me,” Tom growled in command.

Nia turned to face Tom, she had never heard him speak like that. She noticed that his jaw was clenched and jutting, his cheekbones appeared to elongate, and his usually light and warm eyes were cold