Off the Record

by Craig Sherborne

  She’d regret that, I thought: no jot of sympathy for me, just malicious retorts. Another reason to end this marriage and to do it on my terms. I was prepared to be civilised but would not tolerate insults. That she was right only made the insult worse. The more I felt sorry for myself the more I missed Emma and wanted her back. The more that happened, the more I hated her. Her ability to look down her nose at me as if I’d fallen too far beneath her.

  36

  To make up for my appearance and my inferiority feelings I dressed in a suit for the office next day. My black pinstripe. Red kerchief ears poking from the breast pocket. I polished my black brogues and chose my pearl cufflinks. Both eyes were blackening down to my swollen cheekbones. I admit I did impress myself—wounds upon the face bespeak masculine. A prize-fighter mien that a suit emphasises. I played with it in the mirror—sneering tough as if issuing a dare; twitching my chin for combat.

  It was getting on to ten. I was late from dressing slowly. Ironing a shirt. Getting the suit coat over my shoulders. All those things you do swiftly when in painless mode.

  My flat’s intercom buzzed. A long buzz then two short ones. No one buzzed the flat except hawkers. I’d dispatch them with a rude Go away. This buzzing came in the aftermath of hospital. The bashing and Pastor Shaw. I fingered the blinds open. Anything strange in the street? The intercom had no vision camera. Times like this you regret getting accommodation cheap.

  ‘Hello,’ I said curtly.

  ‘I have a delivery for a Mr Callum Smith.’

  ‘What sort of delivery?’

  ‘A package.’

  ‘What sort of package?’

  ‘It’s not my business.’

  ‘Leave it on the ground.’

  ‘I can’t. That’s not allowed.’

  I walked down the stairs and stopped on the lower landing to look at him. I did not let him in through the glass security door.

  He was middle-aged, skinny. Fawn chino pants and a brown leather jacket. The package was small, like an oversized letter.

  I unclicked the security door and held it open with my foot.

  ‘Are you Mr Callum Smith?’

  ‘I am.’

  He held the package out. I took it.

  ‘Callum Smith, you are being served.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Could you sign this please, confirming receipt.’

  ‘Receipt of what?’

  ‘Divorce papers. There’s a brochure in there setting out the procedures. Your wife’s affidavit is a few pages over. Could you sign?’

  ‘I’m signing nothing.’

  He held up his phone and photographed me.

  ‘As you wish. You’ve been served nonetheless. Have a nice day.’

  He took off up the street. The door shut behind me. I patted my sides to check I had keys. I tore open the envelope. Spread its papers along my arm.

  She’d got in first.

  ‘Fuck, Emma. Fuck, no. Fuck you.’

  A pedestrian, some old lady with see-through pink hair, said, ‘Didn’t your mother teach you never to swear in public.’

  They called it an affidavit but it should have been labelled ‘bile’. Callum is a bully. Untrustworthy. A drinker. He connives. Callum is a man who uses his vulnerable son to spy. Emma was troubled by my influence on Ollie. My future contact with him should be supervised. On and on like this, in recriminatory slander. I sat on the bottom stair and threw the document to the floor. Picked it up, read again, threw it down, reread it. To be summed up this way by one who had loved you. Bad enough if it was falsehoods. Much worse if it was true. Was I supposed to read it and be a changed man, contrite, ashamed? The man I knew from those few pages would never change. He’d say he would change but it would be a lie. The more you get to know yourself, even the bits you hate you like. A waste of fifteen years. I wish I’d never met her. An affidavit that rubs your nose into your failings. I should have married an equal. One of my own kind, a journo.

  There was a car following me to my parking space near pry. A white Volkswagen. The Faithflock strategy? Follow me, watch me until I cracked and begged for mercy? It drove on past and stopped at the train station. It backed up and idled. The couple inside kissed and out hopped a woman. She ran across the road, waving: ‘Bye, babe.’ The fellow behind the wheel waved to her. The car was not following me but my heart was thumping, stop-start-stopping. I leant against pry’s front door until my pulse recovered. I forgot the entry code for a dizzy-fog moment. I hardly had the energy to push the door open.

