The Misfortune of Fools - A Novel

2. Wimbledon

Santiago was driving to the burger joint when Tyson texted: ‘Meet me at a coffee shop here.’ He sent him the location, as if Santiago was expected to turn up with no discussion. Apparently, the café ‘served great coffee.’ Santiago swore. He clenched and unclenched his fists, like he were loosening them up to punch Tyson in the face for that bullshit text. Tyson was a Yorkshire brew type feller, quite content with that instant Tesco stuff. Why this fancy coffee shop? Had he suddenly become sophisticated? Santiago came up to Purley Roundabout and waited for a gap in the traffic. Was the fucker already in the process of shaking off a tail before they even met? A voice within him, not very different from his wife’s, told him to turn around and go back home: ‘You know how this is going to end. You know how this is going to end.’ He rubbed his thumb on his simple wedding ring as if he were soothing it and hoped that the voice would disappear into the abyss of his conscience. But it wouldn’t go away. So, he turned on the radio, hoping that bad news would drown it out. It worked, LBC reported that the Metropolitan Police warned that they don’t have the tools or the resources to deal with the expansion of the Camorra criminal organisation in the UK, especially their money laundering operations. A boat had capsized in the Channel. Twenty-three migrants, mostly Afghans, Syrians, and Iraqis had drowned – two of them children. The Home Secretary was so moved by the tragedy that she had news reporters follow her around as she patrolled the channel on board a coastguard vessel, determined to stop such boats from reaching the country. He bit his lip, shook his head, and drove in the direction of South Wimbledon. It took him half an hour to get there.

Santiago pulled up and parked his Ford Focus in front of the café. Before leaving, he reached for the little crucifix dangling on the rear-view mirror and kissed it. Once done, he exhaled as if he were ready for anything. He found Tyson sitting at one of the outside tables. His back was against the wall, and he was enjoying the sun. His racing green Triumph Bonneville motorcycle was parked brazenly next to a tree on the pavement. An open-face helmet rested on the handlebars, daring passers-by to steal it. Tyson didn’t seem to care that there were parking wardens about. Or maybe he just wanted to show people what a roughneck he was. There was simply no point to it— a few yards down the street was a rack for motorcycles. Santiago hoped that some mangy dog would walk past, raise its leg and piss on it, or better yet, shit on the motorcycle dropping dollops of smelly brown stuff on the wheels. But this was Wimbledon. ‘What a fool,’ thought Santiago, ‘still a dickhead after all these years.’