by Zoe Sharp
On a reflex I refilled the filter coffee machine and switched it on. Before long the whole place was filled with the heavy wafting scent of own-blend Java from the tea and coffee merchant in town.
I emptied the kitchen rubbish bin, a tricky operation because I never get round to doing it until it's way overflowing, and struggled down the stairs to dump a weighty black bin bag out on the pavement. They come first thing on a Monday morning and I always forget until I actually hear the council truck grinding its way along the quay, by which time I've usually missed them.
I was just making sure the top of the bag was secure to prevent it being raided by the swat team that is the local semi-stray cat population, when I heard the heavy rumbling of a big diesel. I looked up to see the local mobile video man, Terry Rothwell, pulling his big Mercedes van into a parking space on the other side of the road.
Everyone round here knows Terry. He'll never go down in the history books as a great thinker, but his heart's in the right place. I met him not long after I moved in, through his business partner, Paul. Paul runs a video shop in Abraham Heights, just back from the quay, and rides an old, but pristine black Kawasaki GPZ900R.
It often works out that way. If you have a bike, everyone you seem to meet has one too. I think nearly all my friends in Lancaster have some connection or other to motorcycling.
When I first arrived here, Paul and Terry were great. Helped me sort out the wiring and even found me a second-hand video player at right money. I may not own any carpets, but you've got to get your priorities right when it comes to life's luxuries. In my case it was hi-fi, microwave, video – probably in that order.
Even if you don't hire out movies you can't miss Terry's van. It's green. Not a nice subdued British Racing, more Kawasaki Racing. A bilious shade of lime, bordering on fluorescent. On the side, in big pink letters, are the words, “The Big Green Video Machine'. I asked him once whose idea the nauseous colour scheme was. He proudly accepted full responsibility. “You may not like it,” he said, “but you sure as hell can't ignore it.” I had to agree he had a point, there.
Terry himself is a pretty noticeable character. He's about six-foot four and rather rotund with rubbery features that make him look more like a caricature of somebody else than a person in his own right. His hair is also receding and he will insist on growing the remainder long and brushing it forwards to cover the inadequacies. Windy days make him comically nervous.
He seems to do well out of the video game, though. The van was only two years old and when he's off duty I've seen him driving round in a two-door Merc coupé with a private plate on it. Somebody once told me Terry thought driving a prestige car would help him pull the birds. No offence to the guy, but a crash diet, plastic surgery and a decent hairstyle would probably work better.
By the time he'd eased his bulk out of the van I'd crossed over to meet him. “I'm glad you're in,” he said. “I've got that new Keanu Reeves film in we were talking about.”
He unlocked the side door and slid it back. Inside are racks of the latest films. I leant against the door aperture while he scribbled in his book, scouring the shelves with my head on one side to read the titles. He has so many films I want to watch that I always come away with a crick in my neck.
“You're in a good mood,” I observed, climbing in.
“Well, I've had a very useful morning so far,” he said, shutting the book and giving me a satisfied smile. “Been round chasing a bad debt.”
“Successfully, obviously.”
“Oh yeah, the guy didn't have the cash on him, but I don't think I've done too badly out of it. He gave me this instead, look,” he said, and leant over into the front of the van to retrieve something from the passenger seat. I averted my eyes from the buttock cleavage that suddenly appeared at the back of his jeans. When he straightened up he was holding a rectangular object, about the size of a telephone directory. He flipped the lid open to reveal the neat screen and keyboard of a portable computer. It looked like a toy in his huge hands. “Well then,” Terry said proudly, “what d'you think of that?”
“Neat,” I said, trying not to sound too nonplussed. I can't get over the uneasy thought that computers are something I really ought to get into and understand, but I just can't raise the enthusiasm. “Where on earth did you pick this up?”
“Ah-ha! Like I said, I've been debt collecting. A customer who hadn't paid his video hire bill. Bloke from that new club in Morecambe, as a matter of fact.”
It took me a moment before his words sank in. Then I suddenly remembered Marc's comment from the night before. A hand in the till, some computer equipment, wine from the restaurant . . .
“Terry,” I said. “Are you sure it's legit?” Something in my voice bothered him and I watched a myriad of expressions register across his rubber-like features.
“What?” he demanded, suddenly looking from me to the computer as though it had abruptly burst into flames. He scratched worriedly at his armpit. “Well, yeah,” he said, sounding anything but positive. He turned the computer over as if it might have “stolen” written on the underside. “Come on, what gives, Charlie?”
I explained about my conversation with Marc. “It just seems a bit of a big coincidence, that's all,” I said. “I don't know how much they cost, these lap-tops, but they won't be cheap. If they came by it by legal means, someone must have borrowed a barrow-load of videos at a few quid a time to owe you enough to do a straight swap.”
Terry smirked. “Ah, I wasn't born yesterday, “ he said, “I've been offered enough hooky gear in my time to be able to smell it.” He tapped the side of his nose to indicate it was very hush, hush. “But there's videos and then, there's videos.”
I said, oh yes in what I hoped was a knowing sort of way, and left it at that, but Terry wasn't to be deflected. He put the computer down. After a quick look round in a shifty manner guaranteed to make any casual observer sit up and take notice, he lifted up a false panel above the cab of the van, whipped out a video and handed it to me.
It wasn't in one of his usual cases, which are the same squint-inducing colour scheme as the van. This was in a very plain, rather cheap-looking wrapper. I forget the title now, but it was wincingly corny. I knew instantly that the film inside would contain a warbling sound track, repetitive dialogue, no plot to speak of and lots of writhing bodies filmed from angles that were gynaecological in their intensity.
I've seen one or two and they make me feel deeply uncomfortable. The dead look in the performers' eyes – I can't bring myself to call them actors – disturbs me. I can never believe that the people involved are doing that sort of thing from choice. They all look doped up to the eyeballs in any case. I pulled a face and handed the video back.
“It doesn't take long to build up a big bill when you're hiring two or three of these a week,” he said and named a price that made my eyebrows rise of their own accord.
“That's for renting them? For that money I'd want shares in the film company.” I was intrigued despite my distaste. “What's so special about them, or don't I want to know.”
Terry grinned and opened the box. The video inside had the title repeated on an otherwise plain label. “There you are,” he said. “No certificate. This little lot are hot off the boat from Spain and Amsterdam and they didn't come via the official board of censors. You wouldn't believe what's on half of ’em, sadomasochism stuff, animals and all sorts – but I draw the line at kids,” he said quickly, with the air of someone adopting a high moral tone. “If anyone gets caught with one, they didn't get it from me, that's for sure. They could throw away the key just for what I've got in the van at the moment.” He jerked a thumb at the false floor.
“So some guy hired out enough of these that he gave you a lap-top computer in payment?” I said again. I still found it hard to believe.
Terry nodded, grinning. “He's got a week to come up with the money, otherwise this goes straight into the small ads,” he said. “Although, actually, I might keep it. I've
never had one of these before.” He picked up the portable again, fiddling around until he found the on/off button.
The little computer whined into life, making buzzing and clicking noises like an electronic budgie. He stared for a few moments at the screen, which was tilted away from me, jabbing a couple of buttons, his brows drawn down. “The cheating bugger,” he said.
“What's up?”
“It's asking me for the password. He never mentioned anything about passwords. Bloody hell.”
“Can't you go back and ask whoever it was you got it from what the right password is?” I said, peering over his shoulder.
“We didn't exactly part on good terms,” Terry admitted. “In fact, he probably did this on purpose. Bugger.”
I sighed. For someone who's obviously pretty successful in business, he can be very naive sometimes. He stood there looking at the little computer like a kid who's just had his new toy broken in the school playground by the class bully. I swear I saw his bottom lip quiver. Mind you, the way parts of his fleshy face tended to wobble out of sync with the rest of him when he moved quickly, it was difficult to tell.
A sudden thought seemed to occur to him. “Hey, are you still mates with that computer bloke up at the Uni?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
I sighed again. No way did I want to help Terry get into a possibly nicked computer, given to him by some bloke in payment for illegal porn videos, but Terry's been a bit of a mate and I just couldn't stand the thought of the hurt look if I said no. Besides, I probably owed him a favour or two.
“OK,” I said. “I haven't seen Sam for ages, but I'll ask him if he could try and get round it for you, if you like?”
Terry looked relieved. He switched off the computer and folded the lid shut again. “Would you?” he said. “That'd be great. Tell you what, shall I leave it with you? If you can get your mate to have a play with it, I could pick it up later on in the week sometime.”
I agreed and he handed the machine across. It wasn't much bigger than a ream of A4 paper, and looked so innocuous. We hopped back out onto the street. He swung the Merc's side door shut and climbed into the cab. “I'll see you right for videos,” he called as he started the engine. I stuck the computer under my arm and walked back up the stairs to the flat.
***
When I got up the next morning the lap-top was where I'd left it on the coffee table. I worked round it for most of the morning, but eventually I couldn't put it off any longer.
I looked up the number of the university and dialled. After a short delay, they put me through to the right department. I asked whoever picked up for Sam, and the receiver was plonked down on a desktop. I heard someone calling, then cowboy-booted footsteps.
“Yeah?” His voice sounded bored. It was nearly lunchtime.
“Hi Sam, it's Charlie.”
“Oh, right!” he said, suddenly perking up. “Great to hear from you. When are we going out for another razz?”
I'd met Sam out one day in the Trough of Bowland. When the roads are quiet the Trough is fantastic biking country. In the summer I tend to go out there early in the morning when you can just get stuck into those long sweeping bends.
I was doing that at about six-thirty one Sunday morning when an old green 750cc Norton Commando appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to trample all over me. I gave chase, but I just haven't got the faith, or the courage, to hammer fully committed into blind corners and crests.
