Y’know, I noticed you as soon as you walked in the café. I could see straight away that you were special because you had a kind of glow about you… I guess you could call it an aura, and it’s strange but you’re not the kind of guy I’d normally feel this way about; you’re not my usual type, y’know? Even when I took your order I was a little unsure about you; the way you were all shy about talking to me, like you’d never spoken to a girl before. Like I say, not my usual type. So anyway, I started thinking that maybe… I dunno… maybe I was wrong about you? But when I handed over the change — well, that’s when it happened. I don’t think our hands touched but they got close enough, and all of a sudden I got the flashes like I usually do. They weren’t strong ones — like I say, I don’t think we touched — but they were enough for me to know I was right about you all along. A car weaves; a girl is buried; a man is hanged. I wasn’t sure what it all meant but I thought I might as well go with the usual routine; there’d be plenty of opportunities to bail out if I was wrong. So I grabbed a slip from the pile under the counter and handed it over, making sure I held onto it a second longer than usual just to get your attention. Then I turned to make the coffee and started thinking about what I’d seen. I nearly frothed the milk over the side of the jug while I was mulling it over, but pulled it away just in time. That would’ve been embarrassing, y’know? And I had to look as perfect and infallible as I could to keep the illusion up… but, I dunno, maybe next time I will screw something up; maybe the sympathy vote would help sell it? Hmm. Well, anyway, when I turned round with the coffee I could see you were going to start asking awkward questions so I got in there first; might as well string you along a little just to keep up the mystery, right?

Hey, you still with me? You getting all this? I’m telling you all this for your own benefit. I want you to know exactly what I was doing, and what a pathetic little fuck-up you are. Because you brought this on yourself, you little shit. You’re a killer; you know that? A fucking killer, and it’s better all round that I take you out now. So you remember that. You fucking remember that.

Okay. So where was I? Right, you’ve got your coffee — oh, and yeah, don’t think I didn’t work out what was going on with your little bit of play-acting, pretending like you didn’t know what you wanted to order; it was all a little too rehearsed, so just rememb… no, never mind. So, you’ve got your coffee and you’ve sat down, and I see you staring at your coffee. Then the timer goes off, so I bring your sandwich over, take a breath, then launch into the usual spiel; y’know, the bit about being an angel and all that. You just kinda stared at me, all wide-eyed and silent, and I knew — I fucking knew! — that you’d bought it hook, line and sinker. Then I head back over to the counter and start playing the waiting game. Every so often I’d look up to check you hadn’t run out on me but you were just sat there, staring at the paper. Oh, and you were staring for ages; I mean, I don’t know what was going through your head but… well, whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty interesting. Either that or you’re just a slow reader.

But you’re not, are you? You’re a clever guy, supposedly; I could tell that much. You should know what can happen if you get pissed then try to drive home. People can die. They can fucking die. Oh, you can whimper all you like; it doesn’t bring them back. You can’t bring them back. They’re gone, and that’s it, and you can’t take all that guilt you’ve got and turn it into something good, can you? You either push it down or let it swallow you. And you’re the weak kind, aren’t you? You’d just lay back and let it take over. And you know what? You fucking deserve it, you worthless piece of shit.

So you’re there, staring at your intellectual newspaper or whatever, and it’s getting close to 6, and people start leaving and then it’s just me and you left. I’m all fidgety and anxious when it gets to this part, before the adrenaline’s properly kicked in, so I’m just kind of loitering behind the counter, waiting for you to snap out of it. And then you do, and I’m like Christ, about time! because any longer and I would’ve had to come over and slap you round the chops myself. So once you’re back in the room I nip over and hold my hand out, waiting for you to take it, and then you do and then suddenly I see everything. It’s late and you’re at a party — it’s Jon’s birthday party, right? — and he’s offered you the sofa to crash on but you’ve pulled — somehow, you’ve pulled — and you just want to get her home and fuck her and oh my God now I see how you did it, she’s barely conscious, you sick shit, so there’s no way she’s putting up a fight, Christ, you’ve really got a way with women, haven’t you? So you somehow manage to haul her to your car and seat her in the passenger seat, and you make some half-arsed attempt at putting her seatbelt on but you get distracted and go for a quick grope instead, and she kind of limply waves her arms to push you away, and you make a mental note to fucking punish her later, oh yeah, you’re the man, aren’t you? You’re the fucking man. So you shut the door, and she slumps over, semi-comatose, with her head coming to rest on the window, small patches of fog forming on it by her nose and mouth. You walk round to the driver’s side, open the door and haul yourself in. Oh, sure, you take the time to put your seatbelt on, don’t you? So after briefly scrabbling about it slides in with a neat click and you’re ready to go. Turn the key, put it in gear, handbrake off, and you’re away. You’re driving carefully, aren’t you? Because of course, someone crawling along the road at 15 miles an hour with no headlights on never looks suspicious, right? But you’re finding it hard to concentrate, and you keep looking over at what you’re going to be enjoying later on, and when your hand’s not resting on the gearstick it’s sliding up over her knee, and she kind of waves her hands again and grunts something at you. You should’ve taken the hint; you really should’ve. Because while you’re trying to stroke up her thigh and beyond, the car’s tracing a curved path along the road, drifting further and further and your right foot’s feeling heavier and heavier, gently squeezing the accelerator a little more with each passing moment until FUCK! And I only see a few scattered moments from then on; your head jerks down to meet the expanding airbag; her limp body is thrown forwards, head meets the windscreen, blood splatters, cracks radiate from the point of impact; six men carry a coffin out of a Church to a waiting grave; you weep bitter tears of equal parts remorse and self-pity as you kick away the chair, then spend your final moments twitching and jerking at the end of a rope.

