Myra approached him. ‘
‘Well Raymond, they say one good favour deserves another.’ She slowly removed her coat and unzipped her skirt. It fell to her ankles as she stepped out. Myra wore his favourite, suspender belt and stockings with no panties. She put her arms around his neck. Raymond's hands went to her buttocks. ‘Now isn’t this better than those porn mags of yours?’ she said, pressing herself against him. As his fingers probed he was hardening, as expected.
*
It was three days later. Raymond was on the phone to his mother. Myra heard him, as she brushed past. He was talking rather loudly. He cupped his ear to her and mimed she was deaf.
‘OK mum, I’ll come and see you tomorrow. I said, I’ll come and see you tomorrow. That’s right. I’ll get the train to Brentwood, be with you around lunch time – yes, lunch time.’ Raymond put the receiver down and rolled his eyes at her.
‘What’s up?’ she said.
‘It’s me mum, poor thing. Might have to go in for an op.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’ Myra pretended to look concerned.
‘It’s her hip again. She might have to have a replacement.’ Raymond looked worried. ‘She’s seventy-eight and still going strong - bless her. I’m all she’s got. Do you know, she was the only one to come and visit when I was inside.’
Myra put a hand of sympathy on Raymond’s shoulder,
‘I’m sure she’ll be all right.’
‘I said I’d go and see her tomorrow, spend the afternoon with her.’
‘Of course you must, love, she’ll like that.’
Myra couldn’t have given a monkey’s toss, but she patted his shoulder because he looked upset.
The following day, while Raymond was away at his mother’s, she decided to take a trip up the West End to treat herself. Myra had it all planned. Bond Street first, including a hair and nails appointment, then a look around Harrods with a late lunch in the Georgian restaurant and finishing with a shop in the food hall.
She’d been to Harrods a number of times, but only to browse. Now she had money, there was a spring in her step. Shopping now meant something; it was purposeful.
By late morning, she pushed her way through the heavy swing doors and caught a glimpse of the store guide. As she approached, her eyes searched along until they stopped at women’s wear. Then she headed for the first floor.
Christian Dior, Yves Saint Laurent, Jimmy Choo and Versace were her favourites. Flicking through the pages of fashion magazines in prison had sealed her love for these labels. It had also passed the time and the awful monotony.
After a couple of hours and clutching four designer bags, Myra was starving. She made her way up the escalator to the Georgian Restaurant.
At the entrance, she took a deep breath. It looked bloody expensive: and it smelt bloody expensive. Myra eyed the suited Maitre d’ standing on the podium in his roped off area. With the afternoon menu opened up in front of him, he looked like an orchestra conductor with his sheet music.
‘Just for one, Modom?’ She nodded as the Maitre d’ clicked his fingers. Passing faces looked up at her as she followed a waiter to a fancy, decorated middle table.
Leaving Myra with the menu, he came back after a few minutes and flipped his pad. It had been a long time since she could peruse a menu without having to worry about the prices.
‘I’ll have a Bucks Fizz and the foie gras, followed by the grilled Dover sole.’
The waiter made his notes, nodded indifferently with a, ‘Thank you,’ then strode off and eventually disappeared through the swing doors.
She sat back and surveyed the diners. It was easy to pick out the business tables from the special occasion tables. Male domination and the lack of smiles gave it away. Although the restaurant was nearly full, the service was surprisingly quick as the waiter set down the fluted glass and the Hors d’oeuvre of duck liver. The presentation looked fantastic with the gleaming silverware either side of her plate.
Myra sipped her champagne and nibbled at the foie gras. She sat back and took it all in. The Georgian silk drapes with the bullion windows. The soft pink Rococo chairs and matching table clothes with the tulip folded serviettes; the fancy cutlery. She knew she deserved this. She’d worked hard to get it. Myra was one-step ahead at the moment and liking it. Prison had become just a horrible dream.
Three minutes later, the waiter returned with a polite nod and asked,
‘Is everything to your satisfaction?’