  I know the difference between a heart attack and panic. They’re similar but the panic feeling has no chest pain to it. You breathe like asthma. You hold a balustrade and chant to yourself It’s panic, it’s panic, don’t panic. In five or ten minutes it clears your system. Your head aches but that soon goes with aspirin. There was aspirin in my office somewhere. I mounted the stairs trying to work out where. My desk’s bottom drawer. First the sink, though—an aspirin needs water.

  Ryan Scullen was waiting on the top step.

  ‘Words, glad you’re here. Shit, look at your face. Shit.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Move on.’

  ‘Pockets is back. He’s with some old guy in his office. And there’s this other guy who insists on seeing you. Says he knows you and you’re going to help him. I let him in. He’s in your office to settle him down. Hope you don’t mind. He’s—I don’t know—very well-spoken. Posh English type. A bit agitated and upset.’

  I told Ryan to fetch me a glass of water. I’d deal with whoever it was, just bring me water. I had to call him back to lift my suit coat over my shoulders.

  It was Mr Oxford, the fidgety foppish Frederick Gumm. He was sitting in a chair against my office wall. He leapt to his feet as I went past him.

  ‘Oh Mr Smith, at last.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He squinted the better to view my face.

  ‘Don’t stare, it’s rude.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Make it quick, I’m busy.’

  ‘Mr Smith, I’m desperate. I should be angry at you but I’m too desperate. I’ve been sacked, Mr Smith, over Oliver’s school marks.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Angry at me? I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘With the greatest respect, you know that’s not true. You made it quite clear you had a snitcher on St George’s. You made it quite clear the grudge would only end if Oliver’s marks improved.’

  ‘For an educated man, Mr Oxford, you’re prone to confusion. You’re implying something untoward.’

  ‘You were pressuring me.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I’d even use the word blackmail.’

  ‘Get out of my office or I’ll have you removed.’

  I eased myself slowly into my chair.

  ‘Please, Mr Smith, I’m sorry. I came here to reason with you. Please help me, Mr Smith. Please help me get reinstated. To be dismissed in this way, it means I’m ruined. My career, my reputation. I’ll be unemployable. This horrible stain beside my name.’

  He started blubbering between unemployable and beside my name.

  Ryan brought my water in and couldn’t leave fast enough. It’s like that when a grown man is weeping. A grown man is designed for bland composure not hysterical displays of tearful woes.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Sit down and listen. I love helping people. But you, how could I help you?’

  ‘Pressure on the school, Mr Smith. They listen to parents. They’re frightened of parents. You tell them, This is outrageous. I will pursue Frederick Gumm’s cause.’

  ‘My wife, soon be ex-Mrs C. Smith, has just removed Ollie from St George’s.’

  ‘She has?’ he said, deflated.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But there’s still the pry possibility. You have a way about you. You have a position people fear. And a demeanour. I’ve felt it. A person has no option. They co-operate or fear reprisal.’

  ‘Mr Oxford, that’s very flattering. I like you
. I really do. You have manners and respect. But the reality is, what’s in it for me?’

  The aspirin was fizzing in the glass. I didn’t wait for the potion to become still. I gulped it.

  ‘I know a lot about schools such as St George’s,’ he said. ‘Oh yes, I’ve a wealth of knowledge. I can give you stories.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Oh yes. And I don’t mean petty matters. I mean major imbroglios.’

  ‘Your definition of major might not conform to mine.’

  ‘Last year St George’s took a group of boys to Kokoda. One boy raped a native girl and she fell pregnant. His parents paid for an abortion. It was all hushed up. Lots of village bribes.’

  ‘Peeko, how the fuck did you miss that?’ I mumbled.

  I was impressed with lachrymose Mr Oxford.

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Well, two years ago a boy started stealing from the science lab. He put hydrochloric acid in his pocket. Burned his testicles clean off. Half his penis too.’

  ‘The first story was better.’

