by Greg Elswood
The water cascaded down her back, no longer a sweet caress but a screaming torrent endured inside and out. Wordlessly, she gave in and let Michael have what he wanted. But she hadn’t said ‘yes’ and she suspected that he didn’t know the difference.
4
When Jacob returned to Wilson Street, the young girl beneath the newspapers held a cup of tea, presumably given to her by a passing stranger. She sat hunched in the corner and, despite the steam rising from the drink, the girl shivered hard. It would take more than that to warm her up, but it was better than nothing and, in Jacob’s experience, an uncommon occurrence.
Most people walked by homeless people without making eye contact or would shake their heads at the sight of them. If they were lucky. It was not unusual for passers-by to mutter insults, scold or even spit, although the worst was usually reserved for after dark, when there were no witnesses or after the accusers had had a drink. Being ignored was often the best that Jacob experienced, and a cup of tea or a little loose change was a bonus, in a City of big bonuses.
Jacob didn’t stop. The early hope of the day standing at the top of Shakespeare Tower had evaporated, and he didn’t know which was worse; the emptiness in his stomach, the frigid morning air, or the desolation he felt after his miserable experience with Bill. He sighed and shook his head. Why couldn’t he fend for himself better on the streets of London, given his background? He’d suffered far more inhospitable environments during his Army days, and it saddened him to think how much he had let himself down.
After walking for a few minutes, Jacob suddenly felt exhausted, something that never would have happened before, not even a couple of months ago. He slumped down on the pavement to catch his breath and put his head in his hands. It might just be the lack of food and shelter that made him feel weaker, but he didn’t think his apathy was all down to hunger or the cold. He felt low, constantly rejected and despised, almost as though he was a stranger in his own country. How could he have fallen into such a desperate state?
Jacob had been born with many advantages in life: a middle-class upbringing, supportive parents, intelligence and good health. At school he had been one of the popular kids, not because he was the life and soul of every party, but because he was approachable, reliable and always mucked in. He had been good at sport, owing to his natural athleticism, and his classmates seemed to follow him both on and off the playing field. So where did he go wrong?
After passing his exams with some of the best grades in his school, he didn’t want to go to university like many of his friends, and he could still remember the words of the school careers adviser.
‘Have you considered joining the Army? It will give you valuable training, and you’ll learn far more than you would at university; real skills you can use anywhere afterwards. But even better than that, it will be a life full of travel, adventure and unimaginable experiences.’
They had been so right, but not in the way they had meant.
Jacob thought he’d be sent to Iraq after his initial training, coinciding as it did with the invasion of Kuwait, but instead received his orders for Northern Ireland. Ulster was a tough baptism to active duty, and even today Jacob found it hard to describe the atmosphere of fear and raw tension to anyone who hadn’t lived through it. But he progressed rapidly and soon took charge of his own section. His fellow soldiers liked him, he commanded respect and he was unquestionably loyal to everyone who served with him. At the time, that had seemed so important. However, when he looked back now, Jacob would have swapped his progression and the admiration of his colleagues for the life of any one of the men he had lost, their names and faces indelibly carved in his memory.
But no matter how difficult Northern Ireland had been, he was ill-prepared for what followed during his subsequent postings in Bosnia, Kosovo and Iraq. Unimaginable horrors and unspeakable atrocities. In contrast to his time in Northern Ireland, Jacob remembered little about his time in Pristina or Basra, but whenever he closed his eyes the terror deep inside him stirred, and when he slept the demons clawed at his tortured soul. The word ‘nightmare’ cannot do it justice.
It was time to move on. Jacob rolled onto all fours, took a couple of deep breaths, then pushed himself upright with a little stagger. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a cyclist moving at pace swerved to avoid him. He pulled up sharply a few yards away and swivelled in his saddle.
‘Watch where you’re going, arsehole.’ He glared wide-eyed at Jacob. ‘Go and get yourself a job and do something worthwhile. Bloody layabout.’
Jacob knew better than to provoke him further, so he simply watched him bridle. Sure enough, when Jacob didn’t respond, the cyclist dismissed Jacob with an aggressive wave of his hand. ‘Waster!’ he said, and cycled off.
Roused from his malaise by the brief confrontation, Jacob turned and continued his walk beyond the edge of the City. A couple of years ago, he would have found an empty building on these streets where he could pass some of the day. Countless places had afforded shelter to homeless people over the years, but they had now been converted into apartments, offices or shops. Jacob didn’t resent the change; it just meant that he had to walk further to find shelter.
The exception was the Refuge, where the owners had so far resisted the temptation to sell up. Jacob wondered why. Maybe it was their social conscience, or perhaps they were just holding out for more money later. Whatever the reason, he was relieved to have a familiar place to visit when in desperate need, staffed by good people. Jacob knew that he was visiting the shelter more frequently of late and, as much as he hated himself for taking its charity, he was resigned to the fact that the Refuge was now part of his life.
