Down Among the Dead Men_ A Year in the Life of a Mortuary Technician - Michelle Williams [64]
What followed over the next hour and three-quarters was simply brilliant. England actually managed to win, and win quite respectably, which, together with a top-up of lager levels at half-time, lots of shouting and listening to the various musical instruments belting out ‘Swing Low’, meant that by the time four thirty had arrived we were four happy people making our way down the staircase to the outside and the deepening gloom. We elected to catch one of the free buses back down to the town centre, then looked around, trying to decide which of the many alehouses would have the privilege of entertaining us. Opting for a large but stylish pub replete with bouncers on the door, we sallied forth and once more settled down to some serious beer talk, surrounded by like-minded, England-shirted punters, discussing the game and our prospects for the games that were forthcoming in the next few weeks. By the time we emerged, it was well and truly dark and we were hungry to the point of famine. Mindful that it would be a good idea to relocate closer to the hotel if we were going to take on board some grub, we hailed another (cheaper) taxi and were deposited in short order in Richmond High Street.
I think it would be true to say that by this time we were all fairly merry and finding a restaurant proved, well, ‘interesting’. I decided that I wanted an Indian but no matter where we looked, there was not an Indian to be found. There were Chinese restaurants (which I hate), French restaurants and Italian ones, but no Indians; I mean, how can there be no Indian restaurants within walking distance of anywhere in this sceptred isle? Ed kept moaning bitterly whenever we walked past most of these, but I was intent on an Indian.
I didn’t get my wish, though. We eventually settled for a Thai restaurant that was close to the hotel, one that Luke pointed out we had walked past three times already. Still, it proved to be a decent place, well frequented and with a very nice menu. We settled down at the table, ordered some wine and then thoroughly perused the menu, while getting warm after the chill of a November night.
Over the next hour we stuffed Thai food. Towards the end of things I began to flag so made my apologies and disappeared back to the hotel bedroom, silently hoping that I was not about to meet another of the hotel’s uninvited guests. I didn’t, and plunged into such a relaxed slumber that not even Luke’s later return could disturb me.
The next morning, I learned from Luke that it hadn’t been long before the three of them decided to decamp to the pub that we had originally frequented on our arrival in Twickenham. There they had had a few shots, spent a while more talking about important and serious issues, and then rolled back to the hotel. Considering, none of them looked too bad when we assembled at reception; they were a bit pale and certainly quiet, but not obviously wasted. We got into Ed’s car and drove out of the hotel car park, then through south-east London, tired but happy. The traffic seemed not too bad until we were nearly at the turn-off for the M4, then we got snarled into some seriously heavy congestion. Ed, who, it appeared, was not a particularly patient driver, began to curse under his breath in loud whispers that the CD player could not hide. ‘Bloody Sunday traffic . . . It’s worse than Saturdays now . . . Sodding Chelsea tractors . . .’
After forty minutes, however, the reason for the hold-up became apparent and we all fell silent. There had been a bad smash-up just past Junction 2 of the M4. One entire carriageway had been closed and, as we drove past the carnage, we saw why. There were four ambulances, two fire engines and at least half a dozen police cars parked around a mess of shrapnel that had once been maybe four, maybe five cars.