‘Doesn’t sound like you have a high opinion of them.’
‘They’re better than the girls.’
‘Oh?’
‘One-hundred percent. It goes without saying that all the girls care about is boys. Nothing else. So they swallow whatever individuality or personality they were born with and bleach and pluck and wax and buy the same fucking clothes and shoes and flutter their eyelids until some statuesque specimen scoops them up and they can show each other off to everyone else. And they try to walk like models and stick their noses in the air and hang around everywhere with each other just to be seen. The tragedy is that the really interesting girls get sidelined because if there’s one thing the trophy set are scared shitless of it’s personality. Personality and intelligence. If they’ve got it, they hide it, because they’ve got their looks to get them by.’
‘What if they’re ugly and interesting?’
‘Then they’re doomed. Doomed to a lifetime of neuroses and insecurities because the only thing they’ve got going for them at school is the one thing nobody else wants.’
‘Do you talk to them?’
‘To the ugly ones? No. I can’t help them. They’re too needy. Give them the briefest flash of kindness and you’ll never get rid of them. That’s why they’re always hanging around the teachers. Because the teachers are adult enough to realise that personality gets you somewhere in life, whereas looks just get you fucked.’
‘And what of the others? The ones without looks or personality?’
‘Those are the bullies. They seek out weaknesses in others and fall upon them like a pack of ravening hyenas, just to get the heat off themselves. It’s charming, really.’
‘I see. And where do you fit in?’
‘I don’t. I skirt around the pretty set because they all idolise the way I look.’
‘Modest.’
‘True. They all bitch about me behind my back, but I don’t mind because I bitch about all of them behind theirs. It’s part of the rules.’
‘I’d forgotten how complicated it is being a teenager.’
‘It’s not complicated at all. It’s a piece of cake, provided you’re top of the food chain.’
‘And you are?’
‘Very much so. Which is ironic, really, considering what a bitch I am. Get the drinks, would you? I’m popping to the bathroom.’ She reached for her bag and slid to her feet.
While I was at the bar, I decided that the best chance we had of getting on together was if she did all the talking. I’d sat back down by the time she came back, and become distracted by watching her phone light up with a new notification every three seconds. She flowed back into her chair, eyes vibrant, the hard edges smoothed from her mouth. I handed over her drink and asked her about boyfriends.
‘Boyfriends? Just a tick.’ She picked up her vaporiser and took a couple of deep drags, then leaned back with her vodka and tonic held out at shoulder height to her left. ‘I don’t have boyfriends, really. I could never stomach it. Don’t get me wrong, I like sex. Who doesn’t? But there’s a moment with every boy when you find out he doesn’t measure up. It’s usually about three weeks in; he’ll say something nauseating like, “I think I’m falling in love with you,” or he’ll start to whinge that he wants to spend more time with you or he doesn’t like the way you talk to other men, and that’s it. He can fuck off back to mummy.’
‘Sounds reasonable.’
This girl doesn’t know what she’s in for. She should talk to my wife about me.
‘Hey, guess what I’ve got?’ she said.
Hope it’s not the clap. ‘Got where?’
‘Here. In my bag. Guess what I’ve got.’ She sniffed.
‘Plane ticket somewhere hot?’ Not that I’d be too delighted. I burn in the sun and don’t like humidity, but women seem to care about little else.
‘Nope.’ She rooted around in her bag.
‘What then?’
‘This,’ Emily said with a triumphant curl of her lips, and from her bag she produced a key.
‘What’s that to?’
‘This, Champers Man, is the key to Daddy’s flat.’
‘Where’d you get that?’
‘I borrowed one last year and got this one cut. Daddy would kill me if he found out. But for tonight it’s ours. They think I’m staying with friends.’
‘Amazing.’
‘I know. It’s just round the corner.’
‘On St. Cuthbert’s?’
‘That’s the one. I suppose Mummy told you? Hmm. Doubtless you harboured fantasies about cornering her there one day and having your wicked way?’
‘I’d be lying if I said no.’
‘I like that. Well you’ll have to settle for me. You can think of her, though, if you like.’