Once beyond Old Street, Jacob made his way along back lanes and alleys that he had come to know well over the years and headed for one of the small gardens between the housing blocks, where he could stop to rest for a short while. He wouldn’t stay anywhere in the open for long, as even in this neighbourhood he would be a sitting duck for locals wanting to have a go at someone. Abuse was waiting for him everywhere, not only in the City.
He stopped on a bench next to a public tennis court, partially hidden from the street by trees and bushes. The bench was covered in graffiti, some of it etched into the wood, and one of the rails was broken. Amongst the debris underneath, Jacob could see needles, condoms and other detritus of local life, but he didn’t care. It was somewhere to rest for a while. The morning sun was strengthening, and now shone brightly between the trees and warmed his skin. He sat back and looked up into the sky.
A few people wandered past without saying a word or even looking at Jacob, on their way to work, nursery or school. He felt their disgust, suspicion and fear, even if they didn’t look straight at him, and he closed his eyes. It wasn’t just tiredness, or the comforting glow of the dappled sunlight on his eyelids. He had learned that closing his eyes helped block out thoughts of the passers-by, and it probably helped them too, to think that he hadn’t seen them.
Peace and quiet, if only for a few minutes.
***
Brandon entered his code into the key pad by the door. Other than a fresh coat of paint, the front of the building looked almost the same as the day he had moved in, but inside it was unrecognisable. For one thing, all of the floors were now occupied.
The ground and first floors were let to a private investment fund, recently established by a well-known dotcom tycoon who was using her personal wealth to incubate start-up companies, particularly those developing unique or highly specialised technology. The redesigned space included large, open-plan rooms of whitewashed walls, benches and break-out areas, alive with people either intensely studying screens or huddled in small groups on bean bags and low sofas. It was the type of building where pipes and air-conditioning units hung from the ceilings, promoting a feeling of relaxed indifference to the office environment, despite the high-tech nature of the discussions that took place beneath them.
However, below ground, the feigned informality
gave way to a state-of-the-art conference auditorium and presentation suite. When Brandon had first seen it, he thought he’d walked into a science fiction movie set. Modern lines, smooth, charcoal walls and soft corners replaced the exposed pipes and white glare of the upper floors, and the quiet hum of the hidden technology created an atmosphere of perpetual hushed tones and whispers.
The second and third floors housed smart, modern apartments, rented to the well-heeled of the City. Brandon hardly ever saw the occupants other than the occasional chance encounter in the lift, and he didn’t think the apartments were used as anything other than an occasional weekday bolt-hole, by people who spent most of their time in business hotels or at their other homes. It seemed a bit of a waste, but who was he to tell others how to spend their money, given some of his own choices?
At the fourth floor, the lift doors slid open and Brandon stepped out into the small vestibule. He placed his key fob to the reader and typed a four-digit pass code, and the apartment door opened to the sound of a short, soft beep. He closed it behind him, took three strides forward and then stepped down the single stair into the apartment. He was home.
The entire fourth floor of the building was Brandon’s and, following his extensive renovations since buying it, he loved the place. The first change he had made after moving in was to replace the former set of steel-framed windows with enormous floor-to-ceiling panes, so that light flooded into the large, modern, open-plan living area. It had been a wonderful decision, and Brandon always congratulated himself on it when arriving home.
Through habit, he dropped his hoodie over the back of one of his sofas, and then continued past the neat, minimalist kitchen. Brandon had designed the second half of the loft as a distinct area from the airy living space, with softer furnishings and muted light. It consisted of his den, where he spent most of his waking time, and two bedrooms with en suite bathrooms. In retrospect, Brandon wondered why he had bothered with the second bedroom and bathroom. They had never been used, and there was little immediate prospect of that changing.
Brandon went straight to his den, where he docked his laptop into its cradle to recharge. He then woke up his desktop, grabbed his coffee and cookie and relaxed in his seat in front of his array of six screens, from where he would watch the London markets open.
This was his usual morning ritual, sipping black coffee, catching up on the news and watching the symbols and numbers on his screens change colour. When the markets were quiet, or if he got bored, he would cross to the other side of the den, his gaming area, and immerse himself in one of PlayStation’s surreal worlds. He found it easy to stay alert to events happening in the markets, even in the middle of a game, which he put down to the fact that the activities were so similar. He believed that he had a natural gift for reading the market, almost a sixth sense of how prices were going to move, and was that any different from a computer game? Some people are better than others at manipulating the console and second-guessing where the next danger is coming from, and Brandon was exceptional at video games.
In reality, his stock market success owed almost everything to the computer-driven mathematical models he had developed that tracked prices, volumes and trends, and then generated lightning-fast trades to exploit small price variations. Brandon knew that his algorithms and technology were why he consistently beat the market, but he still fancied himself as a bit of a player, and he settled down to watch.
***
Orla hurried along Appold Street, almost jogging in places, and arrived on the stroke of eleven o’clock. Her face was flushed and she could feel beads of perspiration on her brow.
This was not how she wanted to start her day at the office. She hated cutting it so fine, as she felt she was letting down the children and her colleagues if she was late or flustered on arrival. She always tried to get there a few minutes early, which gave her time to chat with her workmates and then be calm and professional with the children. But that hadn’t been possible this morning.
