~ The Matchless ~
When he opened his eyes again and saw that the desert sky had turned purple, Jimbo knew for certain he would die soon. There would be no last-minute rescue; no miracle. Spread-eagled, unable to move, his blood seeping into the sand beneath him, his life ebbing away, he knew he would take his last breath out there, alone in that vastness, a speck in the Sahara.
As the night grew blacker, stars began to appear – a few at first, then thousands more all at once, then many thousands more until the sky resembled a giant Star Wars screen, flickering and glistening, lighting up the desert floor, zooming down to meet him. The stars were so close now that if he had been able to raise an arm he could have reached up and touched the nearest one.
In the starlight, Jimbo could make out objects lying in the sand on either side of him. Over there on his left was his rucksack, half empty now, the rest of its contents strewn around it. His mobile phone had been in the rucksack. He could imagine it ringing some time the next day, when Sally’s flight landed. It would ring again when she arrived at the villa in Marrakech. Then it would ring again and again and again in the empty desert, the intervals between the calls becoming shorter as panic set in. Sally wasn’t the brightest spark in the box, so it would take her a while to raise the alarm. But by then all that would be left of him was a carcass half-eaten by the desert dogs.
Uncharacteristically, Jimbo felt a pang of sympathy for Sally, for the trauma she would go through, the pain she would suffer. Sorry it had to end this way, Sal. So sorry, princess.
The feeling passed quickly. He found himself peering at the two objects on his right. They were what was left of his laptop, the screen and the keyboard now separate pieces embedded in the sand, standing erect like tombstones. He had brought the laptop with him just in case. In case of what, eh? In case I decided to send that email, that one last plea to Neville to grow some balls and get rid of the snake? Yeah, well it’s too fucking late for that now. It wouldn’t have changed anything anyway. The deal was done weeks ago and it could never be undone. I should have accepted then that I wasn’t part of the company any longer. The company I poured my heart and soul into... until that cunt...
Jimbo sighed. He couldn’t see any sign of it from where he lay, but he knew his motorbike was out there somewhere. He remembered it skidding on its side across the sand and him being propelled into the air to somersault and then crash to the ground on his back. He loved that old bike. A Matchless 500, one of the few built in the Sixties. He had bought it in 1974, when he was just a teenager and barely able to handle it. He had cleaned it up and kept it running ever since. He brought it over with him from Belfast when he started his new life in Edinburgh. And only that week he had ridden it all the way from Edinburgh over to Calais, down through France and Spain and across to Morocco. The old girl hadn’t let him down once. But then she had to go and hit a rock hidden in the sand and his head had to smash down on another. Jeez, all this rippling golden sand for hundreds of miles around, and I happen to find the only two fucking boulders in the place.
He thought it was ironic that the only thing he had ever cherished in the world should also be the cause of his downfall. But he supposed he had no-one else to blame but himself. The trip to Marrakech had been much tougher than he had anticipated. He had had to fight hard to concentrate, to keep his attention on the road, while all the time his mind was in turmoil. Those same questions pounded his brain over and over and over again. Why did you give up, Jimbo? What got into you? What made you offer to sell your shares back to Neville? Did he give you a fair deal? Or did the slimy cunt fuck you over? You’ve got some money now, sonny, but it won’t last for ever. What are you going to do for the rest of your life? You’re lost, Jimbo. In a wilderness. And it’s all that bastard Lamb’s doing. Why can’t Neville understand that Lamb’s only out for himself, not the company? Their company...
Anger and resentment had boiled up in him, so much so that he had to stop frequently on the way until he calmed down. Then, instead of resting when he arrived at the villa, he had showered and gone straight out again, making a beeline for the desert. He wanted the Saharan wind to blast his face and tear through his hair; he wanted the wind to clear all the shit, all the badness, out of his head. So it wasn’t long before he strapped his helmet to the pillion and left the road. That vast, shimmering sea of flatness, stretching away to infinity, was so tempting. He had always dreamed of taking the old girl out into the desert, opening her up and letting her do what she was built for. It was like swimming with dolphins, he supposed, one of those things you should do before you die. Aye, well, Jimbo, you’ve certainly fulfilled that dream, so you have. But you weren’t meant to die into the bargain, you tube.
