by D J Harrison
As Toby sleeps, vulnerable and trusting in the corner of my bed, I am overwhelmed by tearful emotions. My heart is filled to bursting point with love for my beautiful child. My body aches with the sadness of our separation and my whole being wallows in the darkness of the guilty knowledge that it’s all my fault.
32
Gary keeps repeating his mantra: ‘I’m not so good with the paperwork.’ He uses it as his stock excuse for just about everything. I tell him in return that Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs will have no problem in filling in the appropriate paperwork which will confiscate all his possessions and send him to jail.
‘We need to sort things out, Gary, it’s only a matter of time before they come and investigate you. When that happens we need to be able to show them lots of paperwork, all filled out correctly.’
‘I’m a great believer in not bothering them if they’re not bothering me,’ he replies. ‘But you’re the boss, that’s what I hired you for – to do the necessary.’
‘It’ll mean declaring income, paying tax, you understand that?’
‘We already pay tax,’ he protests.
This is true; there is an elderly lady in Eccles who does all the wages and sends in the income tax and National Insurance deductions. Gary thinks this constitutes the limit of his liability, even though he pays his workers half their wages in cash and only half through the books. He made the same arrangement with me. I get an envelope every week containing £350 in cash. My problem is that when I need to get a mortgage that will be based solely on my declared earnings. Telling the building society not to worry, that I get enough cash to cover the repayments, just won’t do the job.
We agree to set up a limited company and trade through this. To my surprise Gary insists that I become an equal shareholder and act as both director and company secretary. Once again, he pleads his lack of interest with paperwork. He also adds that he trusts me and that we need to look out for each other. There’s little I can say about this other than to agree. The thought crosses my mind that somehow Gary is being smarter than his disarming manner portrays him, but I let that go under the plaintive look he gives me.
‘I’ll need to make a list of all the assets you intend to put into the company, like the yard and the offices. When did you acquire the land here?’
‘Ah,’ Gary wrinkles his brow, ‘that’ll be about six or seven years ago, that’s when I acquired it.’
‘I’ll need details of the transaction, how much you paid, ownership plans, that kind of thing.’
Gary looks even more puzzled. ‘There’s none of those things,’ he admits.
‘You’ve lost them? Don’t worry. I can get the information from the Land Registry.’
‘They won’t have it either,’ he says.
‘Look, Gary, if you bought land there will be a transfer document lodged by your solicitor with the Land Registry.’
‘There’s the thing,’ Gary says, ‘I never bought it – I just acquired it so to speak. It was a rough piece of land, nobody seemed to want it, so I put a fence round it and waited. I put up my security notices all around and nobody ever complained, so I started using it for bits and pieces of storage. Then I put the offices here. I spent good money on electrics and drains and stuff. Anyway, it’s no problem, it’s sound. Nobody bothers about it.’
I’m disconcerted but not very surprised by this account. All Gary’s dealings have a great deal of informality in common. I have to admit that his approach to business seems much more successful than many others I’ve witnessed.
33
I’m allowing the unusual indulgence of tapas in a heaving Deansgate restaurant when he announces his interest by sending a drink over to my single occupancy table. I wave my acceptance and meet his eyes. I decide I will go to bed with him. He looks wholesome enough, my age or even a little younger, out with four male friends and brave enough to risk a knock-back.
‘Andy.’
He sits down opposite and holds out his right hand.
‘Jenny,’ I reply.
He can’t resist a triumphant look back over his shoulder. As we share a bottle of house red he reveals himself to be a policeman. His friends are all policemen, they’re having a lads’ night out. I assume he’s married or at least spoken for, but this is information that I’ve no need to confirm at this point in our relationship.
Small talk and comfortable pleasantries soon lead to his gallant offer to walk me home. I offer in return to make him a coffee and his quick, eager acceptance reveals the self-indulgent nature of his gallantry.
Coffee forgotten, Andy soon has his hand inside my knickers. I am glad of it and getting more grateful with each passing moment. We move to my bed. He gently parts my legs, then my lips and pushes himself inside me.
I am moist and agreeable as he sinks into me. As he thrusts I feel the condom scratching my insides, as if he’s wearing a crinkly crisp packet and the salt is inflaming my internal wounds. I flinch in pain but he pushes harder and faster. I try to push him out of me but he grips me more tightly by my buttocks. My moans of discomfort and anguish are increasing in volume. He mistakes this for my passion and is now hell-bent on his own. I am being impaled by shards of broken glass; my agony is emitted as screams. He makes low-pitched animal noises and shudders to a halt. I feel him becoming limp, eject him with my hand and stagger into my bathroom.
For fifteen minutes I am peeing dribbles of acid, the pain is intense, and my disappointment is unbearable. Even with Tim, it was never this bad.
I return, unsure and embarrassed, to find Andy snoring and indifferent. He lies on his back with a self-satisfied look that I want to cut off with a knife. As I stand over him, he snaps into wakefulness as if somehow heeding my violent thoughts.
‘Wow!’ he spurts, ‘you were great.’