‘Um …’
‘We’ll go after these drinks. I’ve got some of your Champagne in the car. I swiped it from the pantry.’
‘Fantastic,’ I said, but a doubt was nibbling at me. ‘Hang on; if he doesn’t know you’re in there, isn’t there a chance we could get caught?
‘Yes, CM, there is.’
‘I see.’
And so that evening Emily and I went to the flat for the first time. It really was just around the corner: up the High Street, through the Western Gate and right. Cross the road at the lights, walk another ten yards along the ring road and you’re there. You could run to my shop and back in less than sixty seconds. The flat is one of two symmetrical residences in a robust, three-storey, brick structure I’d never paid attention to before, whose central arch leads into a small courtyard with two double garages inside. The entrance to Emily’s father’s flat is through a door in the right hand wall of the archway, which leads to a small hall and a steep flight of stairs. I wasn’t too impressed until we reached the first floor. The living room is enormous, with a high, beamed ceiling; a 4K TV the size of a ping-pong table dominates the far wall; three leather sofas are arranged in a horseshoe before it, surrounding a glass-topped coffee table; books, CDs and DVDs line the left-hand wall, Sonos speakers perch in the beams, and the two wide, leaded windows are on the right. The walls are painted white. Under the nearer window, behind the sofas, are a leather-topped writing desk and standard lamp, both of which look out of place. The desk has a MacBook and printer on it, along with a photograph of the Milston family. There’s a strapping fellow in a rugby shirt in the photo who I’ve assumed is Emily’s brother. He looks maybe a year older than her, which would make him university age.
On the same floor are the bathroom and an immaculate kitchen, and there are two double bedrooms upstairs, with mahogany beds and walk-in wardrobes. In every room there’s a sense of space, and light, and wealth. I love it.
We cracked a bottle of DP and had sex on the floor. It took us another half an hour to finish the Champagne, and then I decided to leave. She didn’t ask me to stay, and I didn’t ask to. I felt tired all of a sudden, and wanted my house and my bed. I hoped the heating would still be on, because I hate walking into a cold house. Emily walked me to the door and kissed me goodnight.
‘See you tomorrow, Champagne Man.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Sure. I’ll be in town. Maybe we can get really dirty next time …’
‘Oh. Tomorrow, then. I’ll see you after work.’
‘Perfect. So long CM.’
‘See you Emily.’ I turned to leave.
‘Hey, hang on,’ she called after me.
‘What?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tell you tomorrow.’
She liked that.
It was a mild evening, and the sky was low. There was no moon. I found myself ruing the fact I’d left my bag with all my kit in it at home, because conditions were perfect. Apart from anything else, I’d learned from last time that I won’t be able to do the deed when I have to go home to my wife afterwards. She knows me too well and she’ll see through me in a second (ditto with the cheating business, I suspect). Therefore I have a lim
ited window of opportunity while she’s away on the dig, excepting Christmas when she’s going to have a couple of days off, and perhaps the odd weekend if she can swing it. The days will get longer after Christmas, too, which won’t help.
I was pondering all this when I came out of the tunnel into the park. I’d been about twenty paces behind a broad figure in a donkey jacket for some time, and was practising matching him step for step so he wouldn’t hear my footsteps. It was so dark, and the light fell away either side of the path. It was perfect. Lengthen the stride to catch up, one hit and drag him to the bushes. One hit. If only.
But as it turns out I was glad I didn’t have my hammer. The whole thing could have been shot. Although I would have had a better chance of defending myself.
Chapter thirteen
There was a pack of them. Their hooded silhouettes appeared at the end of the path, one shuffling, one swaggering, one with his head cocked at a smartphone, two pushing and play-punching each other. They were passing a bottle around. Two orange fireflies capered in front of them, trailing wisps of smoke. My quasi-victim sped up when he saw them, and I did the same. He had to step off the path because he didn’t want to pass between them. They let him, but they didn’t let me. I caught the first movement in the corner of my eye before pain exploded in my skull.
