Last night, in the cabin they’d made love for hours, stopping only to eat and return to bed, waking in the night to do it again, all so wet and sloppy and smelly that it was verging on disgusting, but funny too, and they had fucked and laughed and of course he knew she was deliberately filling herself with sperm, getting as much as she could while she could, and that was OK, made him feel virile, potent, valued.
And maybe, afterwards, a little bit used. Particularly in the morning – this morning he thinks with a shock – when he woke to find her already up, showered, ready to strip the sheets from the bed, ready to go and utterly unsentimental. So tidy in her black clothes, hair still damp, tied strictly back, face pale. Sunday, she must get back to Lars, they were lunching with his parents. Do you like them as much as mine? he’d wanted, childishly, to ask.
He forces away the thought of Nina, and runs his hands over Vivienne’s waiting body, a hot tickle in the back of his throat.
Oh Christ but he needs to sleep.
Mats
Tuesday night. Throat sore, head solid with cold, he walks towards the King’s Arms; it’s like the city itself is infected. Gutters stream, clogged with a slime of rotting leaves, rain pours down. He should be in bed with a Lemsip and a fat airport novel instead of walking towards a rendezvous, a wad of money in his briefcase, like some character from a fat airport novel.
Nina had to argue with the bank manager, she told him when she rang, to arrange the transfer of such a sum, so swiftly – but her father has influence. At lunchtime Mats went, sweating, into HSBC to withdraw the money. Hearing the sum, the startled teller called the manager and Mats was led into a private office to tell his rehearsed story: he was after a rare Ferrari Coupe. Only chance, crucial to secure the deal today, great investment, discount for cash. Nina’s bank manager had to be called to verify the transaction. Mats sank lower and lower in his seat, waiting for the scheme to fall apart. But, amazingly, it did not. Of course not; if Nina says a thing will work, it works. What about his sperm swimming up inside her? Will they work too? It only takes one she’d reminded him, at some point in the night, when millions were already in there and there were billions more to come.
Somehow in the stuffy manager’s office, he managed not to pass out. Somehow he acted his own amazement at himself for this impulsive, indulgent purchase. Midlife crisis, he joked. And he went rather over the top, confessing to an obsession with vintage cars, leading to a tricky discussion of rare models, about which he knew very little.
Maybe his cold had helped, the manager regarded his sopping Kleenex warily, and though this sort of speed of transfer was ‘highly irregular’ he was satisfied that it was ‘all kosher’. He wished Mats good luck, and finally handed the neat wads of £20 notes in a tight paper parcel.
‘Shall I call a taxi?’ The manager was nervous about his client walking out with that sort of cash, but Mats assured him his wife was waiting in her car. ‘Little does she know!’ he said, patting the bag and snorting an accidental bubble from his nose.
And now walking down the dark and rushing road he feels the money glowing through the leather of his briefcase. His hand is moulded round the handle like something plastic, the tension screaming up his arm.
Reaching the pub, he does not allow hesitation, swings open the door and enters. It’s busy, men standing at the bar, a table of noisy women huddled round an ice bucket of sparkling wine. Heart kicking like a great boot, he glances around expecting some reaction to his entrance but there’s nothing. He goes straight through the bar, down a corridor and into a cubicle in the Gents where he slides the lock across and stands with his head resting against the cold paint of the door waiting for his heart to slow. Then he stands straight, looks at his watch. Ten minutes. There’s a poster warning of HIV, graffiti carved into the wall, a spurting cock and balls scrawled in magic marker. Closing the toilet seat, he sits down, rests his throbbing head in his hands.
When this is over it is the quiet life for him. Vivienne will be his life, Vivienne and the boys. Any excitement can come from books and films – excitement is overrated. He’s afraid his heart will not take this stress, that at this rate it will soon stop kicking, stumble, stop.
He opens his briefcase and takes out the money, parcelled in white paper. There’s a folded Tesco bag in there – he went in earlier to buy the Lemsip, and flowers for Christine, who’s been so patient through all his oddness. She even gave him a little pot of Vick to rub on his chest tonight. He wishes she’d tuck him into bed, rub on the Vick.