No, I wasn’t great, it wasn’t great, it was horrible and it made me ill. I’m in agony and all you can feel is the end of your dick. Before I can say anything, he gets up and begins to dress, no doubt worried his wife will be wondering where he is by now.
‘Got to dash,’ he manages. ‘Sorry, on earlies tomorrow, I’ll call you.’
I think of Martin, his gentleness, his connection, his sensitivity. I remind myself of his death and how I let him down. The tears begin before Andy has let himself out.
34
Gary is suggesting that I leave early today. He stands in uncharacteristic agitation, the doorway framing his taut body. Outside, the half gloom reveals several unfamiliar faces, blank and unflinching, attached to large figures. When I look at them they turn away quickly and pretend to be more interested in the nearest pile of broken concrete. I turn to Gary but the questions die in my throat. Now is not the time for answers, my concerns are not relevant. Nothing I say can change things or influence events. Gary’s energetic state is shocking to me, a glimpse of the powerful man that is usually masked by easy-going deference.
Even though it’s barely 4.30 in the afternoon, the gloom is descending rapidly. It has become one of those sad winter days when the sun never manages to pierce the dark blanket. Light drizzle speckles the yellow haloes around the street lights; soft drops, almost like snowflakes, drift gently on the still air. The rain is the only thing in motion; the men in the yard are immobile, frozen in attitudes of unconvincing informality.
As I allow myself to be ushered out of the gate, I count four more burly individuals squeezed into Gary’s car. I catch the eye of the swarthy man with thick black hair sitting in the front seat. A shock of recognition changes his neutral expression for an instant; this scares me as I’ve no idea who he might be.
There are two more men outside the yard testing the supporting qualities of the perimeter fence. A frisson of sharp fear pierces my stomach as I glimpse a polished wooden gun stock protruding below a coat and understand the look in Gary’s eyes.
****
Sleep is impossible after a whole evening of worry. A hundred times I pick up the phone to call Gary for some reassurance but e
ach time I replace it carefully on the table. The eerie atmosphere I experienced at the office has transposed itself to my apartment, carried in on my waves of anxiety. Now I lie here alert, nerves jangling, mind racing with dire possibilities. The man who recognised me in the yard haunts my thoughts. His expression when our eyes met was one of surprise followed by intense dislike. At least that’s my memory of it now.
My speculation about him has turned into an endless recurring loop that can only be severed by answers. Gary may have these but I judge his attention is firmly fixed elsewhere at the moment. Best not to disturb whatever he’s doing, I only hope he’s safe. The idea that an army of gun-toting thugs is needed to protect him puts me in a sad, doomed mood. My life is picking up again, thanks to Gary and his job; this situation can’t be anything other than a turn for the worse.
There could quite easily be no office, no job and even no Gary come morning. Then I face the prospect of a return to unwaged squalor, shared toilet and cockroach-infested lodgings.
Something wakes me from a nightmare where a sinister man is grimacing with the effort it’s taking to expel dribbles of semen which trickle down my cheek. I have a rock of tension in my stomach and flaring pain between my legs. A deep sadness chokes the breath from me. I’m certain that my life will become even more painful and distressing.
My phone says 7.18, and one message. Perhaps the short vibration woke me up, in which case I’m grateful to be spared further abuse. The text is from Gary; it says “stay off tdy don com wrk” and fills me with alarm. He answers my call immediately.
‘Are you okay, Gary?’ I ask.
‘Yes, fine.’
‘Is the office okay, what happened?’
‘All fine.’
‘Isn’t it safe to come to work?’
He hesitates before he answers.
‘Oh, not a problem, it’s just that I don’t want you there. I don’t think we can work together any more.’
He hangs up leaving me frightened and confused in equal measure.
35
The frustration is driving me crazy. Sitting here in the apartment, warm, well-fed, clean and safe, should be a welcome respite from my busy and often uncomfortable life of recent times. Instead it feels worse than prison. Three days have gone by since I last spoke to Gary when he told me we could no longer work together, whatever he meant by that. Every attempt to call him fails. My messages are ignored. It’s as if I am abandoned and forgotten. Today is Friday and despite his clear instructions to the contrary, I’ve decided to go to the office and hope to confront him there.
Toby is mine this weekend. I need the loan of a car from Gary otherwise I’m back to train ride, bus ride and two hours in the front room being supervised and feeling unworthy. My frustration and fear is turning to anger and resentment. How can Gary treat me so inhumanely now? To go from gentle kindness to complete rejection is surely a cruelty beyond forgiveness.
My long walk in the chilly dampness is unrewarded. The yard is replete with piles of rubble; there are bricks and earth and window frames and glass and plastic everywhere. Entry to the office is blocked by unstable mountains, dumped indiscriminately. Nobody is about. The gate is closed and padlocked, as if to protect the deposits inside against theft. Now I wish I’d spent my money on a taxi. I could have saved myself the twenty-minute walk through the Salford wastelands and be whisked home now in speed and comfort. Instead I trudge away, empty of ideas.