After a few miles he pulled in to a lay-by where there was a little burger caravan and I followed. The look on his face when I took my helmet off would have been worth a photograph. We had a brew, got to the point of exchanging phone numbers and met up regularly after that for a quick blast.
When Sam started suggesting we met up in the evenings, however, and without the bikes, I began to back off. He's a sweet bloke, but a touch on the sensitive side for my taste. Chaotic dark hair framing the long face of a Chaucer knight, with expressive dark eyes that follow you round the room like one of those Greenpeace posters against seal clubbing.
I suppose I knew he'd take things further if I gave him a sign, but I also knew the sparks were all on his side. I didn't think it was fair to let him believe anything might come of it, and I hadn't spoken to him for a few months.
Now, I explained about Terry's password-protected machine and asked if he thought there was anything he could suggest. I don't know exactly what it is that Sam does with computers, but he seems to be a bit of a whizz kid.
“Yeah, no problem,” he said. “I'll see what I can do. Most of these lap-tops aren't that difficult to get into. What's the make and model?”
I grabbed the computer and read off all the identifying marks I could find. “Shall I bring it round?” I asked.
“Er, well, you're just down on the quay, aren't you? Why don't I pop round to you tonight, about eight-thirty?” he said, adding quickly. “If that's OK, of course. I just thought it would save you carting it about strapped to the back of that bloody Jap rice-burner of yours.”
“At least my bike only burns oil, it doesn't dump most of it on the road,” I said. “Half eight is fine. I'll see you later.”
“Yeah, great. I'll look forward to it,” he said.
I put the phone down wondering if I'd done the right thing.
***
In the afternoon I packed my work-out clothes into my rucksack, climbed onto the Suzuki, and headed across town to the refuge.
I've been holding self-defence at the Shelseley Lodge Women's Refuge for the last couple of years. On paper, I suppose it doesn't make much financial sense to do so, but actually the arrangement suits us both quite well.
I teach there three times a week. The classes are open to all, and often people mix and match which days they attend, depending on their schedule. The residents of the Lodge are free to join in any time.
My regular students pay me their tuition fees direct, but Shelseley take the class fees themselves for their own people, if they charged them at all. Still, I didn't have to fork out for use of the venue, so I couldn't begrudge them my labours. Not for the work they were doing.
Shelseley Lodge had been turned into a women's refuge some time in the early seventies by the late mother of the present owner. Old Mrs Shelseley had used premature widowhood as the perfect opportunity to take in single mothers and battered wives as fast as she could make up camp beds for them. And if deserted husbands turned up in the middle of the night to kick up a fuss, she'd even been known to appear, a terrifying apparition with a shotgun and curlers, to show them the error of their ways. I'd never met her, but I thought she sounded wonderful.
I very much doubt that the new Mrs Shelseley knew one end of a shotgun from the other, but she was just as effective at shifting unwanted visitors. Ailsa had arrived temporarily at the Lodge as a trainee solicitor to offer advice to the residents on matters of divorce and child support.
She'd taken a fancy to the place in general – and the owner's son, Tristram in particular – and had stayed put. Although she's since given up the law and retrained as a counsellor, she can still spout enough legalese to put the fear of God into marauding men when the need arises.
I reached the entrance to the Lodge and turned the bike between a pair of red brick gateposts. The driveway was short and claimed to be gravel, but every summer the dandelions staged another covert incursion and I think they were finally winning the battle.
As always, there was a motley collection of cars sprawled in front of the impressive Victorian house. Where space was tight someone had even driven one of them onto the lawn, leaving gouges in the sodden grass like a mistreated billiard table.
I slid the bike into a gap near one of the elegantly proportioned bay-fronted windows, and killed the motor, pulling off my helmet. Into the quiet that followed came the raucous squeal of children at war. Somewhere upstairs, a baby cried relentlessly.
The front door stood open as usual beneath a fanlight made from delicately-coloured glass in leaded
panes. The matching panels in the door itself had long since fallen victim to one set of angry fists or another, and now consisted of reinforced safety glass. My boots echoed on the faded black and white tiles as I walked down the hallway, calling a hello as I went.
Ailsa stuck her head out of what was supposed to be their private sitting room and beckoned me through. When I went in I found Tris squeezed into a corner, trying to read a book on William Blake. Nearly all the other available chairs were taken up by a bedraggled-looking woman with bruised eyes and four young children.
“Hi Charlie,” Ailsa said brightly, subsiding her generous frame onto a seat, her loose Indian cotton dress billowing around her for a moment like a collapsing big top. “Won't be a moment. We're just trying to sort out these forms from the Social. Be a dear, Tristram, and put the kettle on.”
Out of his wife's line of sight, Tris sighed, carefully inserted a bookmark as he rose, and disappeared into the narrow kitchen. When I couldn't stand the scruffy round-eyed stares of the kids any longer, I went to join him.