One Good Turn (A James Bishop short story) Read online

  ‘Well, hallelujah,’ she whispered.

  She pulled the door open all the way and peered inside. There wasn’t a whole lot to see. She could make out a couple of rakes leaning against one wall, an old barrow, a dozen large sacks of earth or manure, and a rusty hand mower.

  And just inside the door was a pair of old gardening shoes.

  Sylvia actually smiled for the first time since forever. Footwear. Maybe her luck was finally changing. She knelt down and saw that they were men’s waterproof clogs. Maybe three sizes too big, but that didn’t matter. She placed her fingers inside. The poly insole felt worn with age, but it was still soft and inviting. She stood up again and carefully slipped her feet into the clogs.

  She gave a small sigh of pleasure. After what she’d been through tonight, the insoles against her bare flesh felt absolutely heavenly.

  Okay, she thought, that’s one problem solved. She could walk again. Now on to the next problem. Clothes.

  FOUR

  Sylvia headed down Main Street, staying as close as possible to the shuttered stores on her left. She walked with her arms crossed and her head down.

  The bars in town were mostly located on the right-hand side of the street. The closest two were about a hundred yards up ahead. One of them either had a band playing or the jukebox was really loud. All she could hear was a slow, muffled drumbeat coming from within. Since she knew it had to be either Wednesday or Thursday, it was probably the jukebox. There were hardly any other pedestrians this late on a weeknight and very few vehicles, but she still felt exposed. All she needed was for a bunch of half-loaded guys to exit one of the bars and see a semi-naked woman on the other side of the street. They’d be on her like vultures on a carcass.

  About fifty yards up ahead on the left there was a Mexican diner that she knew stayed open late. But the place she was aiming for was before that.

  She saw some kind of sedan coming her way and instinctively turned her face away. But it passed without slowing. She kept walking until directly ahead she spotted a sign that read, HARTSVILLE 24/7 COIN LAUNDRY. She could see that the lights were still on inside, as they should be. It was one of those all-night self-service places. She’d spotted it a few months before when she’d driven through town.

  There were two vehicles parked in the angled spaces directly outside. An old pickup and a newer SUV. Customers, she hoped. Just past the store she spotted a side alley and a sign pointing to additional parking at the rear. She approached the lit window and looked in. The entrance door was kept open with a rubber wedge so that people could come and go with ease. The shop itself was a long, narrow room with harsh fluorescent lighting running all the way back. There were about two dozen washing machines down one side, with an equal number of tumble dryers on the other. Down the centre of the room were four wooden benches bolted to the floor. A man and a woman were inside doing a little late-night laundry.

  The woman was a skinny, attractive Latino about Sylvia’s age. Mid twenties. She sat on the bench closest to the entrance with a large plastic clothes basket next to her, and was doing something on her cell phone as she waited. The man was Caucasian and was close to obese. He wore a baseball cap and looked about sixty. Clearly the bachelor type. He was busy transferring clothes from one of the tumble dryers to a large cardboard box. When it was full, he closed the dryer lid, lifted the box with both hands and began waddling towards the entrance.

  Sylvia quickly stepped away from the window and ducked into the side alley she’d spotted. As she pressed her body against the wall, she noticed she was feeling a lot more clear-headed than before. Maybe whatever they’d given her was finally wearing off. She really hoped so. Then came the sound of a vehicle door being unlocked and opened. When she heard an engine start up, she peered round and saw the man reversing the pickup into the street. He drove off in the same direction from which Sylvia had come.

  Approaching the laundromat window again, Sylvia peered in and watched the Latino girl, hoping she hadn’t just begun a cycle. She was facing the tumble dryer side, though, which was promising. Sylvia raised her eyes to the ceiling and noticed a small security camera at the rear of the room. But that didn’t worry her. The owner was only interested in his machines and his property. Customers’ possessions were secondary. She focused on the girl’s basket and saw that it already held a small pile of neatly folded clothes. She saw something that looked like denim near the top. Hopefully jeans. Maybe some shirts or sweaters, too.

