Out Of The Red

by David Bradwell

  We edged through a broken gate, past a sign forbidding trespassers, and approached the main doors of the deserted building.

  “Have we got permission for this?” I asked.

  “Not exactly, but there’s no security apparently. We’ll be okay if we’re careful.”

  I had my doubts. The doors had been kicked in, and unsuccessfully boarded up. I assumed it had once been an office block but now all the windows were smashed and nature had taken its course. Weeds had taken hold in cracks in the concrete floor. There was a steady wind, carrying in rain and catching an almost overbearing stench of decay and urine. One corner showed evidence of a fire. Empty beer cans littered the floor, together with the occasional syringe and used condom. Not my idea of a romantic setting, but I’m a traditional girl at heart.

  “How did you find this place?” I asked, trying to keep cheerful rather than betraying my sense of distaste. And wishing my sense of smell was less sensitive.

  “Leah heard about it. We’re going for the distressed look.”

  “You’ve achieved that. Is it safe?”

  “Should be. Just be careful where you’re walking.”

  I crossed to the window. Shattered glass lay on the floor, crunching under the soles of my DMs. Outside, the traffic was relentless. I shivered. The place was creepy. Suddenly I felt very aware of my own vulnerability. What if Steve was a maniac and was here to murder me? What chance would I have? Nobody would hear my screams. I started to feel increasingly uncomfortable.

  “What do you think?” he asked, moving towards me. My grip tightened on my camera bag. I wished I’d brought a tripod. I’ve used one of those as a weapon before.

  But before I had a chance to answer, I saw movement from over his shoulder. The one I thought was Holly was making her way towards us. I visibly relaxed.

  “Hi,” I called, with perhaps disproportionate jollity. “Come and join us.”

  Holly didn’t look happy, but at least she was upright and, best of all, she was here.

  “What the fuck is this place?” she asked. A hello would have been nice.

  Steve moved over towards her and they walked off together, talking in hushed voices, leaving me alone. I felt isolated. I didn’t expect to suddenly be treated like one of the band, but I had no more idea about the underlying tensions than the previous night. The irritation was just taking hold when Leah arrived. At least I assumed it was Leah. It was hard to tell behind the sunglasses. She came towards me, stumbled over a broken pipe, and swore.

  “All right?” I asked.

  “Yeah, fine,” she said. Thankfully their musicianship was infinitely better than their conversation.

  After a minute or so of uncomfortable silence, apart from the wind and traffic, Steve and Holly returned. Steve took control. I was grateful. He directed us all to a space on the far side of the building where the light was casting interesting shadows on what was left of an interior wall. He took a can of spray paint from his shoulder bag and started work, writing the band’s name on the wall. In some ways, I was quite impressed. It was wanton vandalism, certainly, but hardly likely to lower the tone of the place. And I admired the sense of daring. I just couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  Leah hardly spoke a word throughout the entire session, but she seemed happy to pose as I directed. I made use of the available natural light and then tried some with a flash, bouncing it off broken ceiling tiles. After the group shots in various combinations I did more of the girls together, and then each of them on their own. Despite everything, I started to almost enjoy myself. I always find photography therapeutic and I love a creative challenge. We tried some other places within the building, and I did some artistic stuff, playing with shallow depths of field and then slow shutter speeds with the traffic behind, blurring it into the background.

  After about an hour and a half it was getting dark, I was cold and I was running out of film. Thankfully Steve called a halt.

  “That should do,” he said. “How are they looking?”

  “Decent, I think. There’s definitely something there.”

  “Excellent.”

  Leah came to stand beside him, but Holly wandered off on her own. It was like the girls couldn’t bear to speak to each other. I didn’t have much optimism for their future together, but I kept those thoughts to myself.

  “Listen, I was going to suggest going to the pub to celebrate, but I think we’re going to have to run,” he said. “Sorry.” He looked genuinely concerned.

  “That’s okay,” I replied. It was a shame. It would have been nice to chat to them, but in other ways I was relieved. I just wanted to get home and get warm. And have a shower.

  “How long will it take to process the films?”

  “Not long. I’ll crack on with it first thing tomorrow.”

  “Brilliant. Do you want to pop by the rehearsal studio tomorrow afternoon, maybe two-ish, if that’s not too early? I can’t wait to see them. And we’re playing live again tomorrow night if you fancy coming again.”

  I agreed, said I’d love to, and offered to attempt some live shots. As I was packing my camera away, Holly came over. It seemed completely out of character.

  “Can I have a word?” she asked, as though talking to a stranger, rather than someone she’d been working with for the last couple of hours.

  “Of course,” I said. “What’s up?”

  She seemed hesitant.

  “I just wanted to say thanks. For coming.”

  I was taken aback.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “It was fun.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It wasn’t. Not really. But that’s not your fault. You did a great job. Let me give you my number.” She asked for a pen. I took one out of my camera bag and she wrote it on the side of one of the film boxes.