  ‘Listen to this. They all trick the marks up. Every school I’ve ever worked in. St George’s and all the expensive places. I’ve kept diaries. I have proof, Mr Smith. Copies of exams where the marks have been changed. Records altered to fool officialdom. I was not discreet enough and so I was fired. You ask the headmaster about his own behaviour. He turns a blind eye when it suits him. The hypocrisy disgusts me.’

  ‘Diaries and records.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I belched aspirin gas.

  ‘Look at you. You come in here like a crybaby and in five minutes you’re pitching stories.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You have the spine for this?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I’m very angry.’

  Pockets was standing in my office doorway. For a man who’d had a fancy trip away he was not bouncing on his toes with enthusiasm. His tan was no darker nor his eyes washed saltwater bright. His wife mustn’t have appreciated the gesture. One holiday was not enough to turn a wrong into a right. He scratched his sugary chin and a frown-V formed in his brow.

  ‘Words, can I see you, please?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I stood and shook Mr Oxford’s hand.

  ‘Ryan,’ I called out. ‘Come in here and meet this man.’

  The lad squeezed past Pockets with a polite Excuse me and deferential dip of his head.

  ‘Ryan, I want to introduce you to Mr Frederick Gumm. I call him Mr Oxford because that’s his background; he’s got degrees coming out of his nether regions. Mr Oxford, this is my new star protégé, Ryan Scullen. You’ve spoken on the phone. Ryan’s going to look after you. He’s going to make you a coffee and go through your stories with you. Mr Oxford is our latest source, Ryan. You take care of him.’

  I put my hand between Mr Oxford’s shoulder blades and steered him through the doorway. He smiled, enjoying his venerable status. He put his hands behind his back in a pompous-pedagogue way. Ryan led him to the coffee machine, saying, ‘Oxford in England?’

  Pockets was wearing his undependable face: smiling brave but chewing his coward nails.

  ‘Words, we need to talk,’ he said. ‘I have to introduce you to someone in my office.’

  ‘Who?’

  He did not answer. He beckoned, Follow me.

  Down the stairs to the passageway near the courtyard.

  He stopped outside the toilet, knocked on its door, waited, opened it. No one there. He closed the door and turned to me.

  ‘Words, this has been a difficult decision but I’ve received an offer for the controlling share of pry and I’ve taken it. My wife, she wants me out of this business. Clean slate, no ghost of Jenny. I didn’t want to tell you until the ink was dry. I didn’t want you talking me out of it.’

  Smiling and chewing. Golden-skinned, gutless. I’d be better off without him if he wasn’t so biddably useful: the kind of Pockets you can push around. The kind of Pockets you can lie to.

  ‘Who’ve you sold out to?’

  ‘A businessman, Words. Self-made. Done well in health care and now diversifying. The thing is, I don’t know how you stand with him.’

  ‘Stand?’

  ‘You speak to him and you’ll turn him round. He wants you gone, Words. You’ll sweet talk him, though.’

  Into his sunlit office we went. The day’s motes billowing at the windows. The skin-crown of a man sitting with his back to me, reading a manuscript. Not a manuscript, a contract, clauses initialled in the margins.

  ‘Words, this is Gordon Grace. Gordon this is…’

  ‘Hello, Callum.’

  The stop-start-stopping of my heart.

  GG stood, buttoning his suit coat’s middle button. A grey single-breasted outfit with the faintest check pattern. Immaculate. Hair strands oiled flat and combed over. Face shaved so smooth it had sheen. The knot of his blue tie a perfect triangle.

  I closed my mouth to hide the missing tooth. I was waiting for bruise comments but that was beneath him. Types like him have superior airs. They don’t bother with taunt-talk. They do up suit buttons and expect you to bow.

  Ex-Pockets looked at us both and said, ‘Aren’t you going to shake hands, gentlemen?’

  ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘No, Callum,’ said GG. ‘It’s not a joke.’

  ‘That’s right, Words, it’s just business.’

  ‘Bullshit it’s business. I know what this is. This is all about getting his leg over. This is my wife we’re talking about. This is outrageous.’

  No temper, no retort from him. Bland composure.

  ‘You know this person is a tax cheat?’

  ‘That matter will be defended, Callum. I’ve broken no laws.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘Emma has now taken my word for that. She told of your part in the matter.’