And that’s what this was all about; not what you’ve done, but what you would do. Just going by how fresh the images seemed, I’d guess that it all would’ve happened by the end of next month. So, I could either leave you alone and let you kill some poor girl who was too drunk to resist, or I could take you out now and save everyone the bother. I mean, it’s not like you were going to find a cure for cancer or anything in the next few weeks; what point would there be in letting you live? The way I look at it, I’ve done everyone a favour. Me too, as it happens; it was the weekend when we last had one of you in the caff, and I’m hungry again. Fuck, am I hungry.

Still there? Good. Because I want you to feel this. You might pray for a quick death, but I’ll tell you now — you won’t get one. I won’t let you.

Dom’s mouth twisted to one side, his left eyebrow dipped a little and he looked up at the board, looking for all the world like someone who had no idea what they were after. In fact, he knew exactly what he would have; the same thing he had every time he drank in a coffee shop. For some reason, though, he went through this charade whenever he bought coffee; it was as if he wanted to appear as a man whose tastes were many and varied and what was he going to choose today? when in fact he was the kind of person who would only timidly try a very few things, quickly latching onto the first one that in any way appealed.

“I’ll haaave, er… aaa medium mocha, please… oh, and can I have that with skimmed milk? Thanks. Oh, and… uh… I’ll have a lemon muffin as well, please.” His words were elongated and faltering, as if he was still thinking about his choice even as he began to speak.

The girl smiled brightly at him. “Certainly, sir.” She tapped his order into the register and politely asked for the money. Dom handed over a crinkled ten pound note and received a disappointingly small handful of change in return. He slipped some of it into the tip cup on the counter and stuffed the rest into his jeans pocket. “And your receipt, sir.” He pinched the proffered slip between his thumb and forefinger, but as he moved his hand away there was resistance; she was still holding onto it. He glanced up at her; she stared into his eyes, then cast her eyes towards the receipt, nodding slightly. Then she released her grip and turned to prepare the coffee.

Confused, Dom looked down at the receipt; only it wasn’t a receipt, it was a blank piece of paper with a single word scribbled on it: HELP. Dom glanced up at her, startled; but her back was still turned as she frothed the milk in its metal jug. He looked at the slip again. The word was still there, an unspecific cry for aid. Help her? Why? How? His mind raced. What kind of trouble was she in? Was it financial? An abusive boyfriend? And why had she asked him for help? She had no idea who he was, or whether he was capable of doing anything at all to help her. Was she really so desperate that she would ask the first stranger that walked in? He glanced at his watch. Wait, not the first stranger; it’s just gone 4, I can’t be the first one she’s served. Has she asked others? Has nobody helped? Why wou–

His train of thought was halted by his mug of hot and chocolatey coffee being set down on a tray, followed swiftly by a muffin on a plate. He looked up at her still-smiling face. I’ve got to ask. He opened his mouth to speak but the girl beat him to it. “I’llbringyourpanini over when it’s ready.” The first words came out in a rush; she’d deliberately jumped in before he could speak, no doubt about it.

“Okay, thanks – “ he glanced at her name badge “uh, Michelle”. She smiled and nodded, then turned to the next customer.

Confused, Dom made his way over to a seat by the window. He sighed deeply, and stared into his coffee. What was going on? Why couldn’t she talk? Were they being watched? So many questions; so few answers. The beeping of a timer drew his attention; he glanced over and saw Michelle removing the sandwich from the toasting grill, putting it on a plate, and walking out from behind the counter. He steeled himself to ask his questions. But there was no need.

As she leaned slightly to set down the plate, still smiling, she spoke urgently but in measured tones that suggested she’d rehearsed this speech, waiting for this moment. “There’s not much time. Listen to me. I’m an angel. They stole me from Heaven many years ago. They’ve kept me here all this time. This place has changed. My appearance has changed. But they keep me here. You have to help to me. Wait until closing. Then I’ll tell you what to do.” She straightened herself. “Enjoy your panini, sir.” Then she turned and left.

Dom was left reeling. Did I just hear all that? Is she mad? She doesn’t look mad. Could she even hold down a job if she was? Some questions answered; more questions posed. He glanced at his watch; closing time was just a couple of hours away. He could wait; he would wait. He glanced over to the newspaper rack on the wall and saw that there were still a couple of papers that hadn’t yet been stolen that day; he walked over, took them both without looking, and returned to his seat. He laid them out in front of him: The Sun and The Independent. He umm-ed and ahh-ed between the two, eventually settling on the Indie. He pushed the other paper to one side, and started to read; or at least, he tried to, but Michelle’s words haunted him. His eyes glazed over as he repeated them in his head, over and over. You have to help me. Wait until closing. Then I’ll tell you what to do. He slipped off his specs and rubbed his eyes. What would he have to do?

