by Pete Trewin
‘It’s wrong, though, don’t you think? That he can spout all that crap about empowerment and be such a ….’ Her face took on a defiant look. ‘A cunt.’
Chris looked down.
‘So you won’t help me then?’ she said at last.
He shrugged.
‘It’s too difficult, Jeanette,’ he said. ‘You know what it’s like. I’ll try and think of something.’
EIGHT
Chris eased himself back into the passenger seat of Simon Chester’s seven series Bee-em - a V12 with all the options as Simon kept reminding him. The spotless opulence of the car - yellow leather and dark walnut - and the unreal perfection of Simon’s appearance made Chris feel scruffy, sweaty and unattractive. Simon had been talking for ten minutes but Chris had not been listening, just giving out the odd ‘That’s right’ or ‘I know what you mean’. A conversation with Simon was a monologue. It gave you lots of time to think.
Chris’s hangover was easing now but he still felt a bit sick. He gazed out of the window at the Cheshire countryside flashing by as they sped along the M56 motorway. At least the Bee-em was a smooth runner, and Simon, for all his faults, was a fast, but good, driver. It was just as well.
Simon had collapsed in full flow at one of his presentations. Hit the deck like a sack of spuds. Ambulance called. Jump leads and paddles. Body convulsing. A proper heart operation at the hospital. Chest cavity cut open with a buzz saw, heart out on the chest, bits cut off and bits sewed on, then the lot stuffed back in like a steak and kidney pudding. Sewn up and natural healing allowed to take its course. The knobhead was even proud of the scar.
‘So how did it go at Snug as a Bug?’ Simon said.
‘OK.’
‘How far are we from boxing it off?’
‘It’s almost there. The manager’s definitely on the take. He’s had two failed marriages, and therefore two families in big houses. Teenagers at university, fourteen year olds at fee-paying public schools. Not to mention a third and current wife, and her family from a previous marriage, living it up in their mini-mansion in Southport. In fact, it was one of those ex-wives who blew him up in the first place. The homework on that side was easy. And he’s got big debts. I still can’t believe it. Nearly half a million. He’s living way beyond his means.’
‘So how’s he paying for all this?’
‘The wage bill’s bigger than it should be with that number of staff. It’s a classic scam. An old chestnut. He’s created half a dozen fictitious employees. Easy to overlook on a payroll of hundreds. As you know, it’s usually an unsophisticated fraud. Easily detectable. Except that this fellow is very clever. He’s worked up a computer programme, and he’s signed up his dead souls for National Insurance, tax and all the rest. Doesn’t even pay them cash in hand. He’s living dangerously when you consider who we think owns the firm. What we can’t work out is how the cash going in is used. The business has got a reputation for honesty, believe it or not.’
‘Well get a move on, mate. We need every penny we can get at the moment. You don’t need me to tell you that. It’s important to get a quick result on this one and keep the client on side.’
Simon said nothing for a few moments.
‘This Hardy, the manager?’ he said. Is he a big cunt? Full of himself?’
‘Yeh.’
‘I know him. Roger Hardy. Used to play Rugby League. Widnes and St Helens. Let’s give him some aggro.’
Simon accelerated and moved into the outside lane, passing the turn-off for Liverpool.
‘But, Simon,’ Chris said. ‘It’s an NCA contract. We’re not supposed to deal face to face with the people we’re investigating. We’re not cops. Hardy’s scam isn’t important. It’s the laundered cash...’
‘Never mind about all that. I did loads of these kinds of jobs in the police. We’ll get him to own up and then we’ve got it cracked.’
‘Why do they always have blonde bimbos from central casting?’ Simon whispered to Chris as Hardy’s gorgeous secretary showed them in. She had impossibly long legs and make-up that looked as if it had been applied by a plasterer. She had tried to put them off but Simon had barged his way in.
‘What a lard-arse,’ Simon whispered loudly as he caught sight of his prey.
