The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  Cars glittered and shimmered in the car park like oil drums in the Sahara.

  But when he arrived at his customary spot his brand new sports coupe was not waiting. Other drivers were taking off, emptying the area, while Pitt began to stride about desperately, tired eyes roving, wondering if his motor was stolen. He thoroughly searched other areas, but his vehicle was definitely not there. What should he do, call the police?

  If he had another job, unbeknownst to himself, then he’d still expect to have a car. He would be commuting to the City; he would be parked up underground and should expect to collect his car; return home to his family and a relaxing evening.

  Pitt assumed that he must own the same car. He still had the gadget to countermand security and open it. If there was a conspiracy going on, then this was the latest most infuriating twist. Definitely there were some individuals at work who would find this situation amusing.

  Abandoning a near empty car park Clive decided to catch a bus. He was accustomed to taking cabs around central London. The last time he’d taken a bus was in New Zealand on holiday actually, when they’d got lost one evening in the mountains. Noreen was undertaking her Lord of the Rings pilgrimage. A local bus wasn’t an appealing swap for an air-conditioned dream machine. Allegedly A/C contributed to global warming. That was cruelly ironic wasn’t it, because you needed A/C while trapped in an over-heating planet. Fortunately the bus didn’t take too long to arrive, which was fortunate in this quiet area. The fare was paid and he found himself a window seat. Somehow he felt hidden, as if people should not be able to see him. Yet his anxious presence was recorded in their evasive looks.

  The high-street was thronged and the bus filled up. It was that part of the day when everyone was trying to get home for dinner. Passengers were forced to stand in the aisle, suffering in solid heat behind glass. It was a meandering route, through hamlets and villages, nearly an hour before the stretchy vehicle reached the old town. By the time Clive stepped off, seeking out his district, the bus was completely empty; they lived at the edge of town.

  6

  Pitt felt alone in the dead quiet. He set off along a country-style remote lane, punctuated by large properties. These places were concealed behind high trees and hedges, with scorched gardens beyond, some with water-sprays, like trying to soothe the cracked skins of parched elephants.

  Clive was now beginning to feel some effects of heat exhaustion, with sunburn on his face and neck (he didn’t have a hat) as well as dire thirst. Why did he forget to buy a drink in town; apart from beer and wine? The fierce evening sun felt like a metal rod through the top of his crown to his knees. His mind and thoughts had a quality like molten glass, swirling away and shifting shapes.

  Drawing nearer to home he grew apprehensive, considering what he could expect. What was the condition of his marriage under these strains? Was she used to him returning home late these days? Had they been going through strains and conflicts in their relationship? Clive thought that was most likely. There had to be some change at home, from the huge shift in his professional life. Like the two sides of the brain itself personal life had a double aspect.

  Clive finally reached his gravelled and high hedged lane, an estate agent’s whimsy, which led towards his house. They had put so much work and money into fully restoring this eighteenth century terraced property. They’d exchanged an apartment on the Thames near Greenwich for this impressive old place.

  On the outside the red brick was attractively crumbled, with bay windows and climbing roses over a deep porch, presently in prolific flower. The interior was surprisingly spacious, yet adapted to contemporary living, with a large garden at the rear. They hadn’t found time to fully develop the long back garden as yet. They’d wanted a garden for their lad, but Clive had been too absorbed by the office; they were both too busy bringing the boy up.

  Pitt noticed that his car was not stationed on his drive either. If you’d left or lost your car somewhere then the fact tended to bother you. This loss or theft was a big enough grief to him. With a reeling mind he began up his own garden path. He had a front door key ready in his hand. But when he inserted the key and tried, it wouldn’t work. The locks were changed! Somehow he expected this, but it still came as a shock. Had Noreen changed the locks? Was that to protect them? He looked about the place, cold with confusion in the baking afternoon, feeling like a dead man.

