Arg scrolled through the #dailypussy,
blindly feeling inside his Lonsdale satchel for the Pepperami that his mum had
packed for the journey.
“Thanks mate!” he called to the driver,
throwing a thumbs up as he climbed out of the car and headed towards
departures, still scrolling.
Check in desk four, his mum had said as he left the house.
“Desk four desk four desk four deesskk…”he muttered under his breath, as he craned his neck to look towards the other end of the terminal.”..four!”
Arg joined the queue and began scrolling again, favouriting.
“OH MY GOD! It fucking is. I knew it fucking was! Arg! Arg!”
Arg hit the lock button, shoved his phone into his pocket before the girl could see what he was looking at and looked up. She was quite fit. Bit spotty, but great tits.
“Y’alright?” he chuckled.
***
“Fly hiiiiigh and let me go (let me goo-ooo)” Gary Barlow belted out from the diamante encrusted Samsung to an empty kitchen.
Patricia Argent sat bolt up right and looked at the time. It was 6:27.
It was James. Something had happened to James.
Patricia threw the duvet off of her legs and ran down to the kitchen to get her phone, the sudden movement jolting her husband Martin out of a particularly long bout of sleep apnea.
“James! Hello? James? It’s your mum…”
“Patricia, it’s Claire.”
“Oh. Is everything alright?” asked her son’s agent.
“Did James leave on time? Because if he didn’t Patricia, I swear to God... Look, he’s not here and we’re going to miss the flight. It’s embarrassing and, more importantly, it’s unprofessional and if there’s one thing that I’m not, Patricia, it is unprofes-“
“He left hours ago, Claire! I got him up myself. He left!”
***
“I’m sorry, sir, we can’t accept your ticket. It’s for a flight departing from Gatwick. This is Stansted.”
“But my mum said desk four! She checked on the internet. Desk four!”
“Yes, sir, this is desk four, but it’s desk four at Gatwick. Your flight is from Stansted.”
Arg’s mouth opened and closed a few times, no sound coming out. He shook his head, dropped his shoulders, and sloped off out of the queue towards a metal bench by WH Smiths.
“…tit” he heard someone in the queue say.
Arg sank down onto the bench and got his phone out of his pocket. Nothing - he pressed the home button and got nothing but his own darkened reflection. What the…? Of course, the #dailypussy. He’d left the #dailypussy open.
***
“No, I’m sorry Martin, but I can’t be as calm as you. I can’t sit and eat Weatabix whilst our only child is out there,” Patricia swallowed, “missing!”
“We have three children, Patricia,” Martin said as he wiped milk from his chin.
“I meant son. Our only son is out ther- Yes! Hello? Hello. It’s my son, officer, he’s missing. He’s James Argent, off the telly. He’s missing,” she walked out of the kitchen into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
***
“You’re Argie from Geordie Shore! Eh! Babby! He’s Argie from Geordie Shore!”
Babby stood up, straightening his ‘Can-poon’ t-shirt and knocking the table of half-empty pints slightly as he made his way across Stansted’s Whetherspoons towards Whitey.
“Whitey you fackin’ dick head, it’s Towie he’s from! Ain’t ya? You’re Argie from Towie?” Babby quizzed, throwing his arm heavily around Arg’s shoulders. “Come and have a pint with us, Argie! Get ‘em in, Argie! Come and sit with the lads, mate. We’ll all have a pint and you can tell us about throwin’ won up Gemma!”
The group of men cheered, some of them leaning their chairs back onto two legs and slapping the table.
“Argie’s one of the lads! He’s one of the lads!”
Arg looked down to the sticky surface of the bar and smiled.
***
***
Check in desk four, his mum had said as he left the house.
“Desk four desk four desk four deesskk…”he muttered under his breath, as he craned his neck to look towards the other end of the terminal.”..four!”
Arg joined the queue and began scrolling again, favouriting.
“OH MY GOD! It fucking is. I knew it fucking was! Arg! Arg!”
Arg hit the lock button, shoved his phone into his pocket before the girl could see what he was looking at and looked up. She was quite fit. Bit spotty, but great tits.
“Y’alright?” he chuckled.