Myra returned the nod,
‘Yes, thank you.’
After the Dover sole, came a crème brulee that was to die for. Myra finished up with a 15-year old cognac in a heavy crystal brandy glass; then caught the waiter’s eye with a writing gesture.
Three minutes later, he was back again, carrying a small silver tray with a smart leather wallet and a small plate of complimentary mints. The wallet, emblazoned with the Harrods motif in gold, was discreetly shut with the bill inside. The waiter left while Myra checked the amount.
Seventy-two pounds including service charge! Myra’s first reaction of shock was quickly dulled by the last of the cognac. Now, how to pay - cards or cheque?
Still undecided how to invest her share of the inheritance, the money for the time being was sitting in Jennifer Wesley’s building society account. Myra put the debit card on the tray then looked over. He was back with his hand-held card machine and glanced away while she typed her number.
It seemed to take longer than usual. The waiter peered at the screen and then said to her,
‘I’m sorry, there seems to be a problem with your card. Can you retype your number, please?’
Myra leant over and pressed the numbers again. He held the machine and waited, looking bored. After a minute, the waiter frowned.
‘It doesn’t seem to want to take your card. It’s saying transaction declined. Have you any other means of payment?’
Myra took the card and checked the date. It was still valid. With the diary from her shoulder bag, she flicked to the first page. The pin number was correct. Perhaps it was damaged in some way.
‘I can pay by credit card,’ she told him. She’d used Jennifer Wesley’s Barclaycard this morning for her big shop.
‘Thank you,’ he said and offered the machine again. This time after a pause the screen dissolved with, ACCEPTED, and the paper receipt rolled through. The waiter tore it off and handed it to her. Then, with a smile, he was gone.
Myra fiddled with her purse and took out £20. She felt guilty about the debit card playing up, but still, it was the biggest tip she’d ever given in her life. Then, clutching her designer bags, she got up and made her way past a few loitering waiters who smiled and nodded another thank you to her.
On her way home, she made a mental note to visit a cash machine. She had around £600 back at the flat for emergencies, although now, she was short of ready money and wanted to check the debit card again. Just before Knightsbridge tube station, she passed a building society hole in the wall. There was no one waiting, but she checked both ways for security as she slipped the card in and pressed the buttons for an on screen balance.
It took a few seconds for a balance of ten pounds to register. She must have pressed the wrong buttons. Myra ejected the card and wiped it over, then reinserted it. A balance of ten pounds came up again and looked at her mockingly. Could the card be playing up?
She pressed for a mini statement and waited for it to emerge through the slot. Myra fumbled for her reading glasses in her handbag, then strained at the small print.
And there it was, unmistakeable - a bank wire transfer had debited £139,410 from her account with a £10 balance sitting next to it.
‘But that’s impossible,’ Myra muttered to herself. Her head was swimming. She was beginning to have an uncomfortable gnawing pit in her stomach. She studied the bank transfer debit number. Feverishly digging out her chequebook, she flicked through and stopped. Using cards mostly,
she hadn’t written many cheques, but there it was near the back, a missing building society cheque. Raymond, the cunning bastard! Then she realised,
‘Shit! - Shit! - Shit! You stupid fuck!’
On the inside cover, against all the security advice she’d read, Myra had written in Biro so she wouldn’t forget, her card Pin Number and password details. Eleven years in prison had kept her isolated and vulnerable from the new wave of high-tech frauds with computer hacking, card-cloning and virus scams that riddled everyday life. However, Raymond was a quick learner and often frequented the Internet café for a cappuccino along the Bayswater Road.
Myra reached for her mobile and pressed for Raymond. A haunting voice came back to her with the message,
‘This number has been discontinued.’
She pressed again and got the same message. As she slowly put the phone back into her shoulder bag, the terrible truth finally dawned. He’d turned her over.
‘You cheating fucking bastard,’ she screamed and screamed, thumping the screen with her fist. ‘I'll get you - you cock-sucking mother-fucker, if it’s the last thing I do - if it’s the last thing I fucking do—’ Myra was banging the screen in a frenzy with tears rolling down her cheek.