  There was no reaction to pressing his door bell. He knocked on the sturdy cottage-style front door (purchased from a demolition sale) and waited there anxiously, or expectantly. There wasn’t a reaction to these blows, and he tried again, harder. Noreen was most likely far up the garden, looking after Josh, playing some instructive game with him. She would be sitting out there, not exactly sunbathing, but enjoying a shady place beneath wisteria. In the morning she was busy with her charity work, going through the accounts, after putting in some hours at the computer for her own business.

  Pitt thumped their authentically eroded wooden door again, and gazed up towards upper latticed windows, where climbing roses twisted and tangled. She’d definitely changed the curtains since yesterday, and placed some erotic art on the sill too.

  Clive wandered around to the side of the row, and began to call out Noreen’s name, towards the gardens. He understood that this was an optimistic chant, even on a regular day. Then after another crescendo of “Noreen!!” he eventually drew a response from one of their neighbours. An elderly widow next door, Gemma Buckingham, who risked a narrow chink, one eye, to investigate the commotion he was making at his unscheduled return.

  “What are you trying to do?”

  “Yes Gemma. How are you?” The eye merely blinked with no response. “Where’s Noreen this evening? Isn’t she home yet?”

  “What’s that to you?” she challenged. She was a plaid skirt held in with a pin type of girl.

  “I can’t get into my own house. What’s going on Gemma? When did she change the locks?!”

  “There’s another couple in there now. A lovely couple,” she explained. “Dr Shipman.”

  “How can that be? Another Shipman?”

  “Dr Shipman’s at his surgery and she’s gone to the gym,” Mrs Buckingham informed him.

  “You mean that Noreen isn’t living here anymore? You’re telling me that we don’t own this property?”

  “Absolutely not. You’re out of luck I’m afraid.”

  “Is that the case?”

  “If you are asking.”

  They’d always had a testy relationship with Gemma Buckingham; who thought that having babies was a liberty and complained about cries in the night or moving about on floorboards. Basically it was their moral fault to want a family, as if human beings should be purchased in a hamper from Fortnum’s. She was making a principled stand towards quiet extinction; she was the eldest of six spinsters.

  “We moved?” he asked. “Where are we supposed to have gone?”

  “Noreen went to America.”

  “I can hardly believe this.”

  “Without you, you dreadful man,” she intoned.

  “It’s terrible! With Joshua?” He addressed a narrow strip of person; which was all she considered respectable.

  “Of course she went with the child. She couldn’t abandon him. She wouldn’t leave him to live off benefits. She isn’t that kind of person.” As if Mrs Buckingham cared what kind of person his wife had been.

  “What got into her? To go off like that?” he urged.

  “She got thoroughly sick of all your carryings on, Clive. And who can really blame her? Thanks to you she couldn’t even stay in the country, or wait for a divorce. Now please leave before I call the Police.”

  “Gemma, don’t go yet please, don’t go!”

  “Look at the condition you are in now, Clive. You have no moral boundaries. What have you been doing? God help us.”

/>   “You see there are a few details that I am sketchy about. I promise not to keep you long. I understand that you are reluctant to speak to me.”

  “You’re responsible for your own actions, aren’t you?” she said.

  He thought about the idea. “You didn’t say exactly why my wife left me,” he reminded her.

  “Starting to have some regrets are you? You should have considered your marriage at the time, while you were going off the leash. The bird has flown,” she announced ironically. “What a Christmas that must have been, all on her own.”

  “Which Christmas are you referring to?”

  “Joshua wondering where his Daddy was. Why did you abandon responsibility? The poor woman couldn’t tolerate the situation any longer.”

  “Sounds like a merry little time,” Clive said. “But what’s she doing in America? The US you mean? Whereabouts is she in the US?” he considered. His world was revolving.

  “All I know is that she has another chap.”

  “She’s run away with another bloke?” he exclaimed, reeling.

  “A good looking chap. I believe he bred pedigree dogs.”

  “A dog breeder?”

  “Yes, at first they went to Dumfries, and then he decided to move the business to America.”

  “How did he get a Visa? I don’t believe this.”

  “If you want my advice you won’t try to find her in America. She deserves another chance to be happy. Leave her in peace over there. She was never happy with you.”

  “Well that’s a complete lie,” Clive replied.

  “Who could predict that you’d show up here again?” she considered.

  “How did our little Josh respond to all this?”

  “Don’t you blame yourself?” she told him.

  “That’s what I’m trying to discover,” he replied.

  “There’s nothing to find out,” the woman complained.

  “Noreen was always big on America. She talked about going there, as soon as the right job came along,” he recalled to himself, trying to make sense of these unknown events. “But sometimes it was Boston, sometimes New York, then in another mood San Francisco or even Seattle.”

  “Why didn’t you consider the consequences at the time?”

  “At what time? I can’t make much sense of what you’re telling me. It’s too bizarre. Maybe this is all a lot of gossip,” he concluded. “Where did you get your information?” he challenged.

  “This conversation has come to an end, Mr Pitt. Your big City bonus won’t buy back your wife, will it? It didn’t guarantee your family or your happiness, did it? Now you’ll have to reassess your rotten values. I would advise you to leave my neighbours’ property before I finally call the police. Get yourself off, while you still can.”

  Mrs Buckingham retired behind her thick door. There was a risk she’d retrieve her antique mobile and contact her local constabulary. That’s exactly where she kept her telephone; in a small cupboard in the kitchen. He wondered about waiting for the new occupants of his house to return; this nice young medical couple Dr Shipman and his loyal wife. But he knew it was advisable to leave the area quickly. Sometimes you didn’t want the truth, or you feared to understand the nasty details of what you had.

  7

  What were his plans now? Not back to London, because he couldn’t face a reverse journey. He couldn’t depend on the idea that old friends remained friends, if he could be sure. You couldn’t just turn up at their homes or offices asking questions. He experienced the anguish of losing all his friends at a stroke. In fact he wasn’t even sure who his friends were any more. He felt himself melting down under this new disconcerting feeling; this sense of groping about helplessly in his memories.

  But there was one guy he knew, who lived in the next village. Calling back at the house had returned the memory. Douglas Breadham was a very open minded corporate lawyer, a complacent, self-centred type of man and a bon vivant. Douglas was trained not to ask personal questions or even questions of character; anyway not in an emotional or judgemental way.

  Sometimes it was difficult to know Douglas’ opinions or how he thought. This trait was surprising as Doug enjoyed his liquor and certainly dabbled in drugs. None of that prompted a loose tongue or any personal confidences. He overrode any negative effects through a sporty lifestyle and promiscuous sex, usually with high class hookers from Africa or Eastern Europe.

  Douglas could offer a refuge and maybe an explanation for this ordeal; this nightmare of shifted time and squandered ambition. Doug might shed light on that strange guy who’d snatched him from the street, if he dared to introduce the topic.

  Pitt began to retrace his steps away from ‘home’, along meandering, leafy streets. These no longer belonged to him, even though every turn was mapped inside his head, as were his memories and experiences of living as a young couple, with their beautiful son and an excitingly upward future. Were all their dreams and hopes completely undone? Their aspirations ruined, and Pitt potentially leaving the district for good? Could he even refer to Noreen and himself as a “couple” anymore? Think about them as a family? Shockingly his wife had left him and decamped. She and the boy were relocated in the States somewhere. He was truly stunned and devastated by this turn of events. He trudged, almost blind with grief, the breath torn out of him; feeling stunned, oblivious to himself.

  He might be seen by other neighbours. If there had been irregularities, or a dispute, then the police and the authorities would want to interview him. The lane was private and very quiet, particularly around evening time, during the post-commute period. They’d recognise him from the local pub, because Noreen and he would go in there some evenings. As a couple they made an effort to socialise and get to know people. During the spring and summer they would sit out in the garden, so that Josh could play on the swings and frame.