Orla wiped her forehead with a tissue, and took several deep breaths to compose herself. Throughout her walk to work, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about this morning’s events. The day had started well and she had left the Refuge early, and should have had plenty of time to get to work. But Michael had set her back and ruined her schedule, not to mention her mood, and in the end she hadn’t even had time to call in on Edna. She thought about her elderly neighbour, unable to get out of her flat and with no one to talk to, and Orla shook her head slowly. Why couldn’t Michael take no for an answer?
But that wasn’t what was really bothering Orla. She was beginning to wonder if there was something she didn’t know. Michael had become more temperamental over the past few weeks, almost as if he didn’t care about anything anymore, and his working hours seemed haphazard and irregular. Did he have problems at work? He still pulled in the money, so things couldn’t be that bad, but Orla couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was not as it seemed. Maybe he was under pressure because of the recent spate of hacking and data scandals, which must have increased his workload. But, if anything, Michael was working fewer hours rather than more. It didn’t add up.
More disturbing, though, was the memory of him whispering in her ear in the shower. Just thinking about it made her shiver again, and the same wave of cold dread washed over her. He had always been insistent about sex, but until today she had never felt that side of Michael, never felt scared or unsafe with him. Was she overplaying it, and had she imagined something in his tone that wasn’t really there? She wasn’t sure, and the sudden uncertainty in their relationship troubled her.
But she didn’t have time to dwell on it now. She was at work and she couldn’t let the children see her distress. They were the only important thing right now.
Orla stepped through the front doors into the grand lobby of Chalmers & Mason Asset Management, one of the City’s oldest and best-known fund managers. She went straight to the second floor, to the children’s crèche where she worked. The firm had been one of the first City institutions to provide a full time, on-site crèche, and Orla felt privileged to work here. She loved her job. It was a perfect match for her skills, ambitions and personal circumstances, and she couldn’t think of a better way to spend her time.
Orla hung her jacket on the hook and placed her bag into her locker, just as her colleague Martina walked over.
‘Hi Orla, I was wondering where you were,’ she said. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes, all fine thanks. I just got a bit distracted on the way here, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Oh, that’s good. Just to let you know, I’m on the early shift today, so I’m about to take my break. Also, it’s Josh’s birthday today, so his dad brought in some cakes for everyone. Not only the kids, but the adults too, they’re in the kitchen. Better hurry, though, as they’re going like hot cakes!’ Martina giggled at her joke.
‘Thanks, I’ll pop up there now before they all go. I’ll also find Josh to wish him a happy birthday. Catch you later.’
Orla turned and walked towards the nearest group of toddlers. They rushed forward and surrounded her, all chattering and laughing, each child clamouring for her attention. Orla laughed with them and tried to answer all of their questions at once. This is what she worked for, the opportunity to share time with the children, their pure, blissful innocence a world away from Michael, or the people she helped at the Refuge. They can look after themselves.
Her day at the crèche had begun, and all thoughts of Michael, Maria and Jacob melted away.
***
A smug, self-satisfied smile on his face, Michael sat up in bed and smoked another cigarette and contemplated his morning so far. He still couldn’t believe his luck.
First there had been Jenny, who had joined him within minutes of Orla leaving for the Refuge, and that had been fun. Jenny knew what she wanted and Michael was more than happy to oblige. Her morning visits were becoming more frequent, and it was almost as if she
waited behind her door for sounds of Orla leaving, so that she could dash across the landing immediately afterwards. He knew that Jenny was taking a bit of a risk, as Orla might forget something one day and return, and that would spell the end of their secret liaisons, but wasn’t that part of the thrill? He certainly didn’t want to put Jenny off by warning her, he was enjoying her far too much for that.
Orla coming home early had been a satisfying bonus. She had denied wanting sex and had snapped at him, but Michael supposed she was just angry about his smoking. It had only been a bit of banter and she hadn’t refused him in the shower, so she must have forgiven him. She wouldn’t have if she’d known what he’d been doing with Jenny earlier, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t harm her. He chuckled. Now that she had gone to work again, he had time for a snooze and another smoke, and it wasn’t as though he had much else to do. The perfect morning.
However, this afternoon would be a different matter. He looked again at the message he’d received from Paddy a few hours earlier. What did he have planned for him this time and what were the goods he was expecting? He’d known this day was coming, but he didn’t know what the mission was; the Brethren’s leaders were far too cautious to share anything before they needed to.
Michael had enjoyed the last few months hiding away in this part of London, awaiting orders. It was anonymous, he could come and go as he pleased, he had two women on the go and he had plenty of time for beers and fun. The retainer paid by the Brethren had been generous too. But now it was time to earn his money.
Michael grinned as he remembered a few of the old times and he took another drag of his cigarette. He was excited by the prospect of becoming active again, it felt long overdue, and even though it might be dangerous, he was sure that Paddy would have prepared everything meticulously. After all, if anything went wrong, Paddy would be the one to take the flak back home. And he won’t want to be on the wrong side of the Brethren.