Christ, thought Chris, Hardy’s big. Not big like a weight-lifter or a rugby forward, but big like a fat pig. A five hundred pound sow being fattened up for Christmas. Hardy was sweating under a mop of jet black hair. Grecian 2000?
‘Fat, fifty and cruising,’ Simon whispered to Chris as Hardy fussed over the coffee at a side table with his bimbo. ‘Can you believe that he was once a rugby league star? Scored record points for St Helens in the 92/93 season. I know athletes go to fat when they give up training. But that is ridiculous. I’d love to sink a fist into that belly.’
‘Well, gentlemen,’ Hardy beamed as he filled out the seat behind the huge desk. ‘What can I do you for?’
Chris took his coffee from the bimbette and settled back in his seat.
‘Still follow Saints?’ Simon asked.
‘Of course.’
‘You were leading scorer for three years in the nineties, weren’t you?’
‘Four years. Second was a club record.’
‘So how’s business at the moment? Simon asked. ‘I bet this financial crisis isn’t helping.’
‘No, we’re doing OK. You see our business model is to give the customer what he or she wants. No hassle. No promises. No tricks. We’ve got a reputation for honesty so it spreads by word of mouth.’
‘No problems with getting good staff?’
‘None at all. We pay well for the industry.’
‘Sometimes,’ Simon laughed. ‘I wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to just make them up.’
A pause. Chris sighed. A longer pause.
Hardy looked at Chris. Then at Simon.
‘What do you mean?’ he said. He couldn’t stop his voice from catching on the word “mean”.
‘You know very well what I mean, Mr Hardy,’ said Simon.’ I mean fictitious staff. Dead souls as they’re known in the trade.’
Chris found it difficult to keep a straight face as the “look” came over the man’s face before he went to pieces. Chris felt sorry for him. He was a fellow human being after all.
‘You think you’re clever don’t you, Mr Preston?’ Hardy said. He was calm and collected now. ‘But you’ve forgotten one thing. You’re not in the police force now. In fact, I’m going to report you to the rozzers for impersonating a police officer, threatening behaviour and trespass.’
In the car on the way into Liverpool, Chris had to fight hard to control his anger. Simon had blown the council contract because his brains were in his dick, and now he’d likely blown the NCA contract because he loved charging around like in a Starsky and Hutch episode. Or a Dirty Harry film. At this rate they’d both be signing on at the job centre. It had been a long time since Chris had been in a job centre. They were supposed to be nicer places now, with warm colour schemes and piped music but he’d rather not go to one if it could be avoided.
And now Simon had taken a long way round just so that he could go by his house. As they came along Menlove Avenue to its junction with Beaconsfield Road, Simon slowed down. Simon’s house was so odd that it was a bit of a landmark. Like an entrance lodge but on a massive scale.
‘You know what?’ Simon said. ‘We had a coach park on the drive last week. Full of Chinese tourists. Driver says that he is just showing them Strawberry Fields. It was a real place you know. Big house. Demolished years ago. But there’s still the name on the gate-posts. Handy for John Lennon’s old house around the corner.’
Chris settled himself in his seat. He had heard this story – or versions of it – before.
‘Anyway,’ Simon said. ‘I says, “Get that coach off my drive or I’ll clamp it. I’ve got a kit in the garage.” “It won’t fit over the wheel,” says he all clever like. “It’s an extendable one,” says I. You should have seen the e
xpression on the clever cunt’s face. “Huh, not much of a Liverpool welcome for overseas guests, is it?” says he.’
Chris leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes as Simon chuckled at the memory.
They cruised along Smithdown Road and then Upper Parliament Street, stopping regularly at traffic lights.
‘Look at all this crap,’ Simon said as they stood waiting at yet more lights.
Chris had been just about to comment on the view down to the river, but he had to admit that what Simon said was true. A line of disused buildings and bomb sites stretched on either side of the street, punctuated by buildings from the sixties. And, most notable of all, a concrete multi-storey car-park.
‘What they want to do,’ Chris said, ‘is do up these old buildings and at the same time clear all this rubbish and put up ones that fit in better.’
