There’s a delightful little Italian sandwich shop two streets down from my office. It does these soft flat breads, filled to bursting point with authentic Italian fillings (yes, all the way from Italy; I am assured on every visit). I enjoyed walking down there, cigarette in hand, buoyed by the prospect of a cheery greeting and a boisterous laugh, despite not understanding a word of what the guys who work there said.
As well as the sandwiches, there is also a poster on the wall behind the counter. A pretty brunette in a pink dress stood, hands on hips, winking at every lucky patron. It had been there ever since as long as I can remember. Now, it was just background filler; a permanent fixture to this unique sandwich experience. Every so often, though, I would re-notice her, as I did on this hung over of days, and my appreciation for her prettiness, her pinkiness and her winkiness would come flooding back.
That was 45 minutes ago; now I sat digesting my lunch, and feeling decidedly better for it. The office around me was bustling: the girls on the next table were chatting away about what holiday destination they were going to next; Patrick, my co-working buddy, was arguing with Bob, one of the directors, about whether Rooney should be punished for his taste in the older prostitute; and above it all, Raquel, giggling madly into her telephone, a presence that was simply unavoidable.
I was on Facebook, surfing the web, reading the BBC Gossip Column, whiling away those few remaining minutes of my lunch hour when the phone rang. I looked around to see if anyone else was going to pick it up, but everyone was too engrossed in what they were doing to notice. I lifted the receiver. ‘Good afternoon, you’ve found Found!’ My soul died a little.
‘Hello, boy, is that Frank?’ The Voice’s question was fairly innocuous, if a little unexpected, but it sounded eerily familiar. It wasn’t anyone I knew; rather, it sounded… famous.
I paused, confused. ‘Er, yes, it’s me. Speaking?’
‘Good, now listen carefully, boy’. Something strange was happening. That voice, it sounded just like… the man off the More Than car insurance adverts. I strained my ears, ready to confirm my incredulous suspicions. The fogginess that the hangover had created was now well and truly gone.
‘I’m not threatening you, boy, and you’re not in danger. But you need to watch out’. It was unmistakable. That East London twang had been etched into my memory, through watching the likes of Get Carter, The Italian Job (the old one, obviously) and the new Batman films over and over. I was speaking to the one and only. A cold sweat appeared instantly on my brow, my back, all over, as the shock of what was happening began to sink in. The office had gone completely silent, as everything else melted away into insignificance. What was going on? ‘Boy? Do you hear me?’
My mouth was completely dry. It opened and closed, but nothing was coming out. No noise, nothing. Time had slowed right down, and it seemed like an eternity before I managed to whisper: ‘What on earth…’
‘I’m just here to warn you, boy. Don’t ask questions now. Just keep your eyes open’. And with that, the line went dead, and my surroundings came crashing back around me: the noise of the girls from the next table, insisting on no carbs before Marbs; Patrick and Bob, lamenting England’s latest penalty failure; Raquel. I was slouched down in my chair, sweating, pale with shock.
Sarah, who’d been out for lunch, came back to her desk. She looked at me with wide-eyed concern. ‘What the fuck has happened to you?’
I shrugged, mumbled something about feeling sick, raised myself to my feet and headed out into the corridor.
Next thing I knew, my head was in the toilet, throwing up that glorious Italian sandwich, with Michael Caine’s words crashing around inside my mind.
The Warm Up 