My phone complains that it’s low on battery, as if to prompt me to try one more time. A speck of hope remains on the surface of my despair. Stopping, pressing the buttons carefully, I lift the phone to my ear. Ringing, ringing; no answer, no answer. Yes an answer, only the voicemail. A disembodied female inviting me to leave a message then wasting my time with complex keyboard instructions in case I want to edit or repeat the things I have to say. There is no “scream” button, no mechanism for reaching down the phone and grabbing Gary’s attention. Nothing. Only despair and silence now.
****
Tim is scornful when I tell him I can’t take Toby this weekend. Any thoughts of asking him to bring my son to me and pick him up again are dispelled by his unsympathetic coldness. Better to give up my child’s company than beg favours from that man and give him the pleasure of seeing my discomfort when he rejects me. There are sores remaining from our relationship that Tim is intent on keeping open and suppurating.
****
Every night the dream returns, the same man, the same grimace, the same degrading and disgusting finale. Sometimes, there are other men, also snarling and sneering. Every time the knot in my guts gets tighter and the pain in my groin stings. When I awake I feel sick and ashamed.
****
The television shows scenes of a major accident on the M6. There are lorries and cars in twisted heaps. Flashing lights and cones across the carriageway prevent progress, a view from a helicopter shows mile after mile of stationary traffic. The newsreader expects the northbound carriageway to be closed for some time and advises travellers to take an alternative route. My efforts to feel grateful to be alive and to rejoice that I’ve not been crushed to death in one of those mangled vehicles fail completely. The incident has no interest for me until I hear that thousands of Arsenal supporters may be unable to get to the match with United. An electric energy snaps me out of my torpor. I stand up and dress quickly. This time I will take a taxi.
36
Gary is standing in the same place as he was the first time I sought him in desperation. Although I felt my misery was complete then, I believe this time it’s even worse. My spirits are even lower, my need is even greater. Last time I had nothing and expected nothing: now I feel deprived of something very valuable. The car park remains empty, apart from a handful of cars, the lights are on in some of the office windows, the football parking has not begun in earnest. Gary watches me approach, shoulders hunched, hands in coat pockets, face blank.
‘Gary …,’ I begin.
‘I can’t talk now, things to do, I’ll call you tomorrow.’ He interrupts me and turns dismissively. A twinge of fear and disappointment knocks me off balance and I stand transfixed as he shuffles away.
‘Wait.’ I summon up enough anger to shout. ‘You owe me an explanation. I’ve been chasing you around for days.We have to talk now!’ My lips are quivering and I want to run over and grab hold of him, make him listen.
‘It’s no use.’ He turns to face me. ‘You’ve not been straight with me. I can’t be having that.’
His eyes glint strangely yellow in the street lights. My bladder spasms, a sharp pain slices my abdomen.
‘What’s the matter?’ Gary asks.
‘I need to pee,’ I explain, doubled up and fighting the pain.
He leads me across the car park to the corner made by the tall L-shaped office block. After sifting through an enormous bunch of keys he bends down and releases the lock in a glass door.
‘Over there on the right.’ He points to the “Ladies” sign beside the staircase and I half run, half stagger into darkness. The light switch is elusive. My gropings fail to locate it and I re-emerge, embarrassed, into the vestibule. I prop the door half open with my foot to let in some light from the hallway and find the switch.
Despite the urgent feeling, despite the cramping pain, despite the bloody inconvenience, it takes several minutes before the stinging trickle begins. My frustration overwhelms me, tears are welling up at the realisation that Gary doesn’t trust me and I’m losing the one chance I have of changing this because of my faulty bladder.
As the seconds tick relentlessly by and I sit powerless, I convince myself that Gary will have disappeared by the time I finish in here. This thought brings panic which stops me from peeing.
My body relaxes slightly at the sight of him sitting in the foyer, still waiting for me. I realise he needs to lock the door and this forces him to hang around. Now I have my opportunity to get to the bottom of his antagonism.
He stands up immediately I sit be
side him. ‘Sit down, Gary,’ I order.
‘I’m busy,’ he complains, but sits back down on the plush visitor’s chair.
‘Five minutes, that’s all, we need to sort out what’s going on. I need to know what’s caused you to stop trusting me.’
He looks down at his toes. ‘As I said, you’ve not been straight with me. I can’t have that, that’s all there is to it.’
‘But I have been straight with you, Gary, what makes you say I haven’t?’
He sits silently for a few moments then shifts uncomfortably as he speaks.
‘You should have told me. I can’t be getting that sort of information from someone else.’
‘Told you what?’
‘About you being in with a bad lot, dealing with very dangerous people; I can’t afford any trouble, not from them sorts of people.’
‘What bad people? It’s not true. Who told you this?’
‘Never you mind who, it comes from a reliable source.’
‘One of your mates, I suppose.’
‘Not really.’ He looks around the empty building as if expecting some sudden intervention. ‘It was the man, Popov, the one who supplied some guys to protect the yard. It was him that recognised you.’
My mind flashes back to the eerie atmosphere and the look in that man’s eyes as he sat in Gary’s car.