  “It was great to meet you,” she said. Suddenly her face conveyed a warmth that I’d never seen before. It was all very odd. I was tempted to get the camera out again, but there was no time. Steve led the way out of the building, back through the broken gate and onto the street outside. I assumed we’d all get the tube back to somewhere together, but instead they said their farewells. I was left to walk to the station on my own.

  It was the last time I’d see all three of them alive.

  8

  GRAHAM March took the rear exit from Green Park Underground station, emerging onto Stratton Street, close to Langan’s Brasserie. Evening service was just beginning, but despite the culinary temptations, he walked past, heading towards the Albermarle Casino and Gentleman’s Club, just off Berkeley Square.

  If everything went well, he would endeavour to find a pretty hostess in whom to indulge for a couple of hours, but first there was some business to resolve.

  He nodded to the doorman who stood aside so he could enter the marbled foyer. A golden chandelier gave a low, seductive light.

  “Good evening, Mr March, wonderful to see you again,” said the receptionist from behind the security of her desk. The faked sincerity was almost believable.

  “Good evening, my darling,” he replied. “Just a quick word with Jacqueline if I may?”

  “Of course. I’ll just check that she’s in.”

  Of course she was in. She was always in. Where else would she be? But it still paid to employ a gatekeeper.

  The receptionist picked up the phone and dialled an internal number. A moment later she turned back to March.

  “She’s ready for you,” she said. “You know the way.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said. He unbuttoned his overcoat and headed through the gilt-laden double doors.

  “So?” asked Jacqueline, once the drinks were poured. “What’s new with Mikołaj?”

  “It’s all very interesting, my dear.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s an intriguing young man. Speaks very highly of you, by the way. We had quite the chat about you. It seems he’d like to take you to dinner.”

  “Well that’s not going to happ
en.”

  “Really? He was most insistent.”

  “My involvement is strictly via you. As far as he’s concerned I don’t need to exist any more. I can’t be anywhere near this.”

  “Of course.”

  “As long as that’s understood.”

  Understood but highly inconvenient.

  “Naturally, Jacqui. On the plus side, he confirmed the imminent shipment, although I wish he wouldn’t use that word. I find it slightly dehumanising.”

  “Christ. First the homeless, now this. You do make me laugh. You’re all heart, Graham. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “I’m a decent man.”

  “And I’m the fucking Princess of Wales.”

  They paused to drink. Jacqueline lit a cigarette, offered one to March, but he declined.

  “I’m still off them,” he said.

  “Good for you.”

  “Telling you, you’re in the company of a new man.”

  “And I don’t believe a word of it. Did he give an actual ETA?”

  “Not an exact date, no. I suspect the logistics are complicated, but early next week from what I can tell.”

  “Good. Did he confirm how many?”

  “Anywhere between twelve and twenty.”

  “Useful. And I can rely on you?”

  “I’m shocked you need to ask.”

  “I’m equally shocked you expect me not to.”

  “Haha. We know each other too well.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll still want first look when they get here. See if I can make use of any. And then we can sort things. Okay?”

  “Excellent plan.”

  Twenty minutes later March was heading back towards Green Park. He stepped off the kerb and nearly collided with a cyclist, who swore. He didn’t apologise. His mind was elsewhere. He had a keen instinct for self-preservation and could sense trouble ahead.

  It hadn’t been the time to start befriending a hostess, under the watchful gaze of the casino staff, but instead of entering the Underground station, he continued and turned right on Piccadilly. He’d just pay a quick visit to Shepherd Market and see if he could maybe find a nice French girl for half an hour or so. It would be a much-needed distraction. And then he could decide how best to get out of this alive.

  * * *

  Back at the casino, Jacqueline addressed the two men in front of her.

  “Every fucking thing he does and every fucking where he goes. Okay?”

  The taller of the two nodded.

  “Good. We’re done. Start tomorrow and keep me informed. I want to know everyone the bastard speaks to, what he has for lunch, every time he takes a piss. I do not trust the twat. Start from there and work back.”

  “Understood.”

  “No excuses, Finn. I don’t need to explain why. Concentrate on him. And Logan?”

  The other looked up.

  “Like we said, make sure you stick close to every other fucker he may be speaking to. Is that all clear?”

  “Yes, boss,” said Finn. Logan nodded.

  “Right, you can go. The pair of you.”

  They both turned without a word and left the room. Jacqueline finished her drink and switched off her computer. She’d go out for dinner and then decide exactly what to do with March when this was all over.

  * * *

  After a weekend in his Hampshire constituency, opening a fete and discussing the minutiae of Government policy with ill-informed constituents who clearly had no idea of the real issues facing a man of his standing, Samuel Elmhirst-Banks was pleased to return to the sanctuary and privacy of his Barbican flat. Working in Government offered perks and privilege, but having to shake hands and feign interest with those who elected him was a significant and perennial irritation.

  He’d just poured a restorative glass of Argentinian Malbec when the phone started ringing. He sighed. It was rarely good news at this time of the evening. The Chief Whip and the spin doctors didn’t respect the convention of the working day.

  He moved through to the living room and picked up the handset.

  “Seb,” he said, using his initials as a short-form of his name.

  “Hi,” she replied. He immediately relaxed at the sound of the familiar female voice, but then stiffened again as his mind switched back to the March conundrum. The man was a liability. The situation needed to be controlled.

  “I’m glad it’s you,” he continued. “How’s it going? Anything to report?”

  “It’s not exactly trouble-free but there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Do I want to hear this?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Jesus. Spare me then. Just the basics.”

  “Okay. Don’t panic, but we’ve had a couple of complications on the domestic side of things. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “For God’s sake. Is it bad?”

  “No, I’m dealing with it.”

  “How bad?”

  “Honestly, don’t worry. Bad, but not too bad. I’m sorting it.”

  He paused, giving himself a moment to think, but then decided to trust his instincts.

  “Good. I trust you. Any more movements?”

  “He’s been back to the parlour and the casino. Just the regular pattern, nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve got a plan, though. You’ll absolutely love this.”

  9

  IT amazes me that a city the size of London, with nearly seven million inhabitants, can sometimes seem so small. I don’t take the Underground particularly regularly (may have mentioned it), but I was once on a train that was pulling into Edgware Road station when I looked up and saw two people from my school in Manchester, standing on the platform. How did that happen? I jumped off the train immediately and greeted them like long-lost friends until reality struck and I remembered that I didn’t have much in common with either of them, and would probably never see them again.

  A similar thing happened on the journey back from Bromley-by-Bow. It’s an open-air station. I walked to the back of the platform in order to improve my chances of getting a seat, and waited in the cold for the train to arrive. The rain had reduced to a light drizzle so it was just about bearable, although it was doing nothing for my hair. There was only one other passenger on my end of the platform. He was about my age, mid-twenties, and seemed well-dressed despite an otherwise slightly rugged appearance. I was particularly impressed by his scarf, which was an almost perfect match for his blue eyes, and tied in a casual European loop. Not that I’m in the habit of making eye contact with strangers, but he’d looked up as I approached, just before his mobile phone started ringing. He answered the call, but had to end it quickly as the train approached. I didn’t take in what he said.

  We both got on to the same carriage, and sat on opposite sides, about five seats apart. I didn’t have anything to read so tried to collect my thoughts about Danny and Clare, and then the photo shoot and the band. A couple of times I looked up. Scarf man was reading a novel. I tried to make out the title for the sake of something to do. And then he looked up, and caught me, so I quickly averted my eyes, as you do, and may have even blushed a bit.

  Eventually the train pulled in to Mile End. I had the option of changing there, but instead decided to stay on and swap to the Northern Line at Moorgate. Scarf man stood up and made his way to the doors, and left the train as soon as they opened. I watched him walk down the platform but then returned to my private world.

  I’d been so happy on Friday, laughing and drinking with Katie and Ben. It had all seemed so natural, so easy, so uncomplicated. Colleagues of sorts, having a good time, swapping industry gossip. But now my mood was considerably darker. I wasn’t sure quite why I felt so irritated about Clare’s reappearance, but just the mention of her name seemed to play havoc with my blood pressure. And I’m normally such a nice, placid person.

  I started having thoughts that would have seemed surreal just two days ago. Maybe I had been too hasty with Ben. My feelings for Danny run deep, but it’s complic
ated by the intensity of our friendship. Realistically if we were ever going to get together it would have happened by now, but maybe we just know each other too well. I’m historically useless at relationships, and no matter how much I dream of hearts and flowers, the risk of ruining what we already have always holds me back. On occasions, I get the sense that he feels the same, but we’ve reached a kind of easy familiarity in which such issues never really get discussed.

  Eventually the train pulled in to Moorgate. I got off and made my way to the northbound Northern Line. I moved to the end of the platform again. After an eight-minute wait the train arrived. The carriage was busy, and it was standing room only, although a lot of people got off at Kings Cross and I was able to get a seat for the last few stops. And that’s when I noticed scarf man again, at the far end of the carriage, still reading his book.

  That puzzled me. How had he done that? I tried not to keep looking but I was finding myself intrigued. He didn’t seem to notice me, though, so I tried to think of something else.

  A few minutes later, the train pulled into Camden Town and I stood up to get off. I gave him one last glance, but he seemed oblivious. That was probably a good thing. He was still reading.

  I got off the train and walked through the station, wishing my bag was slightly less heavy. Eventually I caught the escalator to the ground level, then turned left to get the bus up to Rochester Square and home. And that, I thought, was that.

  About half an hour later, I made a decision. I called Ben. What harm could it do? Sadly, however, there was no answer until the voicemail kicked in. I didn’t know what message to leave, so I disconnected the call, partly frustrated and partly relieved. In one sense it felt like some great infidelity, but an increasing part of me had decided it was entirely justifiable. At the very least we could have a nice glass of wine, or several, and we could discuss editors and clients and all the sort of fashion industry nonsense that I normally try to avoid, but really should probably pay more attention to.