by D J Harrison
My tiredness begins to give way to a surge of anger and hatred. All I want now is to find the perpetrators and make them suffer. Nothing else matters. Almost mechanically I begin to clear up. By the time I dispose of the excrement and make my bed fit to sleep in, it’s 2 a.m. Even so, my phone whirrs with a message from Mick. I look at it, longing to summon him, to tell someone about my pain, but resist.
The moment anyone comes here I’ll lose control and break down completely. As it is, on my own, I can work through the tears, spurred on by thoughts of cruelty and torture, of severed appendages and battered faces, of burglars drowned in my bath and thrown into the Ship Canal attached to concrete blocks. Throughout all of this, there is a jangling worry trying to make itself heard through the trauma. As I lie amongst the devastation of mindless savages, I remember the phone calls, the threats, and feel the horror of it all somehow being connected.
*
The police want a list of what’s been stolen. They did turn up eventually, took a cursory look and said there had been a lot of it about lately, especially around here. Probably kids, they offered, without elaborating on what sort of evil children might have destroyed my home. I’m not mentioning the threatening phone calls, not inviting their enquiries down the list of my potential enemies. The way I feel at the moment it would be easier to give them the names of the half dozen people I trust and let them choose from the remaining seven billion or so on the planet.
I think of ringing Doreen O’Donnell. I know how she will react, full of concern. ‘Come over here, stay with us,’ she’ll insist. My heart dissolves at the prospect of that warm comfort and her loving support. It’s what I need most right now. It’s what is missing in my life, that opportunity to soften in a safe pair of arms. I resist, though every bit of me screams the opposite. The last time I sank into the warm O’Donnell household I was being pursued by murderous thugs. She lost her husband because of me, she gave me shelter and drew my troubles onto her own family. I can’t let that happen again. Even though circumstances seem different now, I have a horrible feeling they may not be much different after all.
20
‘I thought it was you, at first,’ Jim Almond’s eyebrows leap upwards, creasing his wide forehead. ‘No, really.’ I continue my description of the threatening phone calls. ‘I thought SG might have got someone to warn me off nicking your jobs.’
‘Well it wasn’t.’ He looks even less happy than usual after my comment. I’m used to him sitting at the desk opposite to mine, deep in anxious gloom. It’s the way he is, I suppose, someone must have instilled in the young Jim’s mind that cheerfulness is a crime.
‘I know that, I’m only saying that I’ve no idea at all who might be responsible.’
‘I used to get mightily pissed off with you, I admit that, but I didn’t ring you with threats.’
‘No, I know you didn’t. I only wish it were that simple.’
‘You took me on, gave me a job when all the time you thought I was making threatening phone calls?’
‘No. You’re getting the wrong impression. What I’m trying to say is that it would be a comfort to believe they were only someone letting off steam, a fit of pique.’
‘I don’t do hissy fits,’ Jim looks hurt.
‘No, I can see that,’ I reply quickly before he proves himself a liar. ‘What bothers me now is the thought that the same people trashed my home.’
‘I thought the police said it was kids?’
‘What do they know? Anyway, I never told them about the threats. I’m certain they’re connected. What I don’t understand is why someone would do it?’
‘To warn you off, maybe?’
‘That’d make sense if I knew what I was being warned off from.’
‘You might not know, but they must think you do. So. What have you been sticking your nose into recently that involves violent criminals?’
‘Nothing,’ I answer automatically, but something stirs uneasily in me as I do.
21
As I enter the cavernous monstrosity and squint against the harsh lights, the hollow feeling in my stomach returns. I almost abandon my trolley and run, but I have to steel myself against my discomfort if I’m to gather some food. The atmosphere in here is antiseptic; somehow the aromas that should be jostling to enter my nostrils from this enormous range and quantity of food have been eliminated. All I can smell is cleanliness until an occasional unwashed person leans over me to grab something shiny.
There are better places to shop, better supermarkets than this one even, but the differences are marginal and this one is alluringly close to home. I throw some plastic-wrapped greenery into my basket to join cling-filmed pears and then head for the checkout escape. Mercifully, for the pressure to get out of here is mounting, the lady in front of me is quick and efficient. She even fails to look surprised when asked to pay and jabs her card into the machine automatically. My few purchases clink musically across the scanner until a dull note sounds. The girl looks suspiciously for the missing bar-code sticker and tries again. Failure is repeated. She then looks puzzled as she peers into the clear plastic.
‘What’s this?’ she asks me.
‘Kale,’ I reply. More puzzlement and pressing of till buttons. Then she consults a laminated set of printed documents which she browses as if it were a clothing catalogue.
‘Kale?’ She looks up.
‘Curly kale,’ I confirm.
‘I can’t find a code for it.’
‘It’s eighty-five pence a packet,’ I tell her.
‘I need a code though.’ She presses a button and a bell sounds and the light above the till begins to pulsate. We wait. The man behind me in the queue lets out a long sigh, we make eye contact, my look says it’s not my fault, his replies you’re holding me up because you eat something weird and unusual. A youth dressed in a logo-stamped fleece several sizes too large for him saunters up.