The horizon spun away, the jagged towers of the cathedral whirled into view, a judgemental, monolithic entity. Were these its agents, was this my punishment? An ache all over my body, dull at first, rising to acute. In time the individual blows ceased to hurt. I could feel them jolting me, an insect battered by a storm, but at last the ache absorbed them like raindrops in a pond. And then my senses took pity, and gave me a tunnel out of there. The curses and spitting and feet and fists grew further and further away, until I finally waved them goodbye.
Rocking and swaying lulled me back to consciousness. I lay curled up like a baby with my eyes closed, as if I could hide from the hurt that clung to my body like molten plastic. It took a few moments before the panic. A bump that lifted me from the floor jolted me into recall, and I uncoiled my limbs with a start. I banged my knee, my elbow and my head, all at once. I was trapped in a metal womb. Slivers of red light climbed the walls of my prison, brightening and dimming. Sometimes a few flashes of orange. A constant roar, rising and falling, a distant grumble. I was in the boot of a car. And I knew I was going to die.
Futile gestures first. Hammering and yelling, kicking. Then weariness, a sore throat, nausea. Saliva rose beneath my tongue, and I unleashed a stream of vomit. The smell was suffocating, making me retch and gag. They were going to take me out into the woods and kill me. They’d bury my body where no-one could find it. I’d never see my wife again, my beautiful, loyal faithful, tolerant, endlessly loving wife. All those things she does for me, those little things that I never thanked her for. I never thanked her for loving me when nobody else would, for taking me back when I’d been such an idiot. I’d like to be able to say goodbye at least, or have one last hug, to smell her hair again and know I was home. Because that’s what she gives me, more than anything, the sense I belong somewhere, with someone. Never mind lust, you can’t replace feeling like you belong. Family. She is my family, I realised for the very first time. And she’d never know what had happened to me, or why. Unanswered questions would batter her for years, like waves hammering a cliff-face in a tempest. And she’d never know that I was sorry I let her leave the other day while I was poisoned by jealousy, sorry about never showing her how much she means to me, sorry about screwing Emily. I started to cry.
The car barrelled to a halt, throwing me forward in the boot and smashing me into the back of the rear seats. I stifled a yell as the pain burst across my ribcage. I waited. The engine sighed to a halt, and the red lights died. The darkness was absolute. There was a pounding brute of a silence. Then voices.
‘Now what?’
‘What do you mean now what?’
‘Well he’s your fucking thing, ain’t he geezer?’
‘We fuck him up some more, take his fucking clothes, blindfold the cunt and hope he dies of the fucking cold. Or walks in front of a fucking lorry.’
‘What’d he do, anyway?’
‘He’s just a cunt.’
‘He can’t just be a cunt, geezer. He must have actually done something for you to think he’s a cunt.’
‘Leave it out, Terry. What does it matter what he did?’
‘Stay out of it, Squirrel.’
‘But Nick’s got a reason, that’s enough, right?’
‘It may be enough for you, but in case you hadn’t noticed we just fucking kidnapped someone!’
‘Look, Tel, he’s just a cunt. He wouldn’t serve me in his fucking shop, so I took some tinnies and he fucking stopped me. So I told him I’d fuck him up.’
‘Shit, it’s the geezer from the offie.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fucking great. And you were fucking nicking from him and he didn’t want you to nick from him and now we’ve got him in the back of your car beat to fuck coz he had the fucking temerity geezer to exercise his human fucking rights as a fucking citizen! You fucking twat.’
‘Leave it out, Tel.’
‘Stay the fuck out of it Squirrel! You’re a fucking liability, you are, Nick. You’re a fucking idiot, geezer. Let the cunt go. Now. He can walk back to town if he can kick and scream like that. You’re not gonna take his clothes. And give him his fucking wallet back, geezer.’
‘Fucking hell, Terry.’
‘If you strip him, the Babylon will pick him up, and he’ll have some fucking explaining to do. Keep the cash if you have to, the phone, whatever. But let the man have his fucking wallet, and give him his SIM card.’
‘But Terry, he’s a cunt.’
