Stranger Than Kindness

by Mark A Radcliffe

  Laura and Tom busied themselves looking through Adam’s LPs while Anna joined him in the kitchen. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Vegetable curry.’ He didn’t look round from the pot he was stirring. ‘I tried to catch some fish, got a bit distracted and failed. Sorry.’

  ‘You tried to catch fish? Is that a money saving thing or…’

  He turned and looked at her. She looked better than she had when she walked into the shop. Her hair was very black, clearly dyed but it looked good. She had aged well.

  ‘It’s the way I live,’ he said quietly, looking her in the eye for the first time.

  Anna nodded. ‘I kind of went the other way I suppose.’ She sighed.

  ‘You kind of had a child to support.’

  ‘Did you ever… you know.’

  ‘Have a kid? Who knows?’ He nodded at Tom and wrinkled his face.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ she said, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Never married or anything. Travelled a fair bit. You?’

  ‘Oh, just on holidays. I went to Australia once.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘Nope, never married. Never imagined I would, hence…’ She nodded at Tom and wrinkled her face.

  ‘Self-fulfilling prophecy,’ Adam said.

  ‘Can I have more wine?’ said Anna.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  They ate and listened to The Blue Nile. ‘Sounds dated now,’ Adam said. When it had finished he put on something newer by The National.

  ‘I’m surprised you have this,’ smiled Tom.

  After they had finished eating, Anna put on Billie Holiday. The conversation was gentle, almost tired. Anna asked Laura about her plans, aware that what a week or so ago would have been the polite enquiry of a supportive near-aunt now felt like she was interviewing her future daughter-in-law to determine her prospects. Tom asked Adam about India, Adam talked more about Greece. Anna checked her phone a lot. Eventually, as they were finishing the second bottle of wine, Tom nodded at the guitar and asked quietly: ‘Do you mind if I…?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ smiled Adam.

  ‘Is it a good guitar?’ asked Anna.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Tom. ‘Gibson ES vintage semi, beautiful.’ He picked away quietly, tuning it, letting his fingers tap the fretboard, hunching down over the body, smelling the guitar. Whenever Anna saw him with a guitar she thought of him when he had first started learning, gathered around an old battered guitar he had seen in a second hand shop and had asked the music teacher to tune for him.

  ‘He’ll be lost to us for the next four hours now,’ said Laura; Tom looked up at her and flashed such a grown-up smile at his girlfriend that Anna’s eyes stung.

  ‘Is that the same guitar you had…?’ Anna asked Adam.

  ‘No, I still have that, it’s in the other room. I bought this one when I bought the shop. I’d always wanted one and I kind of knew that that would be the only time I’d ever be able to afford it.’

  Tom had finished tuning the guitar and was playing something bluesy.

  ‘Did you come into money?’ Anna was embarrassed that she had asked. She was intrigued by the way Adam seemed to live but she was slightly unnerved by it. She couldn’t figure out if it was self-contained or just poverty-stricken.

  ‘Yes I did,’ said Adam and then he turned to Tom. ‘Not bad,’ he said.

  ‘He’s even better on the piano,’ said Anna.

  ‘I always wanted to play piano,’ said Adam. ‘I’ve tried a few times but I can’t.’

  They all stopped speaking and Tom played quietly on.

  ‘Must be hard, him being a long way away,’ said Adam.

  Anna coloured slightly. Where were these emotions coming from? And she comforted herself by remembering that up to a few hours ago she had been on the run from people she thought were trying to kill her and so emotions were, if not inevitable, certainly forgivable.

  ‘She was pleased to get rid of me,’ said Tom jokingly but it was too much for Anna.

  ‘Don’t you ever say that,’ she snapped. This time Tom blushed. Looking at his mum, she looked teary. And just a little bit smaller.

  After that, the conversation grew thinner. Finally, just after eleven-thirty, Tom put the guitar down and said: ‘I suppose we should be going. I’m not sure when the B and B lady closes up for the night and we have to sleep on the beach.’

