Back Trouble

by Matt Kinnaird

  ‘Can we please shut the door?’ Ruth says while restocking the beer after a rush. ‘It’s freezing.’

  ‘I know there’s a draught,’ I say, not looking up from the wine list in front of me, ‘but if I close it we’ll look shut.’

  ‘The lights are on. Everyone can see the lights are on.’

  I tell her not to argue and she carries on working in silence.

  It’s company policy to always have the door open, and even if it wasn’t, in a shop that relies on passing trade like ours I’d have it open in any case. And because of the age of the building the windows aren’t very big, so it’s not that easy to tell if we’re open or not from the outside. Ruth knows this, and I’m surprised she’s challenging me over it. She seems to have developed a temper in recent days – in fact, ever since we had to get rid of Sam.

  Every now and then we have an auditor in, to check on us and supervise a stock count. They make sure we’re not leaking stock or losing money, and write off any ullage. Out-of-date beer, bottles returned by customers, bottles that have popped their corks in the window in summer and bottles put on for customer tasting get sprayed with paint, and from that point on they’re no longer considered stock. The auditor for our area is a homunculus called Neil, who has a penchant for Polyester suits, gaudy shirts and Looney Tunes ties. He’s also jovial and over-friendly, right up to the point he sees something he doesn’t like in your shop, when he becomes the most snide, insinuating, small-minded little worm on the planet. All managers dread the audited stock count, partly because we have to spend a day with him and partly because the total of all the corners we’ve cut in our own monthly stock counts appears at once on the balance sheets in one glaring vacuum. My audited stock count fell at the beginning of this month.

  Now, being the kind of shop this is we lose stock. All kinds of detritus drifts in from all corners of Whitbury, and on a small shop floor with big displays and lots of little corners, no amount of CCTV or general vigilance can prevent it. The trick is to stop the big stuff going. Even Neil Simm, our beloved auditor, can’t complain too much within reason, so as I was following him around with a clipboard, on our knees, up ladders – all of which afforded far too close a view of his prodigious backside in trousers he’d obviously bought before he got pregnant – despite his tutting and head-shaking I wasn’t too nervous. One down here, two down there, big deal. It was when we got behind the counter that I remembered, and broke out into a cold sweat.

  Sam’s a smoker. Disgusting habit, but it makes us money so I don’t object too much. He’s also broke. He’s got rent to pay, which is extortionate, and he’s on a Viva Vino salary, which is pitiful. He’s a solid worker, a nice guy and I trust him. So when I arrived at this shop after Christmas last year and he told me that my predecessor, Alex, had no qualms about letting him ‘borrow’ cigarettes or rolling tobacco until payday, providing he kept an exact tally and paid for them as soon as he could, despite my reservations, and after discussion with Ruth, I decided to allow him that one concession. After all, Ruth told me, he’d never so much as once failed to cover his debt to the penny. But there was one proviso: if he was found out, I knew nothing about it. I’ve been at this shop nearly a year now and he’s always been true to his word. Stock counts fall right after payday, and we’ve never been missing so much as one packet of cigarettes. So I stopped keeping my own tally; I let him deal with it himself. Goodness knows I’ve got enough to deal with already.

  Now, two days after the Brougham Manor tasting, Sam was knocked off his bike and broke his leg, wrist and collar-bone, dislocated his hip and developed serious concussion. He was in hospital for a week, and had enough morphine to knock out a family of rhinos. So I guess he forgot. And I forgot too.

  ‘You’re short on fags,’ Neil said, piggy eyes swinging round to meet mine. ‘Way short.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  He narrowed his eyes yet further and stood up. ‘You’re down on Marlboro Lights. Twelve packets.’

  ‘Well that’s impossible,’ I said. Ruth, who was facing up the Alsace section, stopped and turned to look at me.

  ‘Has one of your staff been helping themselves?’ Neil had caught Ruth’s movement in the corner of his eye and fixed his porcine glare on her instead.

  ‘Of course not. Neil, of course not. I’d know about it.’ Beads of sweat were forming on my temples.

  ‘Well you’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘There are plenty of other explanations for this. Maybe we miscounted off the lorry; they could have been stolen–’

  ‘So you left the counter unattended and a customer reached round and helped themselves did they?’

  I swatted at a droplet that scampered down my cheek. ‘No, but–’

  ‘And you miscounted twelve packets of cigarettes off the lorry, even though they come in packs of ten?’

  ‘No, but–’

  ‘Or has one of your staff been taking cigarettes without paying?’

  ‘Ruth doesn’t smoke, nor do I.’

  ‘Do you have any part-time staff working at the moment?’

  ‘Yes, one; and I keep complaining about this for God’s sake, it’s Christmas. We need more help.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’

  ‘But I never take my eyes off her.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t.’

  ‘And I don’t think she smokes, to be honest. She hardly even drinks.’

  ‘And that leaves …’

  ‘I’m sure Sam wouldn’t–’

  ‘I think we’d better ask him, don’t you?’