Not that he’d want more from her than that.
Should he take the money out of the parcel, so that the separate wads of notes are more evident? Packed like this it could be anything, a ream of paper, a child’s toy in its box. He does so, sliding his fingers inside and quietly tearing the paper. Each wad is neatly strapped together with paper tape. Someone comes in. He freezes, listening to the zzzp of a zip, a sigh, a splatter of pee, the sluice of the urinal, the re-zipping, the swing of the door. He exhales, looks at his watch again, he’s been here five minutes. Briefly he regards the cash. What the hell is he doing? Who even is he at this minute? He could keep one of two of these bundles, take Vivienne and the kids away, or get the new curtains she wants for the sitting room.
But no.
This is for Marta, who will be here very soon. And then what is he going to do with her? What? That far he has not thought. Something. Put her in a hotel for the night maybe, he doesn’t know, don’t think about that now; get on with it. Get it over with. Get home and into bed and put your head under the pillow. Steam it under a towel, as Christine recommended.
He tips all the money into the carrier bag. Notices the till receipt inside and removes it, starting to think like a criminal; might it be incriminating if the police get hold of the bag? Do they have CCTV in Tesco? He goes out, pinning the Tesco bag tight against his side with his elbow.
Back in the bar he scans the clientele but still no one takes any notice of him. Self-consciously, since someone must be watching, he goes to the end of the bar and waits, orders the drinks, the pint of McEwan’s, the vodka and lime. The guy behind the bar barely glances at him. But there is a man standing near, a tall man in a Tweed suit with specs. Him? And a guy in a leather jacket who looks twitchy. Him? There’s someone behind him but he can’t turn and look. Follow instructions, take the drinks and sit down.
He goes to sit on the low leather banquette, puts the drinks on the table, settles his briefcase beside him and props the carrier bag against the table leg. Is it visible enough? Did Chapman mean under the table, or should he prop it against his leg? Or did he say put it next to you? Did he say on the floor? It would be better on the bench by his hip where he can keep an eye on it without looking suspicious. Does it looks suspicious to keep peering down at a carrier bag? Is anyone watching? The instruction was to put it on the floor – he’s pretty sure – but it’s shadowy down there and with his stuffed up sinuses it seems miles away to Mats.
So now he only has to wait. He has done his bit. He hardly dares to look round, sits with his eyes on his knees. Someone has left a newspaper folded to the crossword, half complete. He slides it over and looks, gets a pen from his inside pocket, dares to dart his eyes around as he makes this movement. The bag has slithered into the shadow of the table, but he can still see it. It could be someone’s shopping, or a book; it could be anything. He nudges it with his foot as a reassurance.
Someone has tried out an anagram on the margin of the newspaper. Mats pretends to focus on the puzzle but can’t think at all. His heart is beating in his eyes now and in his brain, his sinuses throb in time with it. He blows his nose. The beer tastes all wrong, a Scotch would have been better for his cold, but Chapman said a pint of McEwen’s and he has to follow instructions. To the letter.
A girl sits down beside him; he sees thin knees, tight jeans. His head jerks up, but no. OK. OK. This girl is blonde, all wron
g, nothing like Marta. She’s draped her coat across a chair so that it obscures the bag. What’s he supposed to do? Could he ask her to move the coat? Or should he shift the bag to his other side? Chapman never specified whether he should put it to his right or to his left, now he thinks of it. Why did he put it by his left foot? He’s about to shift it, when a woman takes the seat to his right, and he straightens up again.
‘Stair rods out there, eh?’ she says.
‘Sorry?’
‘The rain?’
It must be an expression. Mats nods and smiles. The woman has a clear drink with ice and lemon. Maybe G&T. She’s thin, unglamorous, her grey hair cropped short, her wire rimmed glasses speckled with rain. She wedges her dripping umbrella between the table and her feet, takes off her specs and reaches for her drink.
A young guy comes to sit beside the blonde girl, puts two pints of beer on the table, reaches to cup her face, to kiss her on the mouth. ‘Happy Birthday,’ he says and hands her a gold-wrapped gift.