He tried to smile at his own joke, at the stupidity of it all, but he couldn’t move his lips. He knew he was growing stiff and cold out there in the desert at night, but he didn’t feel cold or anything else; only a numbness, a drowsiness. He was sure there wasn’t long to go.
He had heard that your whole life flashed before your eyes in the moments before you died. He thought perhaps that was what was happening to him, because now he had a clear picture in his mind of that little red-bricked, terraced house where he was brought up. Then the words of a song thrust themselves at him, uninvited, unwelcome: In a neat little town they called Belfast...
He couldn’t understand why the words of The Black Velvet Band should come to him at this time. He had always hated that song. And he couldn’t stand The Dubliners, who had sung it and made it more popular than it should ever have been. Another bunch of Taigs with beards. Almost as bad as those Clancy cunts with their moronic jerseys and so-called rebel songs. The UVF should have shot them all.
He wondered if he was sounding like his Da. That sour-faced bastard he used to call his father. The war hero with one leg, who never had a good word for anyone, Protestant or Catholic, and least of all for his own son, his only child. It had been a relief when the ould sod kicked the bucket.
He wondered why his Ma and Da had waited for so long before they had him. Fuck, they were old when he was born. His pals at school used to think they were his grandparents, so they did!
And he wondered about his Ma. Still alive, still living in that wee house on that quiet wee street on the edge of Belfast. She was as old as the hills now, as old as the hills that overlooked the house. How would she take the news that her Jimbo had gone before her, like her husband and everyone else she had known? Stoically, as ever, he answered his own question. Aye, stoically. Like a good Ulsterwoman. See ya, Ma.
Now he was upstairs in the house. Back in his bedroom. He was a wee boy again, tucked up in his bed, safe and cosy and gazing out at the stars. It’s like cartoon land up there, Ma. And I’m like Peter Pan, flying up to the stars. If I could just reach out and touch that big one...
As the night grew blacker, stars began to appear – a few at first, then thousands more all at once, then many thousands more until the sky resembled a giant Star Wars screen, flickering and glistening, lighting up the desert floor, zooming down to meet him. The stars were so close now that if he had been able to raise an arm he could have reached up and touched the nearest one.
In the starlight, Jimbo could make out objects lying in the sand on either side of him. Over there on his left was his rucksack, half empty now, the rest of its contents strewn around it. His mobile phone had been in the rucksack. He could imagine it ringing some time the next day, when Sally’s flight landed. It would ring again when she arrived at the villa in Marrakech. Then it would ring again and again and again in the empty desert, the intervals between the calls becoming shorter as panic set in. Sally wasn’t the brightest spark in the box, so it would take her a while to raise the alarm. But by then all that would be left of him was a carcass half-eaten by the desert dogs.
Uncharacteristically, Jimbo felt a pang of sympathy for Sally, for the trauma she would go through, the pain she would suffer. Sorry it had to end this way, Sal. So sorry, princess.
The feeling passed quickly. He found himself peering at the two objects on his right. They were what was left of his laptop, the screen and the keyboard now separate pieces embedded in the sand, standing erect like tombstones. He had brought the laptop with him just in case. In case of what, eh? In case I decided to send that email, that one last plea to Neville to grow some balls and get rid of the snake? Yeah, well it’s too fucking late for that now. It wouldn’t have changed anything anyway. The deal was done weeks ago and it could never be undone. I should have accepted then that I wasn’t part of the company any longer. The company I poured my heart and soul into... until that cunt...