Simon rolled his eyes. ‘There you go again, Chris. Talking bollocks. The whole lot needs to be flattened. Which is exactly what they’re going to do from what I’ve heard. The equation goes: attract investment, goodbye crap, hello, nice, new development and lots of nice new jobs. And none of this bleeding heart, Green Warrior, pinko-liberal, conservation shit. Let the market decide. That’s what it’s there for. See, what really bugs me is all these socialists and communists, thieves and layabouts, going on about how bad modern civilization and capitalism is. When they’re living off its fruits – off the efforts of people like me. If you look at it from the point of view of a Liverpool scally – like that fellow over there…’ He pointed at a young man in a tracksuit and baseball cap leaning against a lamp-post, and laughed out loud. ‘Did you see him? Like “Central Casting, send us twenty scousers”. Well, to a fellow like that who has never had a job and never will have a job, capitalism’s no good is it? You only get back what you put in. He gets his dole, and does a bit of robbing but it’s not a laugh a minute is it? But if there was a revolution and the communists got in, well, any gobshite can join the party, become an official and make a good living and, more importantly, get status and respect.’
He stopped talking, and looked at Chris with a wry smile.
‘I’m going on again aren’t I?’ he said. ‘The thing is, Chris, I never expected you to be like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Biting the hand that feeds you. The others, yes, but not you.’
Chris couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘It’s not as if I haven’t been kind to you, is it?’ Simon sounded like a parent talking to a moody child. ‘I’ve treated you well haven’t I?’ He looked at Chris for a moment then back to the road. ‘I know all about what you’ve been up to. The question is. Do I go to the police or not?’
Chris said nothing.
‘Don’t think I don’t know,’ growled Simon,’ about you skiving off to go climbing and what the fuck else. I could sack you for time theft alone. I know all about you and your little habits. And your faked CV and criminal past.’
Chris stared ahead.
They were cruising along Great George Street with occasional views of the towering Anglican Cathedral between blocks of new red-brick flats. As they came along Berry Street with its nondescript edge-of-the-city-centre shops, they were brought to a halt by a traffic jam by the bombed out church.
Chris let his breath out as slowly and as quietly as he could.
‘Fuck this for a lark,’ Simon said. ‘Hold on to your hat.’
He reversed a few feet then turned down a narrow alley, scattering pedestrians as he did so. At the end of the alley, he pulled into a car-park.
As Simon parked the car, his mobile went. He listened.
‘OK,’ he said in a neutral tone. He turned to Chris. ‘You go on ahead. Check out the hall for the presentation. Electric points, that kind of thing. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
At the car-park exit, Simon went one way and Chris the other, Chris heaving a sigh of relief. At the top of the street, Chris stopped and turned. Simon was getting into a black taxi.
Chris felts his guts churning. He leaned against a wall and was violently sick. It took several moments to pull himself together.
On the way to the hall, Chris remembered that the roof of the lodge where he lived was leaking. Water was getting into the lounge above the window, and the wood was rotting. The estate agent’s office was in Bold Street. On the way. The girl on the desk took the details down on a notepad.
‘How soon can you get someone out?’ he asked.
‘Aigburth Lodge, that’s one of those nice ones with the half timbering and the ornamental woodwork isn’t it? At the top of Lodge Lane? It’s listed isn’t it?’
‘Yep. It’s one of the four original entrance lodges to the park.’
‘I’d love to live in one of those.’ She reached under the desk and put a file in front of her. She flicked through it. ‘Ah, here we are. I’m afraid that it’s a fully repairing lease, Mr Crosby. You must have known that when you moved in.’
He stood for a while, unable to think of anything to say.
‘But...’
‘And don’t forget it’s listed so any repairs must be in character or we’ll have the planners coming down on us like a ton of bricks.’
As he turned he almost barged into someone who was standing close behind him. A little fat man with long, greasy hair. For a moment their faces were close enough for Chris to catch a hint of sour breath. The man smiled, as if he had recognized Chris. Chris hurried out, almost colliding with the large rucksack on the man’s back. He’d never seen the man before in his life. He hated that. When people stood too close behind you in shops.