Mats focuses on the newspaper, pretends to fill in a crossword clue. Five letter word; he can’t think of a single one, puts xxxxx. He’s tempted to sip the vodka and lime, some Vitamin C in that at least. He angles his head to get a reassuring glimpse of the bag. Still there. A crowd at the bar now, mostly men; is anyone looking his way?
The girl has unwrapped a woolly ethnic looking hat and is laughing as she models it for her boyfriend. Mats flicks a glance towards the gin woman and notices her dabbing her eyes. Oh no. He pretends not to notice, but watches obliquely the way she has to force her lips against the glass, lips turning down with misery. Sipping his own drink, he feels for her.
‘I don’t usually do this,’ she says, sensing his attention. ‘I mean go into pubs, buy myself drinks, it’s not my kind of thing but . . .’ and then a tear breaks free and flows down her cheek and Mats is helpless. What can he do? He looks at the men at the bar as if to ask this question; whoever it is will be able to see his dilemma, surely? He can’t ignore her.
‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘it’s just . . . oh,’ and she buries her face in her hands.
He swigs his beer, puts it down and fishes in his pocket. ‘Kleenex?’ He holds out the little packet. She nods gratefully, plucks one out and blows her nose.
‘Would you like to talk about it?’ he says, thinking of Crochet Woman. If only she were here.
With the tissue pressed to her nose she regards him for a moment; her eyes are small and brown, serious.
‘That’s nice of you. I’m Sally.’ She holds out a damp hand.
‘Mats,’ Mats says, sending his eyes around the bar. He bends to scratch his ankle, giving himself a chance to check the bag; still there.
‘But talking won’t make any difference.’ Sally sniffs bravely and smiles. ‘Oh God, this isn’t like me at all.’
OK, Mats thinks and begins to turn away but she continues, ‘See I just had my cat put down. Pickles. He was old and . . .’ Her lips quiver and she presses them together before she continues, ‘He used to be my Mum’s, it was the last bit of her I had.’
‘So sorry,’ he says.
‘He lost control of his bowels,’ she says, ‘and you can’t have that, can you? Not with wall-to-wall carpet. But oh I feel like such a traitor. His little face,’ and she buries her own face in her hands and sobs. Awkwardly Mats puts his arm round her and she leans against his shoulder and lets herself go.
‘OK, OK,’ he says. She smells of rain and cat and a faded flowery perfume, old fashioned – though she’s probably not much older than he is. The young couple get up to go, the girl in her birthday hat beaming at Mats, amused by his plight. He can’t lean down to see the bag without disturbing Sally. A couple of old guys come and settle there now, deep in conversation in accents so strong, Mats can barely make out a word.
At last Sally pulls herself away and sits up straight. ‘God. Sorry about that,’ she says. ‘But thank you.’ She dries her eyes. There’s no make up to smudge, and when she puts her glasses back on, she looks quite recovered. She takes a tin of Vaseline from her bag and smears some on her lips. ‘You must think I’m bonkers.’
‘Not at all.’
‘You a cat person?’
Mats shakes his head.
‘Me neither,’ she says and smiles. There’s a lovely gap between her front teeth. ‘I’m never getting another one.’ She notices the untouched vodka and lime.
‘Been stood up?’
Mats shakes his head.
She waits but he says no more. ‘Oh nearly forgot! I get through that many umbrellas!’ She bends down to retrieve it. ‘Look, let me get you a drink – to say thanks.’
‘No need.’
‘I insist.’ She stands blocking his view of the bar.
‘A Scotch then, thanks,’ he says.
As soon as she’s gone he bends down to look, but the bag isn’t there. Is it? His head begins to swim but then he sees a tag of white that could be the handle, under the table of the two old guys. Could have got kicked there. He just needs to reach under, would that seem weird? The two of them might be in on it for all he knows. He rests his eyes on them, waiting for some kind of communication but they seem oblivious of him.
It’s way past 9. It was all supposed to happen at 8.