  ‘We’re at the guts of things now. This is payback as well as a leg over. Well, I have rights at pry.’

  ‘That is true,’ GG nodded. ‘But of no concern to me. You are to clear out your desk immediately and go.’

  ‘You can’t do that. I’m a shareholder. I’m a partner.’

  He lifted his finger and signalled to the courtyard. I hadn’t noticed someone waiting there in the shade. A Maori or Islander so muscled his arms stuck out gunfighter-like. His thighs so thick he had a crabbing walk. He wore a black shirt with Faithflock stitched across it.

  ‘Safo,’ said GG. ‘Accompany Mr Smith, please. He can take those old files of his with him and his tatty chair but nothing else.’

  ‘What’s the fucking Faithflock connection?’

  ‘It’s a big town we live in, Callum, but it’s a small town. I’ve been going to Faithflock since my wife died six years ago. My good friend Pastor Shaw says he’s working on you.’

  ‘No way. No fucking way.’

  ‘I told him his work is cut out and he’ll fail.’

  ‘I’ll be suing you for compensation. I want all my entitlements and the value of my shares.’

  ‘And so you shall have them,’ said GG. ‘It might not be as much as you like.’

  I pointed to Ex-Pockets. ‘How much did you sell for?’

  ‘One hundred thousand.’

  I tried steering Ex-Pockets into a corner for a private moment. He must have thought I was preparing to punch him. He ducked behind Safo, who placed his palm on my chest.

  ‘One hundred fucking thousand?’ I said. ‘You spent more on floor rent. We’ve got revenue growth, ads, subscribers, for fuck’s sake. Makes my shareholding nothing but chickenfeed.’

  ‘Tiffany demanded a quick sell. When Gordon rang I said thank you. Tiffany demanded the price be one dollar. Just to quit the enterprise and have no dirty Jenny money on my hands. I promised that to her and I’ve gone back on my word. One hundred thousand’s more respectable.’

  ‘I’ll be suing. We’ll be in court over this.’

  Smarmy GG shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Callum. All your
misdeeds, professional and personal, out in the open? Your colleagues would have a field day. You’ll receive your entitlements like everyone here. You’re Oliver’s father and won’t be left a pauper and unable to pay for him. In return you go quietly. From this building and from your marriage. I’m shutting pry down. I consider it an act of philanthropy. I know there’ll be others to take its place. But at least I’ll have made this contribution.’

  I did want to punch Ex-Pockets now. ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘Had an inkling, Words. It’s not my business what he does.’

  ‘Philanthropy is always a nice feeling,’ said GG.

  That bland composure again. Even Safo had it, which made him more menacing.

  My equivalent was my gift for dead glitter. Dead glitter requires cunning to sense opportunity. Too much panic had foiled me. I was not my best ally. I pretended dead glitter, which is far from convincing. But pretend it I did to counteract GG.

  ‘You’re missing something here, Gordon.’

  To say his name as one says names, friendly in talk, it was the lowest I’ve stooped in my forty-eight years of life. I sounded desperate like Mr Oxford to save my employment, which of course I was. Aged twenty-three I would have spat in GG’s eye. At my age you get spat at, devoid of prospects.

  ‘You’re missing an opportunity. Let pry be your weapon. We can fight your tax problem. Gordon Grace, we can say, the paragon of citizens. This man who made millions and is religious and gives millions to charity. You do give millions? Doesn’t matter. By the time I’ve finished you’ll be Mother Teresa. Set the tax department back on their heels. Impugning you, a decent man. Go after proper thieves, that’s what we’d campaign.’

  Not a pinch of compassion in his shiny old man face. I have never felt such a fool.

  ‘If Safo wasn’t here I’d deal with you,’ I said. ‘Oh yes. But that’s typical of people like you—you hide behind Maori musclemen. Makes me sick. Oh well, fuck it. You want to be a coward, be a coward. Me, I’m out of here. I’ve got better options.’

  I did up the middle button of my suit coat.

  ‘This is your last chance,’ I said. ‘I can use my talents to help you or else I’m walking out that door.’