Wish You Were Here Read online

  *****

  They booked a local mini-cab to pick them up outside the office, and made Sam’s place the first point of call. Sam lived alone in a flat on the first floor of a converted house. Lucy followed him up the stone staircase. Downstairs the cabbie sat patiently waiting, a copy of the Sun in his hand, the meter slowly ticking over.

  “So this is your place?” Lucy said staring at the movie posters on the walls as she followed Sam into the apartment. “It’s kind of weird.”

  “Weird how?” He asked, dropping the keys in a bowl by the door and heading into his bedroom.

  “The poster above your sofa for starters, lips with legs wearing hats.”

  “It’s from a film by Luis Buñuel, The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeois.” He said, pulling a sports-bag down from on top of the wardrobe.

  “I’ve never heard of it.” She replied. “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t know.” Sam replied. “I’ve never seen it.”

  “And what’s with all the comic books?” Lucy asked, sitting down on the sofa and rifling through the items sat atop his coffee table. “I didn’t realise you were such a nerd.”

  “They’re graphic novels.” He replied, stuffing clothes into his bag.

  “Hmm, Invisibles? Swamp Thing? Ghost World? Look like comic books to me. I bet you’ve got a copy of the Beano stashed away somewhere too. Have you got any food?”

  “Try the kitchen,” he called out impatiently. He packed quickly, not paying too much care to what he was bringing. A couple of pairs of jeans, some shorts, a handful of pants and socks, a few t-shirts, a jumper – all crammed into his bag. He was caught up in the adrenalin rush, the excitement of departure, he didn’t care what he took with him – but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where he had left the passport. He was certain that he had hidden it in his room for safekeeping, to ensure that should anyone decide to burgle his house it wouldn’t be taken, but to his increasing frustration he couldn’t think where. Whilst Sam continued his search, Lucy made her way into the kitchen, looking at the postcards and magnets on the fridge; Mynamar, Tianzi Mountains, Cambodia, Machu Picchu, Mu Cang Chai. Mostly places she’d never heard of, but each one looked amazing. And there, in amongst them, she noticed a photograph of Sam and who she assumed must be his ex. They were stood by the Thames, Tower Bridge in the background. Sam had a smile on his face, a broad smile the kind she’d never seen him wear. Looking around, she noticed another photo by the sink, and a series of Lonely Planet travel guides on the counter: Venice, French Polynesia, The Tulip Fields of The Netherlands. As she reached for the photo frame, she felt a vibration. She pulled out her phone, looked at the screen, ignored the call and tucked it back into her pocket. Leaving the photo where it was, she turned her attention to the fridge. It was sparse, more condiments than food; half a dozen bottles of salad dressing and no salad. She grabbed a can of coke and headed back into the lounge. It was a neat and tidy place, plum painted walls and mahogany effect furniture. Opening the can, she made her way towards the book shelf, her eyes following a series of strange statuettes, an eclectic array of souvenirs and trinkets, and photos, even more photos. She looked at them momentarily, then moved on to the next shelf filled with thousands of CDs all carefully arranged in alphabetical order by band name and solo artists surname.

  “Why do you have so many CDs?” Lucy called out from the lounge.

  “What?” Sam replied, tipping out the contents of the draws of his bedside table.

  “Nobody listens to CDs anymore. God, I bet you still have a Discman, don’t you?”

  “I don’t have a Discman.” Sam called back, still searching.

  “Or a Walkman, I bet you still have all those old Now cassettes and tapes of songs recorded off the radio.”

  “I don’t have a Walkman or a Discman!” Shouted Sam, frustrated by his inability to locate the passport. “I just like listening to music.”

  “Yeah, but CDs? They’re so old-fashioned. At least, if you had a record collection you could pass for a hipster.”

  “Well, I don’t.” He called back, pulling the bottom drawer of his dresser completely out and finally locating the missing passport in the hollow below.

  “Who are Pink Floyd?” She said, picking up an open CD case sitting on top of the stereo system, “Wish You Were Here? Is this the kinda music you listen to?”

  “Can you just leave things alone,” Sam snapped, emerging from his room and snatching the case from her. “Right, I think I’ve got everything.”

  “Come on then, let’s go.”

  They headed for the door; Sam paused.

  “Do you think I should set a timer switch?”

  “What, in case someone steals your comic books and Pink Floyd CDs?”

  “Very funny. I should probably leave a note for my neighbour though; let them know I’ll be gone.”

  “Seriously Sam, who cares? If someone robbed all this junk from you, they’d be doing you a favour.”

  “It’s not junk.”

  “Sam, you’ve got a bunch of comic books, sorry, ‘graphic novels’, wrapped up in plastic. You’ve got CDs with dust on the covers – what do you do just listen to the same album over and over again?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Don’t you have itunes? I bet you’re still using one of those old, indestructible Nokias.”

  “I’ve got the exact same iphone as you.”

  “Do you ever go out Sam? Do you ever see friends?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You never go out, do you? You just come back to this tomb you call a home.”

  “Look, just because you’re pissed at your ex, don’t take it out on me.”

  “Coming from the person who still has photos of their ex all over the place.”

  “I told you, it’s just…It’s sentimental that’s all.”

  “It’s tragic, that’s what it is.”

  “They remind me of good times.”

  “You can’t live in the past, Sam. If I was you, I’d get rid of the whole fucking lot.”

  “Well you’re not me, are you Lucy.”

  “Fine, whatever works for you.”

  “Well I think I’ve got everything I need. Let’s go.”

  Downstairs the cabbie sat patiently waiting, a copy of the Sun in his hand, the meter slowly ticking over.