What possessed you to get involved in something Herb’s tied up with? The voice of Michael the Banker echoed in my head.
— Stick with it. Into the kitchen, two more paces and you’re there. You know where it is. Get in there, pick it up and leg it back out through that window.
Mickey the Resurgent Rebel won the debate and I was moving again.
Old instincts took over and I strode headlong towards the door at the end of the hall. Like the bathroom, the door was ajar and beyond it there was only darkness. I knew, once in the kitchen, I’d be able to get my bearings and locate what I came for. I slowly pushed the door, letting in light from the hall, and stepped over the threshold. I stopped abruptly, confused and disoriented. What I was looking at wasn’t the kitchen.
It was a connecting room, wider than the hall, no more than ten feet long. I had to assume it led in turn to the kitchen. I tried to make sense of the unexpected layout, comparing it in my mind to the outer perimeter I’d had to skirt around. That’s when I realised there were two other rooms, one on either side of me, and I was merely standing in another rectangular hallway, this one with a door on each of its four walls. The one ahead had to be the kitchen and it was partially open, whereas the solid doors on either side were both closed.
As I looked from one to the other it was apparent that although the rest of the house hadn’t been maintained for donkey’s years, these internal walls had been added in more recent times. Left un-plastered in bare cinder block, their dull grey doors were set into unfinished metal frames, each with robust bolts top and bottom – the ones on the door to my right were secured by heavy duty combination locks. The concrete floor, also not an original feature, was levelled only to a rough screed.
In any other circumstance I’d have been intrigued by the industrial nature of the renovation, in what was otherwise an uninhabitable dump, but my head was spinning with the reek that intensified as I got deeper into the building. It was like I’d entered a huge corpse and was being drawn towards its putrefying guts. The smell assaulted my senses, adding to a surging feeling of dread at what surrounded me. I tried to stay focused as I pulled up my collar to cover my nose and mouth and walked straight ahead, into the kitchen.
Scanning the mountain of rubbish on the table, it didn’t take me long to see it. There, wrapped in an oversized brown envelope, a package no bigger than a paperback. I could tell before I even looked inside, it was the object I’d come for, and I put it in my pocket. It was so light I knew I’d need to keep checking it was still there. A feeling of satisfaction lifted me and I headed back with renewed confidence, reaching the doorway into the original hall, ready to get the hell out of there. That’s when I took leave of my senses.
— Hey, what’s the rush? It’s cool. I’ve got what I came for, no problem. This is easy. I got in quick. I can get out quicker. No one’s seen me, there’s no one around. Let’s take a quick look at this added room – the one with the bolts drawn back. Maybe there’s something else in there that would be useful to Herb.
Ever the opportunist, the Resurgent Rebel took control and, with a newfound enthusiasm, I was heading back to investigate the chamber.
The handle turned readily, and I pushed. The door yielded quietly, smooth yet heavy on sturdy hinges, inward into total blackness. Although there were no windows, it wasn’t the darkness that I noticed first. Released from its confined space, the stench hit me like a train and made me gag. Reeling at the thought of grisly scenes that might have played out in this hellish cell, I retched and almost added to the assumed matter on the floor.
Somehow I mustered the mental and physical gristle to step into the room, and my eyes began to adjust to what tentative light had dared follow me in. All I could see was a metal bench, scattered with an assortment of tools: lump hammer, pliers and a hacksaw. Don’t be fooled, this was no DIY workshop. The meat cleaver and various butchers’ knives and skewers removed any lingering doubt, as clinically as they would any other surplus appendage. I’d seen enough and was ready to leave when I spotted something else on the bench. It was another brown envelope, at first sight, much like the one nestling in my pocket. That was just another trick of the light. No, this one was like a brick, a solid wad, constricted by rubber bands, stretched taut around its length and width into a thick, twisted cross.
