Headhunters

by John King

  Later that day he heard that Jill was staying with her mum and dad in Uxbridge, and after a week sitting around wondering what to do he looked up the family name in the phone book and took the tube to the end of the Metropolitan Line. He found the Smart house and sat on a wall down the road waiting. It was a warm day and he was conscious of being on his own, but eventually he saw Jill come outside, a bent, wrecked version of her old self. He followed for a while and then caught up with her. Jill’s eyes took time to focus and it was obvious she was sedated, the bruising on her face only now beginning to fade. It took a little longer for her to register who he was and then she was scratching his face with blunt fingers, long red nails bitten down and the skin ripped to threads. She was screaming that they were murderers. Why hadn’t Pete stayed and taken his punishment like a man? He’d shifted his share of the blame and left her to die.

  She ran home and when Pete phoned a couple of weeks later a harsh male voice said she’d slashed her wrists and been cremated, that her ashes were in the rose garden where Kevin was at rest. Then the line went dead.

  Mango went to the cupboard in his bedroom and took out a box of photos. He’d had the doors specially made, hardwood from an Asian forest. He ran his hand over the surface. Strong and beautiful with centuries of life ahead, until a chainsaw brought the tree back down to earth. The doors were built to last. You only lived once and he wanted the best. You had to look out for number one because that was the first law of nature and England was a nature-loving country, where the land had been deforested and carved up for the various business interests guarding the nation’s heritage.

  He held a picture of Pete in front of him and studied the face. Thin and pale with black hair and bright eyes dominating the face. He was smiling and wearing a Harrington, T-shirt, moleskin army surplus trousers and DMs. He seemed happy enough, though who really knew what went on inside someone’s head. It was hard enough working out what went on inside your own at times. The next photo showed Pete juggling a football in a pair of shorts. Winter and summer images. Dark skies and bright sunshine.

  Mango sifted through the snaps stopping at a family photo of all the Wilsons together. Mum and Dad in the middle with their four children. Two on either side—boy girl, boy girl. He looked at the faces, how they had gradually changed so you never noticed. Then he was staring across the room unfocused trying to imagine what Pete looked like now. It was something he often found himself doing. All his family admitted to doing the same thing. Now his mum said he’d become a farmer in East Anglia.

  Mango laughed out loud. A farmer? The dream had been a top international financier riding the high seas in a luxury yacht and the nightmare a smack-addled boy prostitute. For some reason a farmer seemed about right. How could any of them have guessed something like that? The imagination took you to the far corners. The best and worst options. Extremes always seemed more attractive somehow, as though there was no middle way. How the fuck had he ended up in East Anglia turning earth? Mango pictured a broad character in wellies and overalls, with a ruddy complexion and cow shit under his nails carrying a pitchfork. He laughed again despite himself. Pete the farm hand building a scarecrow and then hanging his old Harrington around its shoulders. A head full of straw for nesting birds. Squire Wilson.

  He thought of thick English soil again, but this time he was away from the ring road, the M25 overgrown and reclaimed. Rich earth and healthy crops. None of that intensive farming shit. Pete living a clean life away from London on an organic smallholding, and what would his big brother think of Jimmy in a flash office block in the City, taking the lift to the ground and then slipping into his £30,000 XJ6 3.2 Sport, foot down, naught to 60 in 7.9 seconds, six in-line cylinders humming, rolling through King’s Cross picking up runaways. The bloke was driving a tractor home while Jimmy lowered his window and solicited juveniles. Moving on to call girls shifting up-market while his brother strolled through the fields on his way to the local. A Green Man sign over the door and East Anglian ales lining an oak bar. Pipe loaded with tobacco. Country and Western on a jukebox that was rarely used because it broke the calm. Watching stars burn in a clear sky as he walked home.