***
“Fly hiiiiigh and let me go (let me goo-ooo)” Gary Barlow belted out from the diamante encrusted Samsung to an empty kitchen.
Patricia Argent sat bolt up right and looked at the time. It was 6:27.
It was James. Something had happened to James.
Patricia threw the duvet off of her legs and ran down to the kitchen to get her phone, the sudden movement jolting her husband Martin out of a particularly long bout of sleep apnea.
“James! Hello? James? It’s your mum…”
“Patricia, it’s Claire.”
“Oh. Is everything alright?” asked her son’s agent.
“Did James leave on time? Because if he didn’t Patricia, I swear to God... Look, he’s not here and we’re going to miss the flight. It’s embarrassing and, more importantly, it’s unprofessional and if there’s one thing that I’m not, Patricia, it is unprofes-“
“He left hours ago, Claire! I got him up myself. He left!”
***
“I’m sorry, sir, we can’t accept your ticket. It’s for a flight departing from Gatwick. This is Stansted.”
“But my mum said desk four! She checked on the internet. Desk four!”
“Yes, sir, this is desk four, but it’s desk four at Gatwick. Your flight is from Stansted.”
Arg’s mouth opened and closed a few times, no sound coming out. He shook his head, dropped his shoulders, and sloped off out of the queue towards a metal bench by WH Smiths.
“…tit” he heard someone in the queue say.
Arg sank down onto the bench and got his phone out of his pocket. Nothing - he pressed the home button and got nothing but his own darkened reflection. What the…? Of course, the #dailypussy. He’d left the #dailypussy open.
***
“No, I’m sorry Martin, but I can’t be as calm as you. I can’t sit and eat Weatabix whilst our only child is out there,” Patricia swallowed, “missing!”
“We have three children, Patricia,” Martin said as he wiped milk from his chin.
“I meant son. Our only son is out ther- Yes! Hello? Hello. It’s my son, officer, he’s missing. He’s James Argent, off the telly. He’s missing,” she walked out of the kitchen into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
***
“You’re Argie from Geordie Shore! Eh! Babby! He’s Argie from Geordie Shore!”
Babby stood up, straightening his ‘Can-poon’ t-shirt and knocking the table of half-empty pints slightly as he made his way across Stansted’s Whetherspoons towards Whitey.
“Whitey you fackin’ dick head, it’s Towie he’s from! Ain’t ya? You’re Argie from Towie?” Babby quizzed, throwing his arm heavily around Arg’s shoulders. “Come and have a pint with us, Argie! Get ‘em in, Argie! Come and sit with the lads, mate. We’ll all have a pint and you can tell us about throwin’ won up Gemma!”
The group of men cheered, some of them leaning their chairs back onto two legs and slapping the table.
“Argie’s one of the lads! He’s one of the lads!”
Arg looked down to the sticky surface of the bar and smiled.
***
***
“It’s just, it’s the bow ties, officer. He wouldn’t have gone to Mallorca without them. He went to Norwich last week and took seven,” Patricia explained, opening her son’s bow tie drawer, her hand hovering over them. Don’t touch them, she thought, they might need them for evidence.
It was clear to DI Alan that the young man in question was very fond of wearing a bow tie. There was no doubt about that.
As he’d stood in the Argent’s hallway, waiting for the lad’s mother to make the tea, he’d looked around at the photos on the walls. They were all of James. One was of a young James, aged around 8, crooning into an old fashioned Mike whilst his parents acted as backing singers. Another looked like an iconic Rat Pack shot, but with a twelve, he guessed, year old James posing as each member. Others were of an older James and were more moody; the kind of headshots that you see in gents hairdressers in Walsall.
James, regardless of age, was wearing a bow tie in all of them.
“We can’t…” DI Alan lightly scratched his forehead and exhaled, “Mrs Argent, we can’t build the case on bow ti-“
The officer looked at the saw the woman’s lip tremble and coughed.
“We’ll make some calls and get your son home
safe, Mrs Argent.”
***
DC Andrews changed gear and looked quickly at her boss as she drove them away from the Argent’s home.
“We’re not really going to have to do this, are we, guv? Investigate this?”