  As long as they fitted, she wasn’t picky.

  Sylvia looked down at her clogs and decided they weren’t really designed for stealth. She went back to the side alley and slipped them off, then walked barefoot back to the window, ignoring the fresh pains in the soles of her feet. She watched and waited. After about three minutes had passed, the Latino woman finally pocketed her cell and got up. She went over to the third tumble dryer along and opened the top lid. As she reached in and began pulling out items, she had her back to the clothes basket she’d left on the bench.

  Sylvia knew that was her moment. She stepped silently through the open doorway and ran barefoot over to the basket. Keeping her eyes on the woman’s back, she quickly grabbed the clothes from the top and pulled them to her chest, then darted out of the laundromat and turned right and right again, into the side alley. She waited for a shout from behind her, but it didn’t come. She hadn’t been spotted. Slipping her feet back into the clogs, she continued down the darkened passageway until she found herself in the small parking area at the rear. There were no cars, but there was a security spotlight that allowed her to see well enough.

  She knelt down and quickly skimmed through her new possessions. There were only four pieces in total, which was less than she’d hoped. She went through them again, slowly. The first was a black T-shirt with RADIOHEAD in large red letters across the chest. It was an extra-extra-large, but it looked okay. She brought it up to her nose. It smelled absolutely wonderful. Underneath that was the denim item she’d spotted. They were jeans all right, but they were far too small for her. Sylvia guessed the owner had to be around eight or nine years old; probably the Latino woman’s daughter or niece.

  Which would almost put her in the same age bracket as Sylvia’s own little girl.

  She closed her eyes and images of her daughter filled her mind. But she couldn’t afford to think about Becky now. It was far too distracting and served no purpose. With an effort, Sylvia pushed her daughter from her thoughts and moved on to the next item.

  It was another T-shirt, and probably belonged to the same child. Which meant it was also useless to her. Then there was a single lone stocking, which she’d missed the first time round, and finally a very large pair of men’s cargo shorts.

  Sylvia quickly stepped into the shorts and pulled them up. The cuffs reached down past her knees, which was okay, but the waist was clearly a size 44 or above. They were massive. You could almost fit two of her inside them. But maybe the stocking could work as a belt. She stretched the nylon out, carefully slipped the thin material through the belt loops and then knotted the ends together until the shorts were tight around her waist.

  She looked down and nodded to herself. Hardly perfect, but good enough for her purposes.

  Next, she took off the disgusting rag she’d been wearing and dropped it on the ground. She held up the black T-shirt and turned it inside out. For all she knew, this was the only Radiohead shirt in the area, and she preferred not to have to explain where she’d got it. After ripping off the inner label, she slipped the shirt on.

  It was far too big and the sleeves ended below her elbows. She thought she must look like a scarecrow, but she didn’t care. For the first time in days, Sylvia felt like a human being again. It was amazing what a difference being clothed could make to a person’s outlook. With a little more luck, she might actually come out of this in one piece.

  She spotted an ancient, rusted metal drum against the rear wall of the laundromat, the kind used for small fires. She walked
over and saw that it was black inside. It smelled of burnt paper, but it was also empty. She dumped the kid’s jeans and T-shirt and the old sweatshirt inside and pressed down on them with her foot until they were no longer visible. Then she made her way back down the side alley, stopping just before the sidewalk and looking to her right. The SUV was no longer there. Which meant the woman hadn’t noticed the missing clothes. Good. One less thing to worry about. But that still left the problem of money. She’d need to pay for a cab to take her the hell away from here. Plus she’d need change to make the actual call.

  Turning to her left, Sylvia glanced towards the bars on the other side of the street. She had no doubt she looked far from her best right now, but she felt she could probably still arouse a man’s interest without too much effort. She’d never had any trouble before, not with her large doe eyes and the cute spray of freckles that shaved five years off her age. But then that was what had gotten her into this whole mess in the first place. And the thought of hustling for a few bucks now made her feel nauseous. Especially after what she’d been through.

  But she had to do something.