I was drawn to it. Maybe I was thinking it would make a good counterweight in my jacket, like ballast for the voyage home. Yeah right. Maybe I wasn’t thinking at all because even before I put it in the other pocket, I knew it would tip the scales so far the other way.
Pulling the door behind me was surprisingly easy and it picked up its own momentum and slammed with a reverberating clang. While it gave me some reassurance the door would keep whatever evil had occurred there contained, it also shattered the stillness of the house and echoed noisily as I retreated to the main hallway.
No sooner had I turned to enter the bedroom on the right, I heard another sound – a hideous, muffled scream – a human cry so desperate and pathetic that it reached through my chest and tore at my lungs. I froze again, not knowing what to do. I was convinced the voice had come from the locked room. The last thing I wanted to do was go back in there.
I didn’t get far before a loud rattling sound shrink-wrapped my testicles. It was the front door, ten feet behind me. Someone else was trying to get into the house. Okay, call me a coward, but if I said something like this had happened before, you’d forgive me the perverse sense of relief as I abandoned all thoughts of chivalry. Besides, this was way too much aggro for the sake of a thousand quid, and my instinct to flee was stronger than any human urge to stay and help whoever might be suffering in that room. I was through the bedroom and out of the window quicker than I came in, moving silently and swiftly back down the garden, towards the high fence along the back.
I glanced over my shoulder, expecting some knucklehead to be pursuing me, the open window of my escape surely obvious to anyone coming into the hall. I was relieved to see no one chasing. It was only when I’d clambered up, and was about to drop down the other side of the fence, that I got a good look back at the house and saw the torch illuminating the kitchen like a strobe, while a ghostly silhouette ransacked the room.
Before I lowered myself to safety, the shadow of a giant appeared at the window and the searchlight’s beam swept across my face.
Bunny Girl
Since escaping down the gravel pathway that runs along the backs of the gardens of Bleak Neighbourhood, I’d been replaying the scene in my mind. Between anxiously looking about to see if I was being followed, and frantically scouring the tube map I’d pulled from one of the station racks en route, I wasn’t able to get the thought from my head that someone had been suffering in that place and I’d just run away.
Now here I am, being chatted up by the most beautiful, young woman I’ve ever seen.
Maybe she’s the girlfriend of the guy with the torch. It’s The Banker again, trying to cramp my style. Maybe she’s going to soften you up and lure you into a dark alley where he’ll be waiting with his toolkit.
— No. That’s just being paranoid.
Maybe she’s a prostitute?
— She doesn’t look like one.
Like you’d know what they look like.
— Yeah, I’m pretty sure they don’t go around buying their prospective clients drinks as if they’re selling time-shares. Even tarts have standards.
Fair point.
I’m confused. Amidst the conversation in my head, my brain can’t find the right connections to work out what to do. It’s trying to recall the last time a gorgeous girl with a taste for single malt introduced herself with a sexy smile and a free drink.
When I was a young guy – ready, willing and able – this never happened to me. In twelve years of marriage, this never happened to me. Yet here I am, well past my prime, down on my luck, in an old Barbour coat that hangs down on one side, and looking like I’ve spent the evening with Freddy Krueger. And complete
ly out of the blue, I’m supposed to know what to say.
‘Thanks’ is the best I can manage. God, I’m so pathetic. I need to get a grip soon before she comes to the conclusion that I have some kind of mental impairment and a nightly visit to the pub is part of my care in the community programme. All I can do is raise the drink and sip it like a girl.
Fortunately, the kick of the spirit jolts my brain from its inertia and I look around for somewhere we can sit or at least have some space to move. There’s a small table in the corner and I nod in its direction.
‘Sorry,’ I say as she sits down with her back to the window. ‘You must think I’m a complete moron. It’s just that... you caught me a bit cold. Hello, I’m Mickey.’
‘I did start to worry I’d made my biggest chat-up mistake ever,’ she teases, ‘but I’m always ready for rejection.’
I smile at the Betty Boop tilt of her head that confirms my belief she’s never had to worry about that.
