Читать книгу Joe's Wedding - Gareth O'Callaghan - Страница 4

Today is the day I get married.

It was the only message that flashed across Joe Mooney’s mind as he opened his eyes. The deep blue sky and the bright sun blinded him. The fresh westerly wind made his teeth chatter. The coldness and force of the wind against his face seemed strange. It’s a dream, he kept telling himself. You’re nervous so you’re dreaming.

Someone must have left his bedroom window wide open all night. The sunlight was everywhere. There was nothing covering him. There were no blankets at his feet. He tried to open his eyes again. The insides of his eyelids felt rough and gritty. Where the hell had the roof gone? “I’m freezing!” he roared. He popped his head up to check the bedside clock. He reached over to close the window. There was no clock. There was no window. All Joe could see was miles and miles of blue sky. He felt below him. Grass. Lots of it. Long grass and weeds.

It dawned on him that he wasn’t in his own bed. His eyes stung. His head throbbed and his neck hurt. His brain didn’t want to obey the order to think. He raised his head to survey his location.

Then he looked down towards his feet. “Sweet Jesus!” he screamed.

His clothes shocked him wide awake. He was wearing red nylon tights, shiny black plastic shoes, and a blue polo neck with a huge crest on the front and a yellow cape.

Panic set in. He sat up and looked around. He had been sleeping on a park bench. It was cold and damp. He could see blue, choppy water. In front of him was a lake. He squinted and made out two small fishing boats. “That’s not a lake,” he said to himself. “I’ve never seen fishing boats on a lake.” He watched them, bobbing about in a rough sea. What sea?

“Where am I?” he asked. He looked around slowly in an effort to get his bearings. Surely there was a shop he would recognise, he thought, or a car, or a hotel since this was a seafront. No cars. No hotels. No shops. He was sitting on a rusty park bench, dressed as Superman.

Worse again, he was lost.

He checked for money. There were no pockets in the tights, which were almost ripped to shreds by now. Where did I put these clothes on? Who gave them to me? What did I do while I was wearing this outfit? he wondered. The last question made him feel sick. The night before started off as an unofficial “few drinks” with his mates. He refused to call it a stag, because stags always got out of hand.

“No tying me up to lampposts, you hear me?” he’d warned the lads. “No polish, I’m warning you.” He checked his outfit again. He would have opted for the polish any day, compared to this. “Wait till I get you. Just wait until your big days come around,” he said angrily, trying to imagine the fun they all must have had. He tried to remember. He quickly gave up. From about ten the night before until ten minutes ago, he could recall nothing. It just didn’t exist.

He searched under the bench. “What did I do with my money?” he shouted. Don’t panic, Joe! he told himself. There’s got to be a perfectly good reason why you’re sitting here on a park bench. He waited, expecting an answer. He closed his eyes and cursed.