  After a brief pause, Sylvia stepped out of the alley and stood at the kerb. There was no traffic. She crossed over and began walking towards the first of the bars, the one the music was coming from. As she got closer, she was able to make out the name on the sign above: The Silver Horseshoe. The music sounded like old blues or something.

  She was about ten feet from the front door when she noticed a vehicle coming down the street towards her. It was moving fairly slowly. Sylvia started to feel a cramp in her gut that was more than just hunger.

  The vehicle was a Ford Taurus.

  Maybe the same one she’d seen back at the church. Or maybe not. Whatever, she wasn’t planning on hanging around to find out. Hoping she was too far away to be seen properly, she put her head down and marched over to the entrance to the bar, pulling the door open and stepping inside.

  FIVE

  Like most bars, the interior of the Silver Horseshoe was nothing to write home about. It was maybe thirty feet wide and went back another hundred feet or so. The floor was made of old hardwood that looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned or polished in decades. At the back, Sylvia saw an empty pool table and a wide hallway leading off to the restrooms, or maybe the cellar. There was a long wooden bar running down the left-hand side of the room with a row of stools in front of it. Five of them were currently occupied by drinkers. A lone bartender was serving a man standing at the bar, but he was watching Sylvia too. There were also some booths running along the right-hand side and tables and chairs arranged around an empty area in the centre, presumably for dancing couples.

  All but three of the tables were empty. At one, two older guys and a middle-aged woman were laughing at something as they drank their beers. At another, two guys in work overalls sat watching the large plasma TV affixed to the right-hand wall. It was showing an old football game.

  The bass-heavy R&B music came from a modern jukebox to Sylvia’s immediate right. She recognized the singer now. John Cray. Or Robert Cray. Something like that. He was singing about being caught with a smoking gun. A serious-looking guy in a denim jacket sat at the table closest to the jukebox, tapping his fingers on the table in time with the song. He was on his own and sipping from a bottle of beer as he looked at Sylvia. Mostly at her legs.

  Feeling self-conscious, Sylvia turned to the left and noticed an old-style payphone standing against the wall near the window. That was good. All she needed now was money and a number for a cab company. There was a clock above it, and she saw it was almost 12.30. Which was a little later than she’d originally thought.

  She turned back to the front windows and winced when she spotted the dark Taurus still out there. It was parked next to the kerb on the other side of the street. The lights were on and she couldn’t see who was inside. But the cramp in her gut was getting worse. She didn’t like the look of that car. Didn’t like it one little bit.

  With pursed lips, she walked over to the long bar and perched on a stool a few feet away from the customer being served.

  The man seemed to be in his late thirties, and was fairly good-looking, with very short dark hair. Nice eyes. He was sipping from a fresh bottle of Miller Genuine Draft. He saw Sylvia looking and smiled at her as he leaned against the bar. Just past him was another guy on a stool. He was around the same age and wearing a Stetson, and he was drinking a Bud. She couldn’t tell if they were together or not. She smiled back at the first man, hating herself but knowing it was necessary. The bartender, a fiftyish guy with a ponytail and a pot belly, placed the guy’s change on the bar and came over to Sylvia.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ he asked. His face was heavily lined. His voice was rough, and higher-pitched than she’d expected. He wore a leather waistcoat over a faded black T-shirt.

  ‘Can I get some water, please?’ she said, raising her voice above the music. ‘From the tap?’

  The bartender added more lines to his brow as he quickly looked her over. First her clothes, then the rope marks on her wrists, then her eyes. It was clear he didn’t like what he saw. ‘You coming down off something?’

  ‘No, it’s not like—’

  ‘’Cos you look like you are to me. I know all the signs, believe me. We don’t serve dopeheads or pill-poppers in here. And we don’t give credit, neither. You want my advice, little lady, you just go on home now.’

  Wonderful advice, she thought. If only it were that easy.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m not on drugs or anything. I just need something to drink.’

  The bartender shook his head. ‘Forget it. Now you just better—’

  ‘Hey,’ the customer cut in, ‘get the lady a bottle of Miller. On me.’