The door slammed, and Dom jolted upright. It was dark outside; he glanced at his watch and realised that he must have been daydreaming for far longer than he’d realised as it was nearly 6 o’clock. Time for closing; time for action. He looked around; the café was empty apart from Michelle, who was nervously fiddling with the leftover pastries behind the counter. Her eyes flicked upwards towards him and held his gaze; she smiled a small, nervous smile and Dom did his best to return it with one of reassurance. It’s okay, Michelle; I’ll save you. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, then turned back and made her way around the counter and towards him.

“Okay, we have to go now. You have to take my hand and lead me out; it’s the only way I can be free. Please, hurry!”

Dom nodded and scrambled up out of his chair. Michelle’s hand was outstretched; he grabbed it, and moved towards the door. A sudden shout from behind stopped him in his tracks.

“What the FUCK do you think you’re doing?”

The Staff Only door behind the counter was open, and a large man stood in the doorway; he was dressed smartly, and Dom guessed that he was probably the manager. No, not the manager; the bastard keeping this angel here. Dom steeled himself for confrontation and put on his most macho voice.

“I’m taking this girl to freedom and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

The man didn’t respond; and it was only when Michelle spoke that Dom realised that he was not the one to whom the question had been addressed.

“Oh, come on, you know the score; I haven’t feasted in days and this… fucking… maggot was just begging for it. Look at him, thinking he’s my White Knight; I was all set to do the biz and you had to go and ruin my fun. Look, he’s shitting himself; he’s going to taste of piss and fear now.” Michelle’s mocking tones shocked Dom. This… this is my angel? The man rolled his eyes.

“Christ ‘Chelle… yeah, alright then, but take him through the back and be quick; I’m out tonight so I want to lock up and get going ASAP.”

Michelle turned to Dom. “Right, you, this way; and for fuck’s sake, don’t struggle, ‘cos you’ll just make it worse for yourself.” She yanked his arm and pulled him towards the Staff Only door. The man stood to one side as Dom was dragged into the kitchen and through a small side door, into a dimly-lit room with, he noticed, a gently inclined floor sloping towards a metal grille. Dom struggled but to no avail; Michelle clasped his hand tightly. “Oh, stop being such a pussy!” she spat. Then she raised her free hand and slammed Dom’s head hard and messily against the wall.

…

“And your receipt, sir.” He pinched the proffered slip between his thumb and forefinger, but as he moved his hand away there was resistance; she was still holding onto it. He glanced up at her; she stared into his eyes, then cast her eyes towards the receipt, nodding slightly. Then she released her grip and turned to prepare the coffee.

Confused, Nathan looked down at the receipt; only it wasn’t a receipt, it was a blank piece of paper with a single word scribbled on it: HELP.

It wasn’t until I got home and glanced at the Brand X bottle’s label that I realised something was seriously wrong; the word “brandy” was completely absent. Instead, it was described as a “Premium alcoholic spirit mix”. Confused, I headed over to the website of the company that makes it, at which point everything became clear: their stock-in-trade seems to be cheaper versions of other, more established drinks. They’re not always the same type of drink, though; remember the Vodkat? Well, with its faux-Soviet labelling and one-letter-different name, you could be forgiven that it was merely bargain-bucket vodka but you’d be so very wrong; it is in fact schnapps trying to pass itself off as vodka, and I’d hazard a guess that if you’re the kind to go looking for the cheapest vodka possible, your eyes may possibly be a little too bleary to pick up on the subtle distinction between vodka and Vodkat. And so I spent a few minutes browsing the website, chuckling to myself at some of the blatant rip-offery on show, when I finally found what can only be described as the most depressing drink ever invented. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you their cheap version of Lambrini: Lamvino.

Just think about that for a second.

A cheap version of Lambrini.

Does it get much grimmer than that? That such a thing exists as a drink that can only be described as the poor girl’s Lambrini? That’s got to be the kind of drink that makes you re-evaluate your life when you have a sudden moment of clarity in the queue at the 24-hour Spar with a bottle of Lamvino in each hand and 70cl of Vodkat tucked under your arm.

But here’s the thing: instead of pouring the Brand X down the sink in the hope that it’d at least partially unblock it, I went ahead and used it in my Saturday night cocktail, and you know what? It wasn’t half bad. Granted, I’d already partaken of a few shots of homemade Skittles vodka (made with Sainsburys’ Basics vodka, not Vodkat, in case you were wondering) but that surely wouldn’t be enough to supress my cheap-booze gag reflex; no, the only conclusion I can draw is that Brand X ain’t all that bad. So while I wouldn’t go as far as saying I highly recommend it, I certainly wouldn’t steer clear next time I’m looking for a cheap brandy substitute.

Just spare a thought next time you see me passed out in a gutter somewhere; and throw me ten pence if you have it. That Lamvino ain’t gonna buy itself, you know.

(The spinning classes were cancelled because nobody was attending,
Which I guess means spinning’s worse than torment unending.)