Strawberries and Champagne

“… And then what?”

“And then what, what? That’s it.”

“That can’t be it.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s it. That’s the end.”

“Well then, we’ve got a problem.”

“What? No we don’t, I told you everything I remember.”

“Not everything.”

“I’m telling the truth, I- wait, what’s that? What are you doing?”

“One more chance. And then what?”

“I- You can’t do this, I’m telling the truth, I swear-”

***

The recording ends with a bang and a fizz. Like the worst bottle of champagne in the world. I can’t help but shift in the chair. Metal, uncomfortable and easy to clean. Everything smells of bleach, but I can swear that there’s an undercurrent of something else.

Strawberries.

Strawberries and champagne. Coated in chocolate. The strawberries, not the champagne. There’s something vicious about that, biting down on a hard, slightly bitter chocolate shell until it cracks, and soft strawberry flesh fills your mouth. Drown it with something expensive and start all over again.

It’s hot. That’s why I’m sweating. Nothing to do with the static still filling the room, dead air. Radios don’t do that anymore, do they? I can’t tell if I want something to happen or not. Something happened to that guy.

The man across from me isn’t giving anything away. He’s in a chair like mine, and there’s a table between us but that isn’t fooling anyone. If he wanted to kill me, he probably wouldn’t even need to get up. A bang and a fizz. Strawberry smoothie blitzed up with bubbly.

He’s got a nice suit on. I’m hot in my dress, he must be roasting. No air con in here, apparently. The budget must have been spent on suits, guns, and cleaning supplies. Even the lights flicker, concrete walls, concrete floor, a single door, and a mirror that’s not a mirror.

All in all, this is probably the third worst date I’ve ever been on. At least we’re both dressed up for the occasion. No trackies at Nando’s.

“What’s your name?” I ask. Someone has to break the silence, and he isn’t playing ball.

The man cocks his head. “That’s your question?”

“Yep.”

“John.”

“Let me guess, your last name is Smith?”

John doesn’t crack a smile. Maybe that’s for the best. Instead, he holds up a finger to stop me from saying anything else and fiddles with that recording device. Rewind and record with a click. Dry mouth, chapped lips, I’d kill for a glass of water.

I’d die for champagne.

“The date is August the 22^nd, 2019. The time…” John checks his watch, his fingernails tapping on the table while he waited for the minute to tick over. “Seventeen minutes past nine. PM.”

“How many seconds?” I ask. The tapping stops and he looks at me. If looks could kill, he wouldn’t need that gun on the table.

“Today’s interviewee is Jennifer Martin. Female. Thirty-six years of age.”

“Call me Jenny.” I say it with a smile, every ounce of charm I’ve got. My options are slim. I could go the begging and crying route, which would ruin my mascara. Or I could not do that.

John doesn’t smile back, but that’s okay. He’s the kind of handsome that smoulders. Somewhere between a disappointed dad and one of those television serial killers who’s way too good-looking for my own good. He clears his throat instead, shuffles papers on the table. The perfect bureaucrat with a gun tucked in that shoulder holster he’s not even pretending to hide.

“Do you understand why you’re here?”

Absolutely not. “Yes.”

“Are you prepared to answer my questions?”

Not in the slightest. “Ready and willing, John.”

“Do you understand what will happen if you lie?”

All too well. I nod. It feels wrong to voice something true.

“I need an audible answer.”

“Oh right. Yeah, sure.”

John nods. He’s got sweat running down the side of his head. That shouldn’t be there. I mean, yes. It’s hot, it’s summer, and this idiot is wearing a suit. But I was expecting something more of an Agent Smith deal with John. I’m a little bit disappointed. He’s human and the smell of sweat is going to mingle with the rusty bleach.

“Can I have some water?” I ask. Might as well have a last request. Maybe he’ll get himself some too, along with a flannel.

“No. Tell me what happened today.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, from the morning.”

I shrug. He asked for it. “Alright. I get up early because I need to pee. I think it’s before five or something. So I pee, check that I haven’t started my period, because I’m due on and I’ve been caught-”

“Fine. You can skip some details.”

“Can I have some water?”

“No. Go on.”

I’m starting to hate this chair. It’s somehow slippery and sticky all at once. I think it’s a torture device, but they haven’t bothered to tell me. I’d be better off standing, but John’s got a death grip on those papers. He probably expected to be out of here by now. Maybe he’s got kids. I could see John being a dad. A terrible one, but still.