  There had been some scandal at work and home, judging by the reaction of their neighbour. Noreen had been a popular woman in town, as she ran her charity, she organised fetes and raised money locally, using her business expertise. Noreen must have carried through the house sale rapidly. Even though a year had passed, she must have been determined to complete. Pitt maintained control; he had trained himself from an early age to avoid self-pity. He would get to the bottom of these sinister mysteries. That’s how he had survived and flourished at his job, with the same attitude of mind, placing his vulnerability at one remove.

  Then as he was walking he was passed by a guy, about the same age as himself, with two young children, a boy and a girl. Clive acknowledged them faintly in this state of mind. As he later recalled, he even raised a hand in a partial wave, with a friendly glance. The normality of this encounter brought no comfort. If anything the sight made him sad because it reminded him again of his son and former wife; of everything he’d lost. This was a husband and a father, and Clive no longer belonged to that club, or sector of society.

  Presumably this chap had picked his two kids up from school and was walking them back home. He was leading his kids by the hand and had passed by in a few seconds. Clive didn’t recognise this family and it seemed as if they didn’t recognise him either. He wouldn’t have thought anything more about the fleeting encounter. Yet then Clive felt a heavy blow across the back of his shoulders. He gasped before the sudden impact. This ripped across his bones and muscles, pitching him on to the ground, electric cables running down his arms, as he tasted thick hot dust. What a nightmare, the guy had knocked him to the floor.

  Clive simply could not stay on his feet, in the face of this blow. It took him a few moments to record the shock, and to sense the injury, of this attack. To begin with he didn’t connect such violence with the guy who had passed; and who appeared so normal. It might have been a lightning strike, for all Clive knew.

  Then he rolled over, tried to keep conscious, and he was looking up at thi
s same man. The expression wasn’t friendly; he was leaning over menacingly, glaring with a mad eye, holding up a stick, more like a stave, ready to crash back down on Clive’s skull. The guy’s two children were stood to the side, watching impassively, just waiting for their Dad to finish the job. What had triggered this hellish experience?

  There was a quick instinct that led Clive to swivel, just as this stave club, like a pick axe handle, swung down at him again. Rather than demolishing Clive’s skull as the guy intended, heavy wood thudded against ground to the side; with such force that the guy jarred his arms. The man winced, began to puff, to struggle, even while busting a gut to take him out; straining every sinew to kill him. Clive was near exhaustion point, but a fight for survival renewed his strength. Suddenly the right hormones were flowing; he was responding vividly to every twist and turn.

  Clive found enough agility and energy to avoid attempted blows to his head. These were beginning to reduce in force and accuracy as the guy tired. The enormous orange orb of the sun found a hole in the trees ahead. As evening drew on, as the struggle continued, its sharp rays pierced through branches, which burst violently into the attacker’s eyes. His head jerked up in an effort to see around these blinding needles, battling to keep his weapon aloft and to take fresh aim. He reeled about somewhat, trying to reorient himself and keep his victim in place.

  This was a brief opportunity for Clive to gain the initiative. He threw himself and made a low tackle to the guy’s knees, bringing down his opponent in a grunting heap, into the dust. He’d always been a good tackler for his team, despite often playing on the wing, and he held this opponent fast.

  The small children took this opportunity to come forward. In defence of their Dad, or whoever the man could be, they began to kick Clive with determined concentration. Clive felt their small shoes punching between his ribs. The guy was down with him in the dust, trying to scramble to his knees, keeping a hold on the pickaxe handle - if that’s what it was - and hitting out, striking again. Clive reached to his side, clawing desperately, and his hand found a lump of rock - or actually a lump of decorative mineral - which was placed there to mark the entrance to somebody’s driveway. Clive took a happy grip on this found object, which he brought thumping down on the guy, as hard as possible. Clive didn’t realise that he had struck the guy in the face until he saw a crushed nose and Technicolor, spaghetti-western streams of blood.