The two people behind that had formed a queue stepped away in alarm at the outburst as she shoved past them, still cursing and crying.
Back at the flat, as she walked in the phone message light was flashing. Myra pressed the button:
‘Hello, my love. Looks like I’ll be staying over. Mother’s going into hospital tomorrow, so I’m getting all her stuff ready. Poor thing can’t manage on her own. I’ll ring you tomorrow. Bye, my love.’
Probably he was hoping I hadn’t checked my account yet, she thought. Give him an extra day before I get suspicious. She dialled 1471 and as expected got a number withheld message.
Suddenly she panicked,
‘The biscuit tin, for Jesus Christ!’
Myra raced into the kitchen and reached up to the top of the dresser. She knew before she wrenched the lid. It was like staring into an empty chasm.
‘You mother! My six-hundred-pounds.’
The lid clattered to the tiled floor.
Myra and Raymond had used separate bedrooms because he snored and, after a shag, it was nice to get back to your own space and independence. Raymond’s wardrobe was the final nail. He’d taken all his expensive stuff and left the tat. Not something you’d do on an afternoon visit to your mother’s.
Myra sat on the bed. She had to think straight, what to do. Obviously, can’t go to the police or the bank. They’d want to see proof of identity. Ask questions. How she got the lump sum in the first place? Who was her partner? Then there was the social security. Why was she still receiving a single person’s allowance with all that money in the bank?
So as not to arouse any suspicion, she was still registered and drawing benefit in Jennifer Wesley’s name. In fact, she’d forgotten to go and collect the last two weeks cheques. Myra put her head in her hands. How was she going to trace him and get the money back? For her immediate use, she still had two credit cards to borrow cash. That would help for the meantime with rent and bills. But what about the long term?
She had to find him, and find him quick. Myra looked around his bedroom. There had to be something. Raymond so far had been very thorough.
‘So, old Mr clever Dick, What have you forgotten about?’ she said to herself. She decided the only thing for it was to search the place.
Myra emptied Raymond’s wardrobe and all the drawers. She searched through his remaining clothes then flicked through his collection of car magazines and some porn he had tucked underneath. Next, she went through the bedding, his mattress. But nothing! She stood in thought and then, under her breath,
‘The telephone pad?’
She walked out into the hallway and picked it up. Myra strained her eyes at some of the old numbers she’d written and then noticed, a faint outline in handwriting that wasn’t hers.
The top sheet had been torn off. Myra fumbled in the phone tray for a pencil. Very lightly, she shaded over the outline. But it was no good. ‘Shit!’ she whispered. The depression was too light.
There was something, she vaguely remembered. A couple of weeks ago, she’d entered his bedroom with an armful of ironing and he’d quickly covered up the porn mag he was reading. She didn’t think anything at the time. Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eyelid and carry on reading them as if she wasn’t there. So why get twitchy all of a sudden? Unless…unless…
Myra opened the kitchen door to their small ground floor patio. The green plastic wheelie-bin for cardboard waste and newspapers stared at her. The bin-men emptied it every two-weeks. She gingerly lifted the lid. They hadn’t collected yet; it was still half full.
She laid it on its side and pulled out everything. Newspapers, egg-boxes, milk cartons, orange juice cartons. At the bottom, there was a separate plastic bag containing something heavy. She tore it open and found a pile of porn magazines. Probably having a clear out before he fucked off, she thought. As she sifted through, something fell out from one of them. Myra stooped and picked up an Excelsior holiday brochure.
She quickly tidied the bin area and went inside. Myra sat at the kitchen table and carefully turned the pages for Spanish holidays. And then, there it was. Ringed in Biro in all its glory. The Clipper Holiday Apartments at Lloret de Mar on the Costa Brava. She flicked through again just to make sure, and came back to the same place. ‘Gotcha, you little bastard,’ she whispered under her breath, ‘trust you to find somewhere cheap and cheerful.’
She glanced at her expensive watch. One of the first things she’d bought with the money, and now something she might have to sell. On this mild mid-August evening, it was gone 7.00 p.m. Too late to ring now.
The next morning, Myra picked up the telephone and dialled the number on the brochure sticker for World-Away Travel Agents.
‘World-Away travel.’
‘Good morning, I’m phoning on behalf of Raymond Cutler’s booking. I’m his secretary.’
Myra knew what was coming next. There was a pause then, the young woman’s voice said,
‘Do you have a booking reference number?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just that…he’s my boss and he did ask me to ask you if there was a possibility he could extend his accommodation stay? He asked me yesterday, but I forgot all about it. I’m out the office for two days so I haven’t got access to the reference number. He’s booked to stay at the Clipper Holiday Apartments in Lloret de Mar. It’s in your Excelsior holiday brochure.’
‘I can’t really check anything without a reference number you see because―’
Myra interrupted,
‘I would be very grateful, stops me getting chewed out because I forgot.’
‘Well I…OK…what’s his name again?’ she said with an overworked sigh.
‘Cutler - Raymond Cutler.’
Myra heard her thumping the keyboard and then she said,
‘How do you spell that?’
Myra spelled ,
‘C-U-T-L-E-R.’
‘Umm…Let’s see.’ Some more keyboard thumping then, ‘He’s booked for two months, and if he wants to, he can extend up to the end of November?’
‘OK, many thanks,’ Myra replied. ‘I’ll let him know and get back to you if he’s interested.’
‘Have the booking reference number with you, it makes life easier,’ she said with a hint of sarcasm.
Myra put the phone down and mimicked,
‘Have the booking reference number with you, it makes life easier - cos I’ve got a plum up my arse - bitch!’
At least the cow confirmed where he was staying and for how long.
Five days later, after sorting her credit cards, buying new beach wear, this time at Primark, and sourcing the cheapest accommodation and flight, she finally arrived. The customs officer never even glanced at her passport at Gerona
airport.
As she stepped outside the terminal, the heat hit her. It had to be around 75 degrees and not a cloud in sight. The travel agent had told her to expect this for the first week of September.
Myra made her way to the taxi rank and showed the first waiting cab driver the address of the Pension El Amigo on Carrer Vall de Venecia in Lloret de Mar. She’d got a last minute cancellation for the two week booking on the cheap self-catering apartment; across the other side of town from where Raymond was staying. She’d Googled the locations at the local library.
The lunchtime drive to her pension took thirty-five minutes. When he asked her for forty-five euros, Myra’s face dropped. She had to confirm with the cabby she’d only booked for a one-way trip, just in case he was assuming she was going to use him for the return journey and wanted money up-front. The overweight, unshaven driver with his hand held out, shook his head and confirmed in broken English,
‘Solo trip only.’
When he handed her the five euros change from the fifty-euro note, and she kept it, he mumbled something in Spanish and swung round with tyres screeching, giving Myra the full wrath of his displeasure and sped off.
The small grey walled reception office where she checked in smelt of stale cigarettes and garlic sausage. Behind the counter, the young good-looking Spaniard in the white short-sleeve shirt and tie flashed a smile as he asked for Myra’s passport.
She’d forgotten about that.
He assured her in his perfect English that it was a legal requirement to hold passports for a minimum of three days. Myra didn’t make a fuss, she just handed it over with a return smile. But it meant she had to be careful.
She couldn’t move on Raymond until she had her passport returned, in case of a quick get-away. If she had to cut short her stay, she’d make sure to make her exit as inconspicuous as possible. Make an excuse at reception that her mother had suddenly been taken ill or something similar good enough to draw a bit of sympathy and allow her to slip away un-noticed.
Clutching her key and a holiday pack containing a map of the area, excursions, boat trips and car-hire paraphernalia, she took the lift the first floor. She found the door to number seven and let herself in.
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 20