“I get up. I get ready. I haven’t started my period, by the way. I’ve got the day off work, so I figure I’ll meet my sister at the park today and go from there. She’s getting married in a few months, so you can imagine what she’s like right now.”

“Your sister’s name?”

“You don’t have that on your papers?”

“Just tell me.”

I don’t really want to. They’ll probably drag her in here next, and she’s bound to get herself shot in the face somehow. Probably talk John’s ear off about the perils of catering for an army of gluten-free keto-loving vegans with nut allergies. Of course, they probably know her name. If I lie, all that’ll happen is that she gets to hear me get shot first.

“Rachael Martin. For now, at least.”

“How do you spell that?”

“The needlessly complicated way, with an ‘a’.”

“And the park?”

“I don’t know. It’s just the park. You know, the one with the trees and the benches.”

John sighed. There was that disappointed dad face. I’ve seen it enough times to know it. What I’m less familiar with is the way he lays the papers on the table and pulls out the gun.

“Wait, it’s- Okay, okay, there’s a coffee shop. Nero’s, I think. And a playpark, Primark’s just down the road. Come on, you must know it.”

John nods. “We can work it out. Go on.”

He doesn’t put the gun away. It’s in his hand, pointed right at me. It looks smaller than it should. Seems like a pathetic way to die. The park… what comes after the park. “So I meet my sister, we get coffee. I like mine black. No breakfast, I can’t eat breakfast. It’s not that fasting thing, I just don’t like it.” John was looking impatient again. It’s not fair. He picks on some stupid details, drags them out, but his fingers twitch if I don’t read his mind.

“We don’t talk about anything that matters. Wedding stuff, you know. She… it was the bridesmaids this time. I don’t know what she expected, having eight bridesmaids.” I laugh. John doesn’t. I’m still sweating, but it’s funny, he isn’t. I don’t feel hot anymore either. I can hear that tapping on the table, but I can see his hands. One is holding the recorder, the other is holding the gun.

Strawberries and champagne. That’s what I’d serve at a wedding. It’s romantic, isn’t it? Romantic and kind of fun and the image of strawberry smoothie makes me nauseous. Flecks of red in the pink, unblended fruit leaving lumps. A cork pops and I’m back in the room. 

“One of them is pregnant, she doesn’t think the dress will fit. It’s stupid, really. Who cares about a dress? And another one is annoyed because… because… It doesn’t even matter. We have coffee. We whinge. It’s nice, you know? It’s summer and you’ve got to get outside because there’s like two weeks of sun and you’ve got to take advantage of them.”

I’m rambling, talking way too fast about nothing. As if it makes a change. John doesn’t want me to ramble, but I kind of want to carry on. You know what? If he’s going to shoot me, then he might as well do it sooner rather than later.

I stop talking. John waits a grand total of twelve seconds before he clears his throat. Twelve seconds doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s a long time when you realise that your last words might well be whining about British summertime, or lack thereof. Typical. Another few seconds drag on and he's about to shoot, I can taste it. Tastes like bitter bubbles and gunpowder.

Then he doesn't.

“I get the idea,” John says instead. Maybe he feels awkward. I know I would. His wrist is probably hurting, holding that heavy gun. Guns are probably heavy, right? He's definitely tired. Once I'm dead, he'll have to move on to another person, then another, and so on. A purgatory of ordinary people, all with nothing to say but a thousand dreary words. “Let’s fast forward. You’ve talked to your sister. What happens when you leave the park?”

Nothing. Nothing happens when I leave the park. It’s late morning, then it’s nothing and I’m here. The confusion must be plain as day on my face because John seems to wake up.

“Jennifer. What happens next?”

“It’s sunny. She needs to meet her fiancé for lunch, so I leave the park.”

“… And then what?”

Less than a minute. From this point, it was less than a minute before the other guy died. He told the truth. I know because I lived the same day, I’ve got that same nothing in my head. But more than that, I could hear it in his voice. I know liars, and he couldn’t lie to save his life. But I can.

“And then… then things get really weird.”

John’s grip on the gun tightens, white knuckles on flushed skin. But the real change is in his face. He smiles. It suits him. “Go on, Jenny.”

Before I know it, I’m smiling too.