  The company’s been cracking down on theft, buncing (adding a few pence or a pound here and there to the retail price of certain items to balance the books), IOUs in the safe and all forms of general dishonesty ever since we entered the age of the bar code and electronic point of sale some years ago. It’s not what it used to be. And ever since we came under new ownership there’s been a zero-tolerance approach to stealing, whether or not you’ve every intention of paying for what you’ve taken. Even knowing this, when Neil, Mick the Area Manager and I went round to see him the following day, Sam took the rap square on the chin.

  He lives in a narrow, yellow-brick terraced house, in the part of town affectionately known as Slurry Road, with three other graduates, each scratching around for a way to make a living in a city with few careers to offer. One works as an estate agent, one is a chef in a pub and one, Brian, the stubbly imp who let us in to the house that morning, does temping work wherever he can find it: catering here, a stint in the sorting office there, that sort of thing. Being young men, and being graduates, and being single, their house was a tip. The walls needed washing, the carpets were threadbare and coming up from the floor and there was an indeterminate odour lingering in the air which wafted into the street when the front door squeaked open. We found Sam in a wheelchair, with one arm in a sling and one leg in plaster, reading a book in a living room filled with dirty cups, pizza boxes and beer cans. He looked nervous and miserable, and the left side of his head was swollen and bruised. Mark and Neil exchanged glances, realising they were about to heap yet more woe on this battered and beaten man, but there was nothing to be done. Neil shrugged and Mick nodded, and I tried to appear nonchalant, hoping the smell of my fear wasn’t reaching their nostrils. It was Mick alone who questioned Sam, following up a conversation they’d had the previous evening on the telephone.

  To Sam’s credit, he was true to his promise to me. He said he’d been doing it for ages, and that nobody knew because he always covered his debts by stock count. He said he was sorry, and it wouldn’t happen again. If he’d been a manager, or even an assistant manager, he might have got away with a severe warning, but he wasn’t – he was senior sales, and Mick, who has an over-inflated sense of loyalty in my view, and who professed feeling personally betrayed, said it would be best if he didn’t come back to work. It was good of him to let Sam resign and use up his holiday to cover his notice, and I told him t
here and then I’d give him a good reference, but Mick didn’t want to see him working in a Viva Vino again.

  Ruth’s been in a mood ever since.

  I let her go as soon as the shop shuts and cash up alone. There was a time when she’d have insisted on staying to help, but not any more. So I’m left to lock up, count the money in the tills and the safe, balance that with the record of the day’s sales and enter it all on the computer upstairs. I don’t mind: I find these repetitive tasks comforting, and I’m not all that keen on getting home in a hurry. But I can’t be too long, because I’ve still got to make time for my plan.

  Once I finish I spin round on my chair and reach down to my left for my rucksack to make sure everything is in place. I lift out the hat, hoodie, a pair of gloves and an old piece of cloth and feel in the bottom for my knives and hammer. Check. The hammer has a reassuring weight, and it’s my primary weapon. The knife is for precision work afterwards. I also make sure that the cheap pair of sunglasses I bought in the market is in one side pocket, and that my notebook is secure in the other. Good. It’s Thursday today, which has its own advantages: we shut up shop at ten, like on Friday and Saturday, but fewer people are out and about. It’s freezing outside – the cold weather has come back with teeth – and the nights have been as dark as you can imagine. I’ve walked through the park every night I’ve worked since my injury and it’s rarely too busy. The shadows either side of the path have been deep and enveloping, and there have been two occasions when I could certainly have done the deed if I’d had my equipment. I’m stronger than I was, and my aim has improved no end. I’m also in a shitty mood, because my wife’s still got the hump even though she says she hasn’t. Given the right set of circumstances in the park, then, I’ll be ready.

  After racing the burglar alarm out of the back door, I’m in the open air, rucksack on shoulder, hands in pockets, head bowed against the cold. The sounds and smells of the city greet me with a slap: the jagged music from the pub over the road; the bustle of engines, horns and a distant siren; voices and laughter rising and falling; the tang of petrol fumes hanging in the air, and the greasy aroma of chips and kebabs, which sets my stomach rumbling with false anticipation. I exit the courtyard, drag the gate shut over the frozen ruts, fasten the padlock and walk up the side street past the shop. Then it’s left onto St Cuthbert’s Street and I’m among it all, dodging other pedestrians and looking with a mixture of longing and resentment through the windows of the pub. I can rarely contain my envy when I watch groups of young people walking, sitting, drinking and chatting together on nights like this. They seem so optimistic, so together, unaware of the weariness of it all, the boredom. They don’t consider what the point of it is, they just exist, and subsist on the simple pleasures of beer and nicotine, drugs and dancing, telling jokes, laughing, pulling, or not, without a thought as to the why. Are they content to work all day and play all night, work and play, work and play, without leaving the faintest scratch on the monument of history? Doesn’t this bother them, or don’t they realise? How happy to be so simple, I often think. How happy not to notice how small you are. How happy to be the centre of the universe. And then I think, as I always do, how happy to have friends. Maybe that’s all it takes.