NINE
Jimmy Dooley finished his lunch. The burger wrapper went out of one of the taxi’s windows and the empty coffee carton went out of the other.
He pulled out and drove along Berry Street, on the look-out for a fare. Almost immediately, he hit a traffic jam. As he sat with the engine idling he could hear a commotion not far ahead. Shouting and an occasional car horn.
‘You’ve got to trust him! You’ve got to put your faith in him! He died for you!’
The voice was deep and harsh yet at the same time it quavered with emotion and almost cracked on the word “died”. Jimmy leaned out of the window to have a gegg.
A fat little man, with long, straggly, greasy hair was standing in the middle of the road about three vehicles ahead, a large rucksack at his feet. A small crowd was gathering. The preacher strode towards a man walking by, minding his own business.
‘Don’t you think Jesus loves you?’ The man stopped and stared. The preacher, having gained eye contact, closed in on his victim.
‘Don’t you want salvation, sir?’ he said. His face was round with a sparse beard. Long, damp strands of hair stuck to his brow. ‘Aren’t you fed up with the rat race?’ The volume and pitch of his voice rose. ‘With a city run by capitalists and gangsters?’
He stepped back and swept a hand in a wide arc.
‘On the slippery slope down to degradation and destruction? Just take a look at your lives. Fast food and football. Is that it? The Sunday Sport, Big Brother and Big Macs? You’re all on the dole or wage slaves yet you eat junk food until it’s coming out of your gills and you’re ready to puke up and start again – just like in Ancient Rome. In the vomitorium. Am I going too quickly for you? Do you want me to slow down a bit?’
The man grinned and tried to walk on but the preacher cut him off. Someone nearby laughed and a titter rippled through the crowd. Others walked by with amused expressions on their faces.
‘Do you enjoy your Big Mac and your Big Brother, mister – your Panem et Circensem? Bet you don’t know what that means, do you? It means “eat your Big Macs and watch your telly”.’
‘I’d rather come and watch you,’ said the man.‘It’s a better show than the telly these days.’ He laughed and walked on.
‘Well, mister, you might well laugh!’ the preacher shouted to the fast disappearing back. ‘Because, believe you me the world is going
to end. And Sodom and Gomorrah will seem like a picnic compared to what is going to happen. But, sir, I’ve got some good news for you.’ His voice was rising all the time. ‘You can choose life rather than death.’ Now he was shrieking. ‘You can find salvation in Jesus!’
He pointed at another man, who looked horrified at being singled out.
‘Put that in your pipe and smoke it, mate!’
The preacher giggled and ran into the road. He threw himself down onto his knees in front of a bus going the other way. The driver just managed to stop in time, with a loud screech of brakes. The preacher looked like he was having a fit; crouching down with his shoulders heaving. Then his hands were in the air, face pointed to heaven and his eyes shut. People stretched and craned to get a look at what was going on. Jimmy lost sight of the man for a moment.
The crowd parted and the preacher ran in front of Jimmy’s taxi and knelt down. He vomited onto the road. He held his hands up and began to babble incoherently.
Jimmy leaned out of his cab.
‘Come on, lad, they’ve got churches for this kind of thing. Not the middle of the road.’
The preacher looked at him with baleful eyes.
‘He should be in the nut-house,’ a woman standing nearby said.
‘Fucking hell,’ a man said to his mate as they both arrived on the scene. ‘I thought it was an accident. That screech of brakes. I thought whoever’s gone under that bus will be splattered all over the road, as flat as a pancake.’
As more people arrived, the crowd bayed with disappointment. A kid of about eleven, with a shaven head and wearing a red football shirt with the words “Gerrard” written on the back, ran forward and kicked the kneeling preacher full in the face. The preacher reeled back from the blow but managed to remain on his knees, blood pulsing from his nose. The crowd shrieked with laughter and derision: