And I would fall for it, time after time.
‘No worries, sweetie,’ I’d say. ‘Get your head down and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Get your head down! What a mug. What a stupid, trusting, loyal, never-been-with-another-woman-since-our-first-date, bloody fool.
When I found out, she had to go. She didn’t want to, but once a cheat always a cheat in my book, and there was no way back for her. She left with a suitcase and I gather Dean took her in. His wife left him years ago, the first time he strayed. Sounds like she shares my principles – maybe I should meet her. Well, that was the end of the marital bed of roses. But were that the only problem in my life. I quit my job the day after she left.
Enter Mickey the Likely Lad. Picture the scene. I’m in an interview room with some kid from the bank’s compliance department, young enough to be my daughter, the day after I’d watched Sam get in the back of a minicab and disappear from my life. She’s asking me what I know about some missing cheques.
Sure, the book was in my charge, kept locked in a cabinet to which I had the key. All cheques issued were logged in the register, which was also under my supervision. I even signed most of them before they went out. There were two signature lists: I was on the A list with my boss, and all the senior staff in my department were on the B list. One signature from each list was needed on every cheque issued. In reality, I countersigned them all, unless I was out of the office when my boss, the anally-retentive Rick, would grudgingly lower himself from his ivory tower to sign one or two. More often than not, my guys would avoid running the gauntlet with Rick and wait until I got back. They seemed to prefer my approach. If the transaction had been verified and the cheque already signed by someone on the B list, it was good enough for me. As I saw it, my signature was there to add authority. It was a demonstration of confidence in the integrity of my team. Clearly not a view shared by Rick, who always wanted to know the inside leg measurements of a flea before he would sign anything.
So, you could say I had almost total control over the chequebook, which was pretty much what Little Miss Smarty Pants was making clear during our interview. I could see the glint in her eye; confident she was about to take her first employee scalp, all the better for it that I was a ten-year veteran at the firm, with leadership responsibilities. That same sense of superiority was pretty much what I was trying to convey to her by the total contempt with which I was responding to her questions.
On any other day, I would have easily taken the sting out of this “misunderstanding”, smiled reassuringly, nodded agreement with the seriousness of the issue, calmly voiced my concern this could possibly have happened in my department, set out clearly what I intended to do to investigate the lapse and, inevitably, disarm her with that old school charm. She would have made some notes, offered a few pointless suggestions for improving my management controls and agreed to meet again in a week to review progress with my enquiries. We would have smiled and left amicably, probably both still thinking the other was an arrogant piece of shit, but it would have ended well enough.
As it happens, it didn’t end well.
Instead, I said what I really thought. By the time I’d finished, she was promising to report me under every code of conduct and harassment policy she could find. At least I left the interview smiling. It was about as charming a smile as Jack Nicholson’s, leering through the shattered door with an axe. I really didn’t give a toss.
I went straight to my desk, grabbed the half dozen personal effects, excluding the photograph of Sam that lay face down in the drawer, hoping for a reprieve that would never come, put on my jacket and walked out. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Rick’s startled face as I marched away from his office and down the corridor. And you know what, it felt bloody marvellous. In that moment, I finally allowed myself to accept something that had been eating away at me for years. I had spent my entire adulthood acting out someone else’s idea of a decent life. And God, had I hated it.
And then there’s Herb. The guy who put me up to this. I suppose you could think of him as an old family friend. Everyone knew he wasn’t entirely kosher, yet nobody ever seemed to be able to put a finger on why. He was always good to us kids when we were growing up – my brother John and me. He lost his wife in a car accident in the early eighties, a couple of years after we moved into the same road where he lived. Local gossip at the time said they had been expecting their first child, which also perished in the crash, but he never talked about it.
We hadn’t really noticed him until John and I started walking home from secondary school together. Then we’d see him leaning against his gatepost most afternoons. Occasionally we’d stop to talk and be late home. Mum would remind us of what she always said about talking to strangers, but Herb was alright. We never went inside his house; he never invited us in. He would want to know if my team had won on Saturday and whether I’d scored. I always replied I was only a fullback, and yet that didn’t stop him asking every week.
As I got older he usually had some good advice for dealing with girls. When I was fifteen, he’d occasionally slip me that month’s Playboy and say with a wicked grin that he was always happy to help educate a fellow gentleman in the ways of the world.
A couple of years later, something terrible happened and Mum and I moved to another street. That was a tough time for us both; before my eighteenth birthday I became “the man of the house”. I tried to support her the best I could, but she’ll never know how hard it was for me. And at a time when I might have gone completely off the rails, Herb became the father figure I never really had before. He dusted me off and gave me another chance. Ultimately, he gave me the confidence that allowed me to move to the City in ’89 in the hope of positioning myself for the next boom. Of course, back then I wasn’t sure whether I could really settle into that City routine. I was never one of those who had it in their blood. Still, there was money to be made and I wanted to give it a shot for a few years. After that, Herb and I stayed in touch for awhile, and I would drop in on him if I had time when visiting Mum. But once Sam came along, even our occasional phone calls fizzled out. Although they never met, she didn’t like the sound of him, and wouldn’t even let me put him on the guest list for our wedding. After that, our paths diverged completely, even though he continued to live alone in the same house. So, until quite recently, I hadn’t seen him for years.