‘I need a code for this.’ The girl thrusts my kale at him. He walks slowly away. I look at the man’s shopping displayed on the belt. Half a litre of milk, two pot noodles, chicken korma ready meal, small white loaf, tin of Heinz tomato soup, packet of McVitie’s dark chocolate digestive biscuits, a six pack of Walker’s ready salted crisps. I look at him again. This time his face is softer, his eyes smile first and then his mouth. There is a gentleness about him that seems out of place here.
‘Sorry about the delay,’ I say.
‘Not your fault, we should all buy more kale so it’s worth their while to give it a bar code,’ he laughs. ‘What exactly do you do with kale anyway?’
‘Eat it,’ I laugh back.
‘I thought they fed it to cattle.’
‘Well I’m lucky, they saved some for me.’ The youth returns bearing a second pack of kale. The girl behind the till scans this successfully, puts the offending pack in my bag and the youth takes the new one away again.
‘Seventeen pounds and forty-seven pence, do you have a Club Card?’ I slide my credit card into the machine and wait.
‘Can you try again?’ she asks, ‘it’s not accepting it.’
I remove my card and replace it.
‘Still not accepting it.’ The girl looks blankly at me.
‘I’ll pay cash,’ I say, fumbling in my purse. I have a ten pound note, some coppers and nothing else. The heat rises in my head, shame wells up. I want to abandon my kale and run. I feel like a criminal trying to rob the place.
‘I’ll try my debit card.’ It too is declined. I am seven pounds short and I have no more options. ‘I can’t understand it,’ I protest. ‘Why would my cards stop working all of a sudden?’
The girl replies with a blank stare. I feel the pressure of the lengthening queue, already impatient over the kale incident. The man behind me leans forward with a twenty pound note in his hand.
‘Let me lend you the money,’ he says.
Numbly I nod agreement, anything to escape this place with some dignity. Abandoning my purchases would be too demeaning, I’d neve
r be able to set foot in here again. The man thrusts a twenty pound note at the cashier who accepts it with an air of suspicion. She waves the change in the air, uncertain who to give it to. Outside I try to give what money I have to him, but he refuses to take it.
‘Twenty quid loan, call it that, you might be glad of some cash while you sort out your cards.’ I nod my thanks and he extends his hand. ‘Alex Hartley.’
‘Jenny Parker.’ I take his hand briefly, it feels warm and strong. ‘I’ll pay you back tomorrow, how can I get in touch with you?’
‘Do you know the Sawyer’s Arms on Deansgate?’ he asks.
‘Opposite John Dalton Street?’
‘That’s right. Shall we meet there about seven? You can give me my money and buy me a drink.’
22
It’s now nearly 11 a.m. and amid the chaos and distractions of my office I finally manage to get through to someone I can talk to at my bank.
‘The man at your call centre refused to talk to me and I can’t log on to internet banking, what’s going on?’
‘Let me pull up your personal account.’ She has the air of someone doing me a great personal favour. She is the business advisor for the company account. I get the feeling that my personal finances are of little or no concern. It’s only my control here that holds any sway.
‘Your last credit card payment was refused because of insufficient funds. You should have had a letter.’
‘There’s almost fifty thousand in my savings account, if I’d known I could have transferred some across. It really isn’t good enough. I had to borrow twenty pounds off a stranger last night.’
‘Your savings account is eight pounds twenty-three pence in credit. Your current account is one thousand seven hundred pounds overdrawn.’
A hollow feeling is developing in my stomach. Something about the situation is beginning to get through to my body, before my mind is able to grasp what’s going on.
‘Are you sure you have the right account?’ I give her the number again.
‘Yes, this is your account, I can see you withdrew all your savings over a week ago.’
‘That’s not right, you’ve made a mistake, I never did.’
‘In that case you need to ring our Fraud Department.’ She gives me a number.
Unlike the bank’s main number, the fraud line is answered quickly and without any machine voice offering multiple choices. Even before I get an answer, I know what’s happened to me. As the young-sounding man asks questions, I already know the score.
‘It’s because my documents were stolen, isn’t it?
‘We can’t be certain what’s happened yet,’ he replies cautiously.
‘Well I can. Someone’s cleared out my bank account, you must have had some reason to let them do it.’
‘Let’s get all the facts first.’ He carries on asking questions. The usual mother’s maiden name stuff and lots more about recent transactions, standing orders, electricity supplier, regular payments, salary details, other accounts. It is taking ages. All the time I’m giving him answers, I can only think about the money I’ve lost and feel the deep hollow it leaves inside my guts.
‘Leave it with us.’ He promises to get back to me tomorrow, meanwhile my accounts have been frozen. I walk into Emma’s office and her warm presence prevents me collapsing into the sobbing wreck I feel.
‘How much do we have in the petty cash?’
She takes the tin from her drawer and unlocks it. There’s a thick wad of twenties nestling above the white receipts.
‘Three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-seven pounds, thirty-two pence,’ she reads off a sheet.
‘All right, give me five hundred. My bank have lost all my money and frozen my accounts. I might need quite a bit more, so keep it topped up.’