‘So, Mickey… were you heading off already?’
Her eyes seem to shine into mine, like she’s driving towards me around a sharp bend, intentionally leaving them on full beam. I’m blinded, mesmerised, imminent road-kill, unable to avoid staring back into them. I try to retain some composure and take control, but I’m hopelessly outwitted at every turn.
‘Oh, I only popped in for a quick one,’ I reply, instantly aware of the clumsy innuendo. My obvious discomfort is met with a naughty smile that lights up her face.
‘I’m sure I counted two,’ she says, lowering her gaze from my eyes. ‘You’re obviously a guy who doesn’t hang around.’
Unlike mine, her double-entendre is both subtle and intentional, and I feel my face flush and my pulse quicken. I grin like a schoolboy and shift awkwardly in the chair.
For God’s sake get a grip; you’re probably old enough to be her father.
I try to assume some semblance of seniority by finishing the rest of the scotch and asking her if she’d like another drink.
‘This time, I’ll get them to add some peat,’ I joke embarrassingly as I turn to go to the bar.
‘Okay,’ she calls after me. ‘But if Pete’s not around, I’ll settle for Mickey.’
Now, as I walk to the bar, everything is different. City Boy moves aside to let me through and I’m served without waiting by the Aussie barmaid who smiles sweetly and even says ‘Thanks, mate,’ when I hand her a tenner. It’s turning into one very interesting night, and already I’ve completely forgotten about the odd packages in my coat pockets and the anguished cry for help that turned my legs to jelly less than two hours ago.
Grace brings me back to reality with a bang when she asks what I’ve been up to this evening. She admits she’s been watching me from the other side of the bar and thought I looked seriously worried about something. Where do I start? Those big eyes are hard to deceive, and I have to keep looking away as I come up with some cock and bull story about Mum being ill. She seems to fall for it and gives me lots of sympathy. She says she spent the evening helping her brother with his homework. I think I got away with my little white lie about poor mother’s gout, but they say it takes a bull-shitter to know one, and I’m having serious doubts that Grace is being completely straight with me.
For some reason I can’t fathom, the conversation seems to be getting tense. I suspect I’m reacting subconsciously to her apparent change of mood. She’s trying too hard to make meaningless conversation and I’m wondering if things aren’t moving a bit too quickly for someone I’ve only just met. The grown-up in me takes back control and I start looking for a way to bring this interesting and very flattering fantasy to a close, at least for the time being. Apart from anything else, I’m getting really anxious to call Herb.
The rabbit in the headlights analogy begins to take on a more sinister meaning as I sense Grace realising the evening’s conquest is coming to a premature end. The bunny’s in serious danger of being boiled and the cheeky banter is turning into sarcasm and resentment.
‘Well you’d better head off home if you’ve got a better offer waiting there,’ she says after I start making noises about needing to get an early night with a busy day ahead.
I want to see her again, I really do, but all I can come up with when I get up to leave is, ‘I’m sure I’ll see you in here again sometime.’
‘Probably not the best offer I’m going to get tonight,’ she replies brutally.
Harsh… but fair. The Banker gets the last word as I squeeze my way to the door.
***
Another Mother
The soothing sound of violins drifts along the hall to the room he’s checking first. The music adds to his relief at finding the door untouched. He’s been caught off-guard – came back to clean up too late. It’s much earlier in the evening than he’d expected, though it’s not for him to reason why. Ask no questions; tell no lies. Do as he’s told... most of the time. As for the rest… he’s only trying to help. That’s what’s concerning him now. The fact it’s all still here. That wasn’t in The Plan. Opening the door, he exhales loudly. Everything’s as he left it. But that other room… that’s another matter.
