Ducie by Chris Freeman

  Chapter 28. ‘Flex’

  Buenos Aries, Argentina - 2007

  Had Frank been able to pick his ideal partner to travel across the globe with, he could categorically say that it would not have been Harrison Morgan. Right up to the moment they touched down in Buenos Aries, Frank still toyed with the nagging suspicion that Harrison was just there for a holiday. But then again, he couldn’t exactly afford to be fussy when it came to the not-so-bulging list of candidates to be his sidekick. The stocky West-Indian doctor understood the plan, and that was enough for Frank right now.

  Their budget twin room at the Hotel Bolivar reminded Frank of the dingy hostels he used to stay in on school trips as a kid. Two narrow, hard single beds sat parallel to each other, occupying most of the room. Both had a towel and a toilet roll at the foot of them, as if these were the bare necessities of hygiene and this was all that this calibre of establishment was willing to stretch to. For the equivalent of £18 per night, it was fair enough I suppose. Bare white walls painted for function not fashion were punctuated only by a grimy, once-white dado rail that sprawled an offensive perimeter around the room, providing the sole depressing example of décor. Frank stood on the modestly sized balcony that was fenced-in by spiked iron railings. Presumably they’d rather you impale yourself on these than fall to your dusty death below. He tried to take a deep breath of unfamiliar air, but it felt more like he was inhaling the noise than anything else. Several motorcycles thrapped beneath his window, all driven by happy looking folks somewhere on the right side of 25 years old. A siren in the distance sounded half familiar, but Frank noticed the subtle differences in pitch and tone compared to sirens back home. A young child of 3 or 4 yelped in pain, as what Frank hoped was the boy’s Father followed the disciplinary smack up with a rumbling and frantic ticking-off in Spanish. Frank glanced down at the hotel sign, as it swung gently below his balcony in the warm evening breeze.

  “Hotel Bolivar – Para Pasajeros”

  Hotel Bolivar - For passengers….or travellers. Or something like that. Frank wasn’t here to learn Spanish. He looked at his watch. 10:35pm local time. Too late now to start navigating their way through an unfamiliar foreign conundrum. They had a week before their return flight anyway. Joe had agreed to hold the fort back at the lab. They were officially ‘analysing results’ that week anyway, during which they were unlikely to have anyone come around checking up on them. Nevertheless, Joe was armed with the pre-agreed excuses should any of the project sponsors drop by. Harrison was at home sick; gastroenteritis. Frank was in London at the Institution of Cognitive Neuroscience bouncing some new theories off some boffin or other down there. In reality, as long as the progress reports went to the project sponsors every week and they actually showed some degree of progress, then nobody really cared what they did in the meantime. After a 15 hour flight, it would have been sheer martyrdom not to get some sleep anyway. Frank wasn’t grumbling at the thought of a rest. He just hoped Harrison was as enthusiastic tomorrow when the cheap Tequila had worn off as he appeared to be now.

  - I fucking love dis place Frankie! Some-ting aboot it mek me wanna party 24-7.

  - That’ll be the Tequila Harrison.

  Frank should have been annoyed at the state of Harrison on such an important trip, but he kept reminding himself that it was good of Harrison to come along at all. He couldn’t have done this alone and Joe certainly wasn’t interested in his ideas. Besides, after a journey as long as that, who didn’t need a drink or two to take the edge off the jetlag? Problem was, Harrison was closer to 10 drinks than he was to 1 or 2. Frank took a bottle of beer from the mini-bar.

  ‘Quilmes?’ Never heard of it, but it’s cold, so it will do.

  He cracked it open with the bottle opener key ring hanging from his belt buckle.

  - Ya such a geeeeeek Frankie!

  Harrison slapped his own thigh repeatedly, as if his own humour was just too much for him to bear.

  - How do you mean, I’m a geek?

  Harrison gasped for breath as he struggled to balance laughing and talking.

  - I mean, ya come arl dis way t’Argentina carrying a damn bokkle opener on ya pants!

  Tears were rolling down Harrison’s cheeks now and his torso seemed to lose control, as he buckarooed around the bed laughing.

  - So what? It came in handy, didn’t it?

  Frank’s sensible reply heightened Harrison’s enjoyment of the whole episode. He was breathless, gasping for a space to fit a reply between the laughing fits.

  - I-man a call ya Handy Frankie from now on man!

  Harrison’s Tequila-induced laughter was now so intense that it was almost silent, his body flipping into involuntarily spasms, as he groaned at the workout the laughter was giving his abdomen.

  - Call me what you like Harrison. Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink now though? You know we’ve got to hit the road first thing.

  Harrison’s laughing fit stopped abruptly and his eyes took on a sterner gaze.

  - I-man got some-ting to tell ya Frankie…

  Frank despised the drunken slur in Harrison’s voice, but was eager to find out what had pulled him back from the brink of hysterical oblivion. The look in his eyes now scared Frank a little if he was honest.

  - Go on….

  - I-man nah wanna be karled ‘Arrison no more.

  - Right…. So I shouldn’t call you by your name? Does this apply, when you’re sober too?

  Harrison sucked his teeth in disdain of Frank’s sarcasm.

  - It apply arrl da time Frankie.

  - Ok, ok. So what should I call you?

  Frank was mocking with fake excitement now.

  - I-man wanna be karled Flex.

  Frank spat a mouthful of beer over his black leather jacket.

  - Flex?

  - Uh,hu.

  Harrison had a look of smug satisfaction that almost demanded that Frank be impressed with his new creation.

  - Fucking…..Flex? What, like a ruler or something?

  The sucking of the teeth again.

  - Not Fucking Flex. Just Flex. Ya karl me Flex from now on Frankie and every-ting a be fit ‘n frock.

  - I’ll do you a deal Harrison. I’ll call you Flex, if you call me Frank. Not Frankie….just Frank. Ok?

  - Are-right man! I’ll drink to that one, partner.

  Harrison offered his glass up to Frank’s bottle for a toast. Frank had surprised himself with how quickly his beer bottle had emptied, but he accepted the toast anyway before putting the bottle on the bedside table and pulling the thin, white bed sheet over himself to wait for sleep to come.

  - And Frankie…

  - It’s Frank!

  - Sorry, Frank.

  - Yes….

  Frank deliberately left a pause to amplify the ridiculousness of Harrison’s insisted nickname.

  - …..Flex.

  - Don’t go fretting about nuttin, sight? Flex be on top form inna di lights?

  It may well have been the jetlag, or perhaps the swiftly necked bottle of Quilmes, but by now this Caribbean lingo was lost on Frank.

  - Inna di what?

  - Inna di lights. In da marning!

  - Oh, yeah…of course. In the morning. Yeah, yeah. Ok. Good night Flex.

  - Seen, dread! Jah bless!