‘There you go, got you a double. Highland Park, that OK?’ Sally says, putting the drink down in front of him.
‘Great. Thanks.’
‘Now I must brave the elements.’ She grins at him as she leaves.
He finishes his pint and downs the whisky.
Where is Marta?
He picks up the crossword and writes her name inside a 5-letter space, then scribbles it out. Would that be evidence? He doesn’t know, doesn’t know anything, feels his brain is going to explode, has to blow his nose, it’s getting sore. Every time the door opens he looks up, and then down again. He must not appear obvious. Is anyone watching him? He keeps his eyes down, begins to fill in the squares with black, obliterating every letter of her name.
The old men make no move, voices getting louder, accents thicker. He watches them rolling their smokes. He reads, without taking in a word. Each time the door swings open with its gush of cold air his heart leaps but it’s never Marta. He should have eaten something before he came, now he needs another drink. He swallows the sticky sweetness of the vodka and lime, which only makes him thirsty for another pint. He waits till it’s quiet before he gets up to go to the bar. He tries to thread between his table and that of the old men, hoping to get to the bag, kick it back into proper view, perhaps, but they don’t budge and there’s clearly room for him to go the other way. At the bar, he scans the remaining customers and buys a pint and two doubles to keep him going.
It’s closing time before the old men get up.
‘Time sir,’ says the barman, as Mats lingers, fussing with his coat, slowly putting on his gloves, stowing the newspaper in his briefcase, waiting till no one’s looking before he kneels to reach under the table for the bag. It’s lighter. It’s not a Tesco bag but a Morrison’s. As he stands again, steadying himself on the table, his heart lurches. This is a sign, he thinks, surely it must be, in the bag there will be a message. To tell him the whereabouts of Marta.
‘OK sir?’ The barman is giving Mats the sort of look he might give a drunk. Maybe I am a drunk, he reflects.
‘OK sir,’ the barman holds open the door eager to close up. Mats goes outside. The rain has stopped at least though cars swoosh through deep puddles in the gutters. He stands scanning the street, maybe she’s out here? He stands under a street lamp to peer inside the bag. There’s a crumple of gold wrapping paper, an empty Ribena carton, a banana skin.
No message, nothing else.
A bag of trash, that’s all.
He stands in the wet glitter of the night, the bag dangling from his hand.
Mats
&nbs
p; In front of a litter bin he takes each item out of the bag, examines it, turns the bag inside out. There is no clue. He puts the lot in the bin. Head reeling, he sets off for home, the lighter briefcase bumping his leg. All that cash gone. Gone, just like that. Vamoose. He can’t take it in. Rain starts to spit again and that’s right, he deserves it, to be spat at.
A laugh rings out behind him, a loud jeer of a laugh, and he hunches over, walks fast. Of course they would laugh, of course they would jeer, why not? The laugh rings in his ears. He is a dupe. Walking shakes free this thought: Chapman is a crook and he a dupe and they are watching him and laughing. Faster he walks, head down, a bitter taste rising to his mouth. A hard feeling wires through his bones. Anger. What has he done? He is a fool, he is a fool, he is total fucking fool. And drunk to top it all. He walks fast but not quite straight, his legs not quite obeying. Face burning hot, the cold raindrops almost a relief. What can he do? He stops, looks round, is there anyone watching, laughing, is anyone following?
He can’t go home like this. Can’t leave it. Go back to the club then? Confront Chapman? Traffic swishes in the wet, a siren, lights flashing blue in the stripes of rain. The laugh is there behind it all, like a metallic taste. The sticky vodka-lime still on his teeth, mixing in his gut with Scotch. Go in there, face the boy with the smooth and spooky face, face the man. What can do they to him? And maybe anyway this what they expect, that he will go there and Marta will be waiting?
Not that he wants her.
Only to know that she’s safe and free.
And to know he’s not a total dupe.
Not a total fucking fool.
The police then?
But that would mean admitting what a sucker he is. The police might find it funny that anyone could be such a mug. They might laugh. How can he stagger drunk into a police station with this story? Of course they would laugh.
The Squeeze Page 15