Lighting it up, his first concern is addressed; still there, in a bucket, behind the door. He’ll get rid of it later. That’s two off his list – the worst half. The other two, they’re not bad things. Not really. But they are of more value... at least to him. He looks around and his jaw tightens at the sight of an empty space where he’d left the first. Ought to be more careful…
‘How many times do I have to tell you not to leave your shit lying around?’ He hears her voice and freezes. ‘How… many… times…?’ Each word accompanied by the sting of her hand.
How many times? How many times had he gone to his bed hungry… to grip with little fingers the red imprint swelling his thin, freckled arm… to feel the comforting warmth soak through his scants… to spend the night praying to be dry by morning…
Seeing the other thing still there brings him back. His face softens and he relaxes his fist. Crossing the room, he smiles and, lifting it gently, wipes the glass with his sleeve. She smiles back and he takes it with him, his steps lighter as he cradles it in time with the music.
2.
Double Income…
So much for Mickey Field, the lucky boy. I don’t know, some would probably call me a barrow boy. There was certainly a time when I was proud to be considered a YUPPIE. Back in Thatcher’s glorious eighties, so the theory went, if you worked hard, played hard and kept your nose clean, then you either ended up a Well-Off Older Person, otherwise known in the vernacular of the time as a WOOPIE, or Burnt-Out But Opulent, aka: a BOBO. Trouble was, many got rich too quick and ended up a complete LOMBARD – Loads Of Money But A Right Dickhead.
I was late to join the party, but I was doing alright. Don’t get me wrong, I was never in the big league. When asked for my occupation – on those forms with a hundred different tick-boxes – I would reluctantly select “Banker”. I never really felt much like a banker though. To me, bankers were the bigwigs who flew around the globe doing mega-deals to finance construction projects or corporate mergers and acquisitions. Then again, I suppose that was a view from the inside. On the outside of City life, most people haven’t got a clue what goes on. All they see are the bonuses, the arrogance of the few who gamble other people’s money away with impunity, and the rewards for failure when the ones who screw up are given big payoffs to leave quietly. I have more sympathy for this viewpoint now I’m on the outside, banker-bashing with the rest of them, but with the hypocritical fervour of a reformed smoker. And if I’m honest, in the end, I think I even surprised myself by sticking at it as long as I did.
Okay, I have to accept, to those on the outside I was a banker and, they may have assumed, a successful one at that. But I’m not going to bore you with the details of what I spent twenty-odd years doing in the world of high finance. First, because it’s pretty mundane a lot of the time, and second, well the chances are, you’re one of
the “most people”, and wouldn’t have a clue what I was talking about anyway – or more likely, wouldn’t care. Let’s just say, things were looking sweet. Looks can be deceiving.
What about Mickey the Charmer? Well… maybe not. My happy marriage of twelve years came to a sudden end when I realised Sam was playing the field; trouble was it wasn’t this particular Field. She had her own City career, and together we made the perfect couple, or so you might have thought. When it all came crashing down I was left alone, empty and bitter, and worst of all, feeling very stupid. That’s the problem when your wife spends so much time in the company of her colleagues, longer than she ever spends with you, the one she’s supposed to love. For Sam, frequent evenings working late soon became a quick drink with Dean and the rest of the nightshift to de-stress for the journey home.
While some people in the City do early mornings or late evenings, depending on whether they’re trading in Eastern or Western markets, nightshift in this context is simply gallows humour for workaholics. If you want the big bucks, you have to be prepared to do the early start and the late finish. Oh, the joys of working in London at the centre of the global business day. It’s enough to make you cry into your Bollinger!
Before long, Sam’s quick drinks with the team became drinks just with Dean; an hour became three or four. Occasionally, the last train was missed and one of the cheap hotels that sprang up in the Square Mile ten years ago, presumably for this purpose, was a last-resort bed for the night.
‘Sorry Mickey. I’ll be able to make a flying start in the morning,’ she’d say on the phone, supposedly from a post-modern, eighty quid a night B&B within walking distance to the office. ‘I’ll get home early tomorrow and we’ll go out for dinner.’
Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad... Page 2