  Laura and Adam stood up. ‘Thank you,’ she said and hugged him.

  Anna remained seated. ‘You go ahead, Tom. I want a word with Adam if that’s OK?’ She looked at Adam, who shrugged. Tom hesitated. ‘It’ll be OK, its not far to walk,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll walk her back, Tom.’ Adam said.

  Tom nodded at Adam and turned to his mother. ‘More secrets, mum?’

  Adam led them down the narrow stairs to the shop. At the door Tom said: ‘Do you mind my asking how long you’ve had that guitar?’

  ‘About ten years I think,’ said Adam.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘A little guitar shop in Doncaster, actually.’ There was a pause and, to his own surprise, Adam filled it. ‘I wrote some songs that were recorded by and subsequently played live a lot by a—well, over here at least—little-known band called Acme Inc.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them,’ said Tom.

  ‘Yeah, well, they sold pretty well in America and Japan. I think they are based out in California now. I’m not sure, they haven’t been in touch. Anyway I got paid and…’ He tailed off and shrugged.

  ‘I bet I know the songs,’ said Tom enthusiastically.

  ‘I bet you do too,’ said Anna, who had followed them down the stairs and was standing behind Adam, looking at her son as though he had said something wrong. Tom returned her gaze, uncertain as to why there was friction but convinced it must be her fault.

  He put out his hand and Adam took it. ‘It’s been nice to meet you. Thanks for the food,’ he said.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  After they had gone Adam and Anna walked back upstairs.

  ‘Tea?’ asked Adam.

  ‘Oh yes please.’ Anna sat quietly on the sofa as Adam boiled the kettle.

  ‘Peppermint or builder’s?’

  ‘Peppermint, please.’

  He brought in the tea and sat in the same chair he had been in before. He picked up his guitar and just held it on his lap, stroking the body.

  ‘Do you still write songs?’ Anna asked.

  Adam shrugged. ‘There seems to be a bit of tension between you and your son,’ he said.

  Anna sighed. ‘I had no idea about Laura. I think I’m cross with him.’

  ‘I think you’re furious with him.’ Adam laughed. Anna picked up her tea, cupping it in both hands and stared at the carpet in silence. Finally Adam said: ‘You OK?’ When she looked up she was crying quietly. He thought of putting the guitar down and going the four steps to the sofa, the way a nurse might, but he didn’t. He looked at her and said gently, ‘What is it, pet?’

  She cried a little more, she nodded acknowledgement of his question and he waited.

  ‘Lots of things I suppose,’ she said. ‘Being fifty. Feeling like I am losing my son, in a way I prepared for it you know, in a good way, but it coming as a surprise nonetheless. Meena, Paul, the pointless stupid fucking job… Running round the coastline like… like a fugitive.’ Adam put the guitar back on its stand. He didn’t speak. ‘And then…’ Anna looked up, dabbed her eyes with her fingers. ‘Do you have a tissue?’ Adam got up and went to his bedroom, returning with a small box of tissues. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘It’s stupid but… when I was in Eastbourne I met this young man in a café. Looked like, I don’t know, like he might be struggling. I bought him a sandwich and we chatted. He sounded bright, clever, engaged.’ She hesitated. Adam remained silent. ‘He said the st
rangest thing, well, a couple of strange things really. He told me that he knew how to cure psychosis. He said his cure had been passed on by patients and he helped people. He said he cured them by making tea using fresh morning dew.’ She laughed unconvincingly. ‘You see, repeating it, saying it out loud helps. It is mad.’ They sat quietly for a few moments, Adam looking at Anna while Anna looked at the floor, the wall, the guitar and the floor again. ‘And when I left he called me Hannah.’

  Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘Wasn’t that…?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you sure he said Hannah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Might it have been a mistake?’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t know…’

  Adam sipped his tea and Anna looked at him for the first time. ‘It crossed my mind that I was becoming… unwell.’ Adam nodded as sympathetically as he could. They were quiet again. Adam listened to a car draw up outside and leave its engine running for longer than one might expect from someone arriving home; its lights stayed on too, just for about twenty seconds. Then the engine and lights went out.