  The bartender glared at the guy, then glanced one more at Sylvia before turning to the refrigerator behind him. The song from the jukebox began to fade out. In the ensuing silence, she could hear more laughter from the three at the table behind her. The bartender pulled out a fresh Miller Lite, opened it and placed the bottle on the bar in front of Sylvia. No glass. He still didn’t look happy about it, but he said nothing. Just took the change the guy gave him and went back to the till.

  A lone slide guitar began playing on the jukebox. Sylvia picked up the bottle and took a sip of the beer. The cool liquid immediately energized her and she fought the temptation to finish the bottle in one go. She was so thirsty, and it would be so easy. But on an empty stomach, she knew the alcohol would go straight to her head, and she needed to remain alert. Now wasn’t the time to get sloppy. Not when she was so close to getting out of here.

  She took another sip, then put down the bottle and smiled at the man. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You look like you need it,’ he said. The slide guitar was joined by a bass and a heavy drumbeat. ‘You got a name?’

  ‘Sylvia,’ she said distractedly, and turned back to the front windows.

  The Taurus was still out there. Behind her, she thought she heard the guy say his own name, but she missed it over the music. Plus she wasn’t really listening. Instead, she watched as two casually dressed men exited the Taurus, one out the front passenger side, the other out the back. Which meant there was a driver, as well. They began crossing the street towards the bar.

  Even from a distance, she recognized both men. Not the same ones as back on the road, but part of the same group. And just as bad.

  Her heart was starting to pound again. Her mouth felt dry. She got up from the stool and watched as the front door was pushed open. The two men stepped into the bar. And the one in front was staring directly at her.

  SIX

  Sylvia knew it was pointless hiding her face. They’d already recognized her, just as she’d recognized them. They made a beeline for her. The one in front had small eyes and a dark beard. The other one wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, even though it was night-time.

  Sylvia took a step away from the stool and picked up the beer bottle, ready
to smash it against the bar if it came to it. She wouldn’t make it easy for them. At the very least, she’d get to turn one of their faces into mush.

  The bearded one stopped a couple of feet away and said, ‘So here you are, Syl. We been looking all over for you.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ she hissed.

  ‘Don’t be a trashmouth,’ Sunglasses said. ‘You should learn to talk nice to your friends.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Beard Man said, reaching for her. ‘Be nice. Come on, let’s go.’

  Sylvia moved her shoulder away from the outstretched hand. ‘Forget it. I’m not going anywhere with you. Not ever.’

  ‘What’s the problem here?’ her benefactor asked from behind her.

  Beard Man turned to him. ‘Best tend to your knitting, boy. This ain’t none of your beeswax.’

  ‘Oh, I think it is. If the lady doesn’t wanna go with you, that means she doesn’t go.’

  ‘Lady?’ Sunglasses said with a smirk. ‘I don’t see no lady.’

  ‘Maybe y’all should take it outside,’ the bartender said from his position at the till. ‘I don’t want any trouble in here.’

  ‘Shut the hell up, hippy,’ Beard Man said, pointing a finger at him, ‘or we’ll burn this place down with you in it. And don’t even think about calling the cops, ’cos you’ll regret it later. I guarantee it.’

  Still holding the bottle, Sylvia was slowly backing up as he was talking. She saw her rescuer move in front of her, slightly concealing her from view.

  ‘Okay, guys,’ he said. ‘I think you’d best be leaving now.’

  At that moment, Beard Man turned swiftly and his right fist swung round and connected with the side of her benefactor’s face. The guy went down with a hand to his cheek, knocking his stool over as he fell. Sunglasses darted forward and kicked him hard in the side. And a second time. And a third time in the stomach. The man on the floor cried out and curled himself into a ball. Sylvia kept backing away. She saw the guy in the Stetson get up from his stool. He moved forward, pulled his right foot back and kicked Sunglasses right in the nuts. Sunglasses yelled something unintelligible and fell to his knees, both hands clutched to his groin.