Maybe I should have kept it that way.
Calling In
Now, back home from The Feathers, I punch the number into my mobile and wait to hear Herb’s voice.
I’d written his number on the back of one of my old business cards. An unopened box of them was one of the few things I grabbed from my desk when I’d made my recent exit from a stable life and a steady income. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I can ever use them again. I don’t know; maybe it’s something to cling to – a memento of that tiny speck of authority I so readily abandoned.
The phone keeps ringing and I let it continue in case he’s otherwise engaged. It must be five minutes and there’s still no answer, so I let it go on for another ten rings before hanging up and deciding to try again in the morning. Maybe he pulls the plug on the phone when he goes to bed. That seems unlikely. Surely he’d have waited up for my call tonight.
I seriously doubt Herb is the kind of guy to be out on the razzle of a Wednesday evening. He has to be knocking sixty-five if he’s a day, and when I saw him recently he made it sound like he wasn’t in the best of health. But what sticks in my mind the most is that his house was immaculate. Some old widowers’ houses can be pretty grim. Unidentified stains on the carpets, net curtains that hold themselves up, dried egg yolk on the tablecloth. And I don’t even want to think about the assortment of smells. Well, that’s what I was expecting. But no, for an old boy he keeps the place modern, clean and tidy. It wasn’t always like that. I suppose when his missus was killed all those years ago, you could have forgiven him the state of the place back then. And yet, somewhere along the line, sin
ce I was last there, it looks like he decided to make her proud. All that time living along the street and everyone assuming it would still be a junkyard in there. Just goes to show, you never know what goes on behind closed doors.
It was last Tuesday that he caught me completely off-guard when he phoned out of the blue...
I’d not long got a new mobile number and was still getting to grips with the free handset. Apart from anything else, the bloody thing doesn’t give much warning before running out of juice. So, not for the first time, I’d been carrying it around all day without realising it was completely useless.
Of course, I got home and plugged it in without switching it back on, and didn’t realise until an hour later that I’d missed a call. Not recognising the number, I instinctively deleted it and forgot all about it. Well, here’s another thing that was pissing me off about my new mobile phone. With no conceivable reason for the delay, it rang at two o’clock in the morning, and when I answered it with an unintelligible grunt, an ambivalent pre-recorded voice informed me I had one new message. I didn’t even get the chance to swear and throw it across the room before I had Herb’s dulcet tones in my ear.
‘Bugger! Sodding answer machines,’ was his opening line. ‘Mickey? Michael Field, is that you? Sorry to trouble you son, it’s your old friend, Herb. Herbert Long. From your old stomping ground – I helped you out a few years back. I’m sure you remember. Look Mickey, the thing is I wonder if you can help me with a spot of bother I’ve come up against. I hope you don’t mind me calling on your portable number. I hope to hear from you.’
It may have been the voice of an old man, but I could tell the words were carefully chosen, and that their meaning was intentionally underplayed. Though my eyelids refused to open, my brain was wide awake and playing drums on the inside of my skull.
As I replayed the message, I realised he hadn’t left his number for me to ring back. No problem, it’ll be on the missed call log. The Banker started grinning long before I remembered deleting it earlier. The phone skidded to a halt across the floor where it laid, defiantly illuminating the room until plunging me back into darkness just as my eyes were starting to adjust.
Wednesday, 9th
I felt guilty being so close to Mum’s house without going in to see her; I suppose I only ever went south of the river for that reason, and I was sure there’d be hell to pay if she knew I’d been in Gravesend and not even popped in to say hello. The day after Herb’s message I had another reason for being there, and I just hoped he would make the trip worth my while.
Mum doesn’t miss much that goes on in the neighbourhood and she has spies everywhere, so I decided to park in one of the side roads. It seemed very strange opening the gate and walking up the path to Herb’s front door. Given the years that had passed since I’d been beyond this particular gate, maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised at the apprehension I felt as I rang the doorbell.
Herb answered almost instantly and, apart from a momentary pause for recognition, followed by a failure to disguise a furtive glance up and down the street, he welcomed me into the house as if I was still a regular visitor.
‘Mickey, it’s good to see you,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘You’ve just caught me on the phone, but come on in lad.’
He released his firm grip on my hand and led me into the long, narrow hall, through the first door on the right, to his front sitting room. He seemed strong and upright, and moved confidently, but the thinning wisps of grey hair, cropped closely over his angular head, and the lines chiselled in the granite of his face hinted at the years that had passed since I’d seen him last. The only frailty I noticed was that his left hand trembled uncontrollably; an impairment he seemed oblivious to and did nothing to conceal.
He gestured for me to sit down on a leather sofa that not only dominated the room but also filled the air with its heady musk of opulence. In front of me, on a stylish glass coffee table, was a cordless phone facing upwards and a black Moleskine notebook, open alongside it. He smiled awkwardly and picked up the phone, covering the mouthpiece with his large hand before he spoke.
‘If I’d thought for a moment,’ he said in a subdued voice, ‘you’d have come straight down here, I would have got some provisions in.’