‘No, Nick, you’re a fucking cunt. I haven’t seen a beating like that since the one I got from that cunt Stu. I fucking know what it’s like, and I’m fucking telling you, it’s enough. I thought he’d shagged your fucking sister or something. But fuck … cunt just doing his job. You fucking twat. ‘Ere Ben, give me that fucking spliff. Nick, Squirrel, get him out of there. And try to not to fucking hit him again. Just make sure he won’t go to the law.’
‘Jesus …’
‘Just fucking do it.’
The car rocked on its suspension and a door slammed. Then the boot opened above me, revealing two small men in baggy clothes. A weasely face scowled at me, then recoiled in disgust.
‘Fucking hell! Terry! He’s fucking puked in here. It’s fucking nasty.’
‘Fuck.’ This was the other one, Squirrel.
‘Just get him out,’ Terry said.
‘Get him out,’ the Weasel said.
‘Fuck off, Nick.’
‘Fucking get him out.’
‘Fucking hell, Nick,’ Squirrel said, but he reached down and grabbed my coat at the shoulders. ‘Fucking disgusting.’ He jostled and jolted me out of the boot, and I tried to help him as best I could, but I fell to the muddy ground and the impact sent splashes of pain across my torso. I could only lie there. Squirrel turned away and wiped his hands on a patch of grass. The Weasel knelt beside me.
‘Now listen you filthy fucker. You listening?’ I nodded. ‘Right. Here’s your fucking wallet.’ He threw it onto my chest, then took my phone from his pocket, fiddled with it and extracted the SIM before flicking it into my face. I didn’t move. I was in pain all over but it was starting to dawn on me that I wasn’t going to die. I wanted to laugh and I wanted to weep.
‘Now. I’ve looked at your licence, we know where you live. One fucking word to the cops, and we come and get you. We get your wife, your kids. We’ll string up your fucking dog right in front of you, you cunt, and slit its belly open. One word. Do you get me?’
I nodded. He stood up, kicked me hard in the stomach, and I doubled up winded. As I gulped for breath I heard a car door open and shut, an engine revving and wheels spinning on dirt. I was showered with mud and stones, and petrol fumes filled m
y lungs. But I was alive.
I staggered to my feet when I felt myself falling asleep, and tried to ascertain the damage to my body. My legs seemed fine, but my arms, ribs and back hurt horribly, and each movement was a painful struggle against swelling and hardening muscles. There were bumps on my head and jaw, a cut on my lip and my right eye was closing. I felt a sticky patch in my hair and saw blood on my fingertips, but it was clotting. I wasn’t going to bleed to death, and nothing felt broken. I reckoned I could walk, because I had to. Next job, where was I? A sinuous road and a tunnel of trees. Nothing familiar. I looked up and down the lane, decided which direction we had driven from, and stooped to pick up my wallet and SIM. Then, feeling like a bucket descending an empty well, I started to walk.
It took fucking hours. Hours of wanting to find a soft patch of ground and sleep, hours of telling myself to keep going, hours of swearing, wincing and plodding. When I turned into the close and saw my house I wanted to hug it, but when I walked through the front door the house hugged me. I zeroed in on my bottle of Caol Ila 18 year-old, poured myself a tumbler on the rocks and sat at the kitchen table. The events of the evening were cascading through my mind, refusing to slow, with irresistible momentum. I emptied my pockets and stared at my wallet and SIM, wondering what peculiar generosity had been at work in the mind of the man who’d let me keep them. He’d accepted that I would be robbed, but refused to let me be too inconvenienced. I kept feeling my face with my fingers, probing the swollen flesh. I tested my jaw countless times, and examined my distorted reflection in the window. But it was it the reflection that was distorted, or was it me? I needed to check, so took my whisky to the bathroom, removed my shirt and spent ten minutes not recognising myself in the mirror, from every angle. The drink was making me dizzy. Back in the kitchen I poured myself another, and remembered that my old phone, before the upgrade Julia had said I should have, was in a drawer somewhere. I found it, popped in the SIM, plugged it in to charge and turned it on. It made a beeping sound that put me in another time and place, and I had a message. Emily had had a fun time, then a few guesses at my name. It was too late to call Julia and tell her what had happened, so I texted Emily instead.
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