  ‘I don’t know why I am going to tell you this,’ he said, ‘but it’s in my head now.’ He swallowed hard but before he could speak there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Tom worried about his mum?’

  Anna winced. ‘Late night visitor?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ he said.

  ‘You look worried,’ she said. ‘That is making me nervous.’

  ‘It’s been an unnerving few days,’ he said. ‘You stay here, OK?’

  He went downstairs and Anna noticed that she was holding her breath. This was ridiculous. Her life, her sense of self, was being re-written over the course of a few days by… by whom? A profit-hungry corporation? Some government quango? Over a piece of bloody research? She was hiding above a small bookshop in a town that thought it was 1976. She was afraid. She stretched her shoulders, arching her back slightly and rolled her head. She took a couple of deep breaths and stared at the door. There were two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs and Adam was saying something that she couldn’t make out. Anna stood in the middle of the room braced and ready, relaxing instantly when Adam opened the door and stood to one side.

  ‘Grace?”

  15. You Could Be Forgiven

  Black Portier was feeling pleased with himself. He didn’t expect any sign of appreciation, but he did believe that they would have noticed the fact that he had managed a potential crisis with his usual quiet deftness.

  And so when he found a long white envelope with his name and the words ‘Strictly private and confidential’ handwritten across it on his desk he opened it with a little uncertainty. What he found was a plane ticket. From Heathrow to Manchester for 7.30am the day after next and a note, also handwritten, saying ‘Dear Mr Portier, 10am September 27th, Room 102 CREAK offices, Cheshire. Important.’ It was unsigned. There was a distinct lack of respect characterizing the people he was having to work with on this project. Nina Sykes was expecting him in half an hour, essentially because she needed reassurance, and CREAK, who he was bailing out of a crisis, expected him to fly the length of the country for a meeting with someone who can’t muster the good manners to sign their name. Who does he ask for at the front desk? How stupid does he look saying: ‘I’m here to see someone on the first floor, someone with a nice pen who writes in italics.’

  He sighed and shook his head. He deserved better. He was the problem solver, these people were the problem watchers, the worriers; the people, in Leichter and Wallace’s case at least, who stood to lose millions off of their share price if it wasn’t for him. He should be picking up a cheque from her tomorrow, at least. ‘I need to move fully into the private sector,’ he said to himself. ‘I’d be properly appreciated there.’ Not that he was sure where the private sector was any more from where he was sitting.

  Nina Sykes looked like a woman who never slept. That is not to say she looked tired: rather, she looked as though she didn’t bother with sleep, as if it might use up time and cause her perfect and perpetual French bun to slip out of place. She was wearing the same style of suit she wore the last time they met a few days ago, albeit this one was in black rather than grey. It made her look sexier. Like she was going to a funeral. She looked at him over the top of half-moon reading glasses.

  ‘What news, Mr Portier?’

  ‘One of the researchers remains in a serious condition in hospital, Ms Sykes. Another, you may have heard on the news, is wanted by the police in connection with sexual offences.’ Black looked mostly impassive with an incy bit of smug rolled in.

  ‘That is sad. Does it delay the release of the results?’

  ‘Of course, as I told you Ms Sykes, there really was nothing to worry about.’

  Nina Sykes eyed him suspiciously. ‘You are a strange man Mr Portier. I am never terribly sure what you are talking about and I wonder sometimes if you are. I shall inform my boss that release of the research findings is on hold and will remain so indefinitely. We will not be requesting our funding outlay back at this time, secure in the knowledge that as the major investors in this work we effectively own the knowledge it generates. Therefore you cannot release anything without clearing it with us. Now, officially of course, we are not in the habit of holding back research but let’s be clear: we are a business. If the time comes when you plan to release these findings we expect six months notice, full access to the findings and underpinning data and we sign off the publications and press releases.’