With that he took the notebook and the phone and stepped out into the hall where he continued his call in a voice low enough that I couldn’t hear.
I noticed the distinctly modern, masculine styling of the decor and furniture as I sank into the soft tan cushions. And as I looked around the room, I tried to reconcile the quality and affluence in front of me with my expectations. It was like I’d stepped through a time warp – outside you approach the front door of an austere detached house, cloned between the wars; inside you’re greeted by a contemporary show home, uncluttered and minimalist. Everything looked new and without a speck of dust. I knew a lot of young guys in the City who would have worked fourteen hours a day just to rent a place like it. Apart from the dramatic change from how it looked the last time I was in here, I couldn’t help wondering how the hell an old guy like Herb managed to maintain it so spotlessly, let alone afford such luxury.
‘Just get it done!’ he said bluntly, as if for me to hear, and his eyes flashed like blue steel as he walked back into the room.
He replaced the phone in its cradle behind the door, while I struggled to sit forward in the seat to show my concern. But when he turned back to me his expression had changed, like everything was tickety-boo.
‘Sorry Herb,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get your message until it was too late last night and I couldn’t find your number this morning, so here I am.’
‘No need to apologise, lad. It’s very good of you to come, especially after all these years. What is it, ten?’
‘Longer than that,’ I said. ‘Nearer fifteen.’
‘Well, you certainly don’t look a day older, lad. I was almost expecting to see young John standing behind you on the doorstep.’
I smiled uneasily.
‘If only,’ I said.
‘Yes, quite,’ he said, his voice dropping again. ‘We’ve all got things… back then, that we’d change, given the chance.’
I nodded solemnly before he lifted the mood with a big smile. ‘And your mother, lad; she seems to have held up well. Always cheerful when I see her. And always telling me about you – so proud she is.’
‘Yeah, she’s keeping well, on the whole. Has a bit of trouble with her legs now and again. She’s quite resilient, all things considered. You know what it’s like; none of us are getting any younger.’
‘You’re not wrong there, lad. Can I get you a drink? I’ve only got tea and coffee, unless you fancy a drop of scotch.’ He winked on the last word but must have seen the alarm on my face because he looked over at the solitary gilded clock standing dead centre on the mantelpiece. ‘I thought it was later than that. Look at me plying you with whisky when the sun isn’t even over the yardarm. Have some coffee.’
‘Thanks Herb, that’ll be good – milk, two sugars. Can I give you a hand?’ I followed him out of the sitting room and down the hall to a large modern kitchen. An expensive Italian coffee maker and a matching chrome microwave were the only objects adorning the black granite worktops that contrasted tastefully with solid cherry wood cabinets. I felt horribly outclassed in the ideal home stakes.
‘Nice place,’ I said, the words totally inadequate.
‘I like to keep it tidy,’ he said, and as if to prove the point, hurriedly gathered an array of paperwork that was scattered across the sleek top of a button-less hob into a pile and lowered an opaque glass lid over it.
Despite the spasms in his left hand, he deftly produced four shots of espresso from fresh coffee beans that were automatically ground, dispensed and filtered into two cups he’d placed under the machine’s twin spouts.
‘Do you want your milk frothy?’ he looked at me doubtfully and I read the signs and declined in favour of cold milk – the steamer on the machine looked unused,
but then again everything in this house looked brand new. He placed the cups onto saucers he’d put on a tray, along with a plate of chocolate digestives, and then added milk to one of the cups whilst looking to me to signal when was enough. Without another word, he walked out of the kitchen and back to the front room. I instinctively followed him with the tray.
‘It’s great to see you doing so well, Herb… after all this time,’ I said. ‘It was quite a surprise to hear from you. I’m just not really sure… I mean, why now?’ I tried to maintain some decorum by perching on the front edge of the sofa, cup and saucer in hand, declining the offer of a biscuit, in spite of the growl of protest in my stomach. I had always looked up to Herb, but knowing so little about his particular line of business, beyond all the idle gossip, made me very nervous about what he was going to ask me.
‘I gather you’ve come up against some bad luck,’ he said without looking up.
‘It’s fair to say I’ve had better months,’ I replied, wary of what Herb knew of these recent events and, more to the point, how he knew. I still hadn’t fathomed where he’d got my new mobile number from, but I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and see where this was going. ‘You never met Samantha, did you?’
‘No, lad. Your mother showed me a wedding photo a few years back. She looked like a real beauty. What went wrong?’ He looked genuinely concerned.
‘She was... is a real beauty,’ I agreed. ‘I suppose I just wasn’t enough for her in the end.’
‘Did you know the other guy?’ He was looking at me intently.
‘I’d met him once or twice. He was her boss – a complete arsehole as far as I’m concerned. I suspect Sam will be just another of his casualties and one day she’ll realise what she’s lost.’ I was becoming melancholy and I didn’t like it. I knew I needed to stay strong and focused. Sipping the coffee helped. ‘What keeps me going is reminding myself she made a choice the first time she played away. Even though I threw her out, it was her decision at the outset. I’m sure I’ll be better off without her.’
Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad... Page 3