  I can feel my resolve weakening as I walk up St Cuthbert’s Street, my mind awash with thoughts of this kind, and turn into Station Road. It’s cold, and I find myself wanting a warm front room, a glass of wine and a hug from my wife, who would supply such a thing in exchange for some contrition. I want her to tell me it’s all ok, and that she loves me. But on the other hand, I’m here now, and I’m prepared.

  I’m ten minutes ahead of the twenty-to-eleven train, and there are few pedestrians here. I pass only one other person as I walk through the new residential area and, after a quick look over my shoulder to check there’s nobody behind me, I turn into the tunnel under the railway. I scamper to the far end, nip round the barriers and peer into the park. It’s clear for a moment then a hunched figure appears. He’s at the far end and he’s on his own. This would be perfect. Back inside the tunnel I throw down my pack, strip off my coat and put on the hooded top and cap, pulling the hood around my face. Then I take out the weapons and stuff the coat inside, placing the fillet knife on top and fastening the zip. The gloves go on in an instant, then I pull the rucksack over both shoulders, take the hammer in my right hand and the butcher’s knife in my left. Thus armed, I stuff both hands into the long pocket across my belly, so the weapons cross over inside. I’ve checked this out; if I stoop, they can’t be seen at all. I decide to forgo the sunglasses, as I’m sure the shadows from the overhead lights will conceal my face. My heart is thumping and I’m shaking from the cold. I scurry back again to the entrance to the tunnel to check there’s no-one behind me, and it’s clear. I’m ready to go. I take a deep breath and march into the open air.

  It’s true what they say about time slowing down in moments of crisis, but I hadn’t realised how focused, how observant one becomes. Each fading scrap of noise or breath of wind on my cheeks takes on a strange and vivid significance. I can feel my feet striking the path with a thud that rattles up my shins and passes into my knees. The light and the shadows, and the contrast between them, adopt an ethereal quality I’d never perceived in them before. And the figure on the path in front of me, my target, seems as corporeal as any man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’m aware of the slightest of his mannerisms: the way he stiffens his gait and quickens his pace as he sees me coming; the roll of his shoulders left to right with every stride; the tilt of his head and the flatness of his feet. I wonder if he has a wife, as I do, and does she love him despite his faults as mine does me? He’s twenty metres from me now, and I can see his face. It’s not a cruel face, but not a kind one either. He’s clean-shaven with a straight nose, high forehead and wide-set eyes. His jaw is clenched against the cold and his hands are thrust deep in his pockets. He pretends I’m not here. I wonder if he has parents alive, as I do, and when was the last time he saw them. Were they good parents, I wonder, and did they bring him up well? Did he squeal with excitement at Christmas when he saw his presents, and did they buy him his favourite toys, or did they beat him or touch him or burn him or starve him or just plain ignore him? My fist grips the hammer more tightly and in my head I rehearse the action of drawing it out. I wonder if he has children, as I do not, and what their names are, and whether they embarrass him in shops and supermarkets or play up at dinner. He’s a few paces from me, his eyes fixed over my shoulder. I imagine spinning on the ball of my foot when he’s past me, hammer in hand, and crashing it down on his crown. I wonder what noise it will make. I wonder if he will fall straight away, or will I have to hit him again? This is it.

  This is it.

  Chapter eleven

  I can see my house. The lights are on downstairs so Julia’s still up. I’m fighting a hungry sensation in my stomach and my hands are trembling as I reach for my keys, but with alarm I realise I’m still wearing my equipment. I head for the gate to the right of the house and, when through and on the garden path I shrug off my rucksack, unzip it, take out my coat and toss the weapons in. Next go the gloves, hat and hoodie, and then I put my coat back on. I don’t want to go indoors. I realise now that home is the last place you should go after a venture like that. I could waltz into work right now, sure. Ruth and Sam – no, not Sam – would see me and think maybe I’d had an argument with the wife, or stubbed my toe or my back was hurting and I could say, ‘Mind your own business,’ and everything would pass off as normal. But home? Home is where people know you. And that’s great if you’ve nothing to hide. I grapple with my keys again, unlock the shed, toss the bag inside. I wonder whether to sit in there for a minute and pull myself together, but my decision is made for me; a vertical thread of yellow light, squeezing between the blind and the window, slits Frankie’s head. The kitchen light has gone on, and my wife will know that I’m home. I should get back in there anyway; I can’t deviate from my normal routine.
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  Julia’s waiting for me in the kitchen. She still looks frosty. The warmth as I open the back door is a blessed relief. I read once in some detective novel that the heat as he stepped off a plane hit the protagonist ‘like a fist.’ Dramatic stuff, but absolute toss. I’ve been hit by one or two fists in my time, and excessive temperatures are a warm, cuddly soft, wool, straight-from-the-wash Lenor mitten by comparison, albeit smothering at times.

  She’s waiting for me to say something. I decide to skip the formalities.

  ‘I’m sorry about the car.’

  She doesn’t reply, and because I’m looking at my shoes I can’t gauge her reaction. I sneak a glimpse. She’s leaning on the units in the corner, arms jammed into the Formica, pushing her shoulders up to her ears. Her head is tilted to the left. That’s a good sign. From what I remember, left is forgiveness, right is disapproval. But was that my left or hers?