She hands over the notes and I count out what I need. As she does, I feel a trickle of power flowing back into my body that triggers a warm feeling of anger. I resolve that this is a minor inconvenience in comparison with the grief I have in store for the ones who caused all this, the threats, the break-in at my flat and now my bank account. Someone has it in for me again. It’s a familiar feeling, but this time I’m better able to cope. What didn’t kill me last time has made me stronger now. They have the advantage of knowing who I am and where I live. I need to get on even terms and make them sorry they started this.
23
Alex Hartley is sitting on a tall stool by the entrance as I walk into the Sawyer’s Arms. I am only a little late and if I allow myself to be truthful, I’m in a very nervous state. All of a flutter – my mother would have observed.
It’s been a long time since the prospect of meeting a man has had this effect on me. My experiences have removed any desire for intimate relationships, my opinion of men in general is pretty well rock bottom. I know what they’re like and even the seemingly nice ones aren’t much different. So why am I going weak at the knees as I approach him? More disturbingly, why have I spent three hours at the hairdresser’s that were badly needed at work? None of it makes sense. All I got was a brief impression of the man and a glimpse of his shopping. Re-visited he looks pretty ordinary. There have been dozens better-looking than him that I’ve automatically cold-shouldered. Now I’m like a schoolgirl on a first date.
The walk up from the Spinningfields car park was cold and blustery, all I can think about is the effect that wind may have had on my hair.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ He half rises as he asks. I’m not sure what to do so I awkwardly offer my hand which he shakes gently.
‘I’m supposed to be buying you a drink, aren’t I?’
‘Okay, but me first. What are you having?’
‘Lime and soda please, I’m driving.’ The moment I make the apology for my non-alcoholic choice I regret it. I also regret driving here. I really could do with a stiff drink. The shiny plastic notice detailing special menu items isn’t quite reflective enough to reassure me about my hair. I seem to have developed a halo of frizz but my image is too indistinct for me to be certain. It’s not my hair that is disturbed though, it’s me. Since Martin’s tragic death, I haven’t trusted anyone enough to allow myself to be intimate.
My life is full of energy and excitement, but seeing Alex here I realise how empty it really is.
Instead of using the moment to steady myself, by the time Alex returns with my drink, I’m even less composed than when I arrived. I’m fighting desperation now, trying to hide my neediness.
I begin with a well-rehearsed sentence. ‘Thanks for rescuing me from my supermarket nightmare.’
‘No problem, my pleasure.’
‘Do you make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?’ As I speak I wince inwardly at how the words betray my state.
‘I’d hardly call you a damsel in distress,’ Alex smiles at me in a way that leaves me confused.
‘So how would you describe me then?’ Another sentence, another banal betrayal.
‘Confident, capable, not someone to worry about being embarrassed in a supermarket queue.’
That’s all very well, but I prefer words like pretty, attractive, sexy, fun, desirable, lovely. Ah, well, I suppose capable will have to do for now, it’s better than a lot of other things he might have said. After today’s revelations, though, I’m feeling a lot less confident and capable.
‘My bank account has been hijacked, all my money stolen.’
His look of concern prompts me to reach into my purse and pull out his twenty pound note. ‘But don’t worry, I can pay you back. Here.’
‘Are you sure you can afford this?’ He looks suitably guilty as he accepts money from a destitute woman.
‘That’s the least of my worries. It’s what’s happened to my savings account that really concerns me.’
‘How did they get access to your account?’
‘I had a break-in at my flat, they stole my passport and other documents, used them to change my passwords and transfer my money. The bank is looking into it.’
‘That’s not what they’re saying at the moment.’
‘They want to make sure they can’t wriggle out of it, to see if you’re determined enough to take them to task. Keep on at them, don’t let them fob you off.’
‘So how come you know banks so well?’
‘I don’t, I’ve only read about similar cases. It’s happening all the time. There are lots of cases like yours every day.’
He seems content to allow silence, not trying to fill it up with aimless chatter, yet he is there with me, giving me his full attention, un-preoccupied, not allowing every passing distraction to claim him.
‘Has your account ever been stolen?’
‘Oh no. I’ve had a credit card hack though. The card company cancelled it as soon as it happened. They’re getting pretty vigilant these days, they have to be, it’s a big problem. Bigger than anyone cares to admit.’
‘What do you do for a living that makes you so knowledgeable?’ I ask.
‘I have a job that allows me plenty of time to read the paper and watch the news,’ he grins.
‘I want one of those as well, where do I get one?’
‘You could try the DCLG like I did.’
‘The what?’
‘DCLG – Department of Communities and Local Government – I’m a civil servant.’
‘Oh. I’m none the wiser, I’m afraid, it’s not something I’ve come across before. What do you do for this DLGC?’
‘DCLG. I deal with local government finance. It’s all a bit boring to most people, but it’s quite an important thing that we do, ensure the standards and continuity of local services.’
‘Oh. So you make sure my dustbin gets emptied?’
‘Not personally, but you’re getting the idea. What about you, what do you do that makes you so attractive to fraudsters?’