  Black stared at her.

  ‘If you felt you had the legal right to do that why didn’t you say so before? It might have saved me a lot of trouble.’

  ‘It isn’t my job to save you trouble Mr Portier. It is my job to protect the corporate interests of this company. You can’t imagine that I would leave that in the hands of a government spin doctor?

  ‘So why am I here?’ asked Black.

  ‘Because I keep expecting you to give me a timetable of release, Mr Portier, and instead you give me distracted waffle dressed up as intrigue. I assume there is no timetable?’

  ‘No,’ said Black.

  ‘And you do not know when there will be one?’

  ‘I do not believe there will ever be one,’ he said evenly.

  She looked at him. ‘I think under the circumstances we can live with the fact that this project has offered us little in the way of direct return. It is part of what my boss calls a tax avoidance scheme dressed up as a fishing expedition. It does, however, tell us what research to avoid in the future, though, so it’s not all bad. Keep me informed of any changes, Mr Portier. Good day.’

  Black left without looking at her. She hated him. He hated her, even if he quite fancied her too. Were his efforts entirely without purpose? The arson? The made-up news stories and planted evidence? Really? Or was she just saying all that stuff about contracts in order to make sure that she and her company did not have to say thank you?

  Black had begun his career as a fixer by negotiating. He found that in most situations if you address the space between people then the people found themselves moving. However, that type of diplomacy only solved a certain type of problem: namely, a problem that people were willing to solve.

  He found that some situations required a more dynamic approach. He crossed what other people would consider a moral line when he was involved in managing a tiny but extremely loud political dissident from a small but politically useful eastern European country entering the EU. She looked like Mia Farrow during her Frank Sinatra period: waif-like and confused. She sounded, however, like Lulu in a shouting competition. Her concerns were to do with human rights. She was articulate, attractive, charming and right. Black arranged for two kilos of cocaine to be found in her kitchen; while that didn’t shut her up, it did rather dilute her effect.

  He shocked himself when he did that, not because of the immoral nature of the
act but the engagement that carried it. He didn’t imagine he had either the intuitive imagination to come up with the idea nor the guts to carry it off. He might have been excused for developing a certain arrogance on the back of that, but in truth he didn’t. Instead, he went on something of a voyage of discovery. Ever curious to see what he would be capable of in solving the next problem, his method was to simply let go of his conscious thought, in much the same way as he had when he was advertising pizza, and simply let his sense of the world and the problem he was addressing float around until it bumped into something. It didn’t have to bump into something that would eliminate the problem, necessarily. But his view was that when something was stuck, if you made it unstuck it would drift toward a better circumstance than the one he found it in. Lulu didn’t go away, for example: instead, she became distracted for long enough to enable everyone to stop paying attention to human rights and instead pay attention to a rather marvellous shot putter who represented the more acceptable governmental face of said country. EU admission passed. Lulu later became an MEP. The cocaine was explained away as a misunderstanding, long after it had ceased to matter. Everyone was happy. Black was of the opinion that when he intervened to solve problems in the marketplace it was usual that everyone, even people he had ostensibly done harm to, ended up in a better place. If he ever stopped to reflect on the ethics of his actions, it would be this that stood out.

  Since then he had, among other things, blackmailed a large shareholder in an energy firm who was considering voting yes to something ridiculous to do with wind farms. Paid someone to run over a nun, yes he had to pay extra, no she wasn’t killed, yes there were bruises and a fractured hip and she was unable to sustain her touching and very press friendly campaign against ‘Free Schools’ but she did get her own radio show. And he had co-ordinated an outstanding smear campaign which, by coincidence, was against a leading research scientist who now taught chemistry at a comprehensive in Burnley and was happy doing so, who claimed he had developed a cure for psychosis that had something to do with tea and would have made no money for anybody. He had liaised with a completely different drug company for that job. One that sent champagne afterwards. It’s those little gestures that make all the difference.