Jimbo sighed. He couldn’t see any sign of it from where he lay, but he knew his motorbike was out there somewhere. He remembered it skidding on its side across the sand and him being propelled into the air to somersault and then crash to the ground on his back. He loved that old bike. A Matchless 500, one of the few built in the Sixties. He had bought it in 1974, when he was just a teenager and barely able to handle it. He had cleaned it up and kept it running ever since. He brought it over with him from Belfast when he started his new life in Edinburgh. And only that week he had ridden it all the way from Edinburgh over to Calais, down through France and Spain and across to Morocco. The old girl hadn’t let him down once. But then she had to go and hit a rock hidden in the sand and his head had to smash down on another. Jeez, all this rippling golden sand for hundreds of miles around, and I happen to find the only two fucking boulders in the place.
He thought it was ironic that the only thing he had ever cherished in the world should also be the cause of his downfall. But he supposed he had no-one else to blame but himself. The trip to Marrakech had been much tougher than he had anticipated. He had had to fight hard to concentrate, to keep his attention on the road, while all the time his mind was in turmoil. Those same questions pounded his brain over and over and over again. Why did you give up, Jimbo? What got into you? What made you offer to sell your shares back to Neville? Did he give you a fair deal? Or did the slimy cunt fuck you over? You’ve got some money now, sonny, but it won’t last for ever. What are you going to do for the rest of your life? You’re lost, Jimbo. In a wilderness. And it’s all that bastard Lamb’s doing. Why can’t Neville understand that Lamb’s only out for himself, not the company? Their company...
Anger and resentment had boiled up in him, so much so that he had to stop frequently on the way until he calmed down. Then, instead of resting when he arrived at the villa, he had showered and gone straight out again, making a beeline for the desert. He wanted the Saharan wind to blast his face and tear through his hair; he wanted the wind to clear all the shit, all the badness, out of his head. So it wasn’t long before he strapped his helmet to the pillion and left the road. That vast, shimmering sea of flatness, stretching away to infinity, was so tempting. He had always dreamed of taking the old girl out into the desert, opening her up and letting her do what she was built for. It was like swimming with dolphins, he supposed, one of those things you should do before you die. Aye, well, Jimbo, you’ve certainly fulfilled that dream, so you have. But you weren’t meant to die into the bargain, you tube.
He tried to smile at his own joke, at the stupidity of it all, but he couldn’t move his lips. He knew he was growing stiff and cold out there in the desert at night, but he didn’t feel cold or anything else; only a numbness, a drowsiness. He was sure there wasn’t long to go.
He had heard that your whole life flashed before your eyes in the moments before you died. He thought perhaps that was what was happening to him, because now he had a clear picture in his mind of that little red-bricked, terraced house where he was brought up. Then the words of a song thrust themselves at him, uninvited, unwelcome: In a neat little town they called Belfast...
He couldn’t understand why the words of The Black Velvet Band should come to him at this time. He had always hated that song. And he couldn’t stand The Dubliners, who had sung it and made it more popular than it should ever have been. Another bunch of Taigs with beards. Almost as bad as those Clancy cunts with their moronic jerseys and so-called rebel songs. The UVF should have shot them all.
He wondered if he was sounding like his Da. That sour-faced bastard he used to call his father. The war hero with one leg, who never had a good word for anyone, Protestant or Catholic, and least of all for his own son, his only child. It had been a relief when the ould sod kicked the bucket.
He wondered why his Ma and Da had waited for so long before they had him. Fuck, they were old when he was born. His pals at school used to think they were his grandparents, so they did!
And he wondered about his Ma. Still alive, still living in that wee house on that quiet wee street on the edge of Belfast. She was as old as the hills now, as old as the hills that overlooked the house. How would she take the news that her Jimbo had gone before her, like her husband and everyone else she had known? Stoically, as ever, he answered his own question. Aye, stoically. Like a good Ulsterwoman. See ya, Ma.
Now he was upstairs in the house. Back in his bedroom. He was a wee boy again, tucked up in his bed, safe and cosy and gazing out at the stars. It’s like cartoon land up there, Ma. And I’m like Peter Pan, flying up to the stars. If I could just reach out and touch that big one...