“I hope not, Rachael. I really fucking hope not,” DI Alan scratched his forehead. “It’s the end for both of us if we do.”
***
“Argie bhaji! Argie! Bhaji!” The lads chanted as Arg held the onion ball to his mouth and posed for a photo.
Once they’d put their phones down he bit into it. It was one of those reheated ones from Sainsburys. The ones that are always cold in the middle, no matter how long they’re in the oven for. The ones that suck all of the moisture out of your mouth.
Whitey staggered back towards the group. “According to the bird on the desk, we ain’t goin’ no where ‘til tomorrow morning, lads. No where til ‘morrow,” he burped.
“Fackin’ ‘ell’” the group took turns to sigh.
“We gonna kip here then?”
“Nah, mate. I’m headin’ ho-home. Come back in the morning, I think. Thas the best thing to do, innit?”
“You wan’ a lift Arg?”
***
The sound of the key in the lock. When it she heard it for the second time, Patricia knew her son was home. James always got confused between the back door key and the front door key, despite the smiley face key cover that she’d put on the front door key to help him remember.
James stepped through the door, slipping his shoes off using his toes and setting down the bag of Fridge Raiders Roast Chicken Bites that he was eating in the bowl of potpourri.
***
“But your bow ties, James! You left all of your bow ties!”
“I was trying something new, Mum! I wanted to try polos again, with the collar buttoned up. Like Dan wears.”
“But James, you look lovely in bow ties! It’s what they used to wear! I thought you wanted it to be your thing, you were going to make them trendy!”
“I just wanted to try something new! I don’t wanna be the joke anymore, Mum! I’m just a joke. To everyone. To Lyds. To the boys. To everyone!“
“Ok, ok, calm down. We can get you some polos tomorrow, it’s alright,” she said, stretching her arms around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. “But James?”
“What?”
“Don’t do bandanas, ok?” Patricia said into her son’s hair. “Not like Charlie, alright James? Not like Charlie.”
***
DC Andrews changed gear and looked quickly at her boss as she drove them away from the Argent’s home.
“We’re not really going to have to do this, are we, guv? Investigate this?”
“I hope not, Rachael. I really fucking hope not,” DI Alan scratched his forehead. “It’s the end for both of us if we do.”
***
“Argie bhaji! Argie! Bhaji!” The lads chanted as Arg held the onion ball to his mouth and posed for a photo.
Once they’d put their phones down he bit into it. It was one of those reheated ones from Sainsburys. The ones that are always cold in the middle, no matter how long they’re in the oven for. The ones that suck all of the moisture out of your mouth.
Whitey staggered back towards the group. “According to the bird on the desk, we ain’t goin’ no where ‘til tomorrow morning, lads. No where til ‘morrow,” he burped.
“Fackin’ ‘ell’” the group took turns to sigh.
“We gonna kip here then?”
“Nah, mate. I’m headin’ ho-home. Come back in the morning, I think. Thas the best thing to do, innit?”
“You wan’ a lift Arg?”
***
The sound of the key in the lock. When it she heard it for the second time, Patricia knew her son was home. James always got confused between the back door key and the front door key, despite the smiley face key cover that she’d put on the front door key to help him remember.
James stepped through the door, slipping his shoes off using his toes and setting down the bag of Fridge Raiders Roast Chicken Bites that he was eating in the bowl of potpourri.
***
“But your bow ties, James! You left all of your bow ties!”
“I was trying something new, Mum! I wanted to try polos again, with the collar buttoned up. Like Dan wears.”
“But James, you look lovely in bow ties! It’s what they used to wear! I thought you wanted it to be your thing, you were going to make them trendy!”
“I just wanted to try something new! I don’t wanna be the joke anymore, Mum! I’m just a joke. To everyone. To Lyds. To the boys. To everyone!“
“Ok, ok, calm down. We can get you some polos tomorrow, it’s alright,” she said, stretching her arms around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. “But James?”
“What?”
“Don’t do bandanas, ok?” Patricia said into her son’s hair. “Not like Charlie, alright James? Not like Charlie.”
Nice work it is. how to get your love back by black magic
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