  On the one hand, vast wealth would have offered some kind of justification for the family’s loss, while the role of victim would’ve allowed Mango to condemn the exploitative system which he himself had so successfully embraced. But a farmer? It didn’t suggest success or failure, just everyday life away from London and the satellite towns. It meant that Pete could have walked away without a care in the world, unbothered by the misery he was causing. That would be worst of all. The final insult. It would mean that he hadn’t given a toss about the rest of the Wilsons, leaving his brother to fend for himself and his mum, dad, sisters to grieve. Year in, year out. All that wasted time. All those Christmas presents hidden away waiting for Pete’s return.

  Pete Wilson walked slowly. After so many years in East Anglia, the tight London air was a shock but at the same time so familiar. It brought everything roaring back, adding colour and movement to dream-time imagery. There was less wind and the same artificial, carbonised warmth with which he had grown up. The concrete beneath his feet was harsh and unforgiving with none of the softness and flexibility he had found in Norfolk. Buildings smothered the sun and blocked the wind to which he had become so accustomed. A deep chill had long since worked its way into his bones and would stay there till the day they lowered him down. It was part of him now. The dark soil and barren winters, when the flatness of the land made his ears ring and his mind twist in on itself, when the days shortened and he had time to sit alone and remember Kate. He had spent almost as much time in the country as the city, but eighteen years of his life was compressed as soon as he got off the train at Liverpool Street and stood on the escalator taking him underground to the tube home. It seemed a month since he ran off. He still called London home despite everything that had happened.

  Pete had met Kate two months before leaving. She was twice his age and had grown up outside King’s Lynn. She had a bumpkin accent and the worn features of someone born and raised on a farm. Her hair was frizzy red and she had a straight, slightly mocking manner. She also had cancer.

  He first spoke to her at a Clash gig at the Electric Ballroom in Camden Town. He’d been to see the band the previous night as well. Mickey Dread on stage beforehand toasting, while Joe and the boys had been at their best. The first night he’d gone with a mate and Will. The second time he was on his own standing at the bar listening to the records the DJ was playing. Reggae and punk. Minding his own business. Then this woman had started talking to him in an accent he could hardly hear above the music, let alone identify. He found it hard to understand what she was saying at first and had to lean in close, noticing the way her perfume and sweat mixed in together. The Electric Ballroom was baking hot and she was also there on her own.

  Kate was in London for a month enjoying the bright lights, because she might’ve been in her late thirties but she loved the music and ideas, and had been a mod when she was younger, going on the runs and living the life. But punk was better because of the strength of the music, the Jamaican-inspired bass and the everyday political lyrics. She was staying with her cousin in Greenford, and then The Clash were on stage and Pete forgot about everything else. The place was full of dehydrating bodies and the thud of Topper Headon’s drums and Paul Simonon’s bass, Joe Strummer in control of the microphone and Mick Jones doing his guitar hero bit. It was one of the best gigs he’d ever seen. He noticed Kate again at the end as they came down the steps into the street, a line of police helmets through the sweaty mist and a young skinhead in a sheepskin standing on a white Merc. He got the tube some of the way with Kate and he was conscious of her age at first because he’d been told age was a bad thing and something to be sneered at, old and boring, all that stuff that he soon labelled as another brand of prejudice.

  He’d seen Kate again, a week later. They’d gone to The Ship in Soho and found a corner in th
e busy pub. Chelsea were playing at the Marquee and they’d thought to go along and see Gene October’s Right To Work encore, but started getting into a conversation and when it was time to leave they stayed behind as three-quarters of the pub filtered away. They got pissed and took the tube towards West London together, but there’d been nothing sexual. She was attractive, that was all. They enjoyed talking about bands they’d seen and records they liked and anything at all really. He’d got off the train and said goodbye and it didn’t seem strange not going home with her. Anyway, he had Jill Smart on the go and there were no complications there. Love didn’t come into it and they were both satisfying themselves with easy sex.

  He had nothing in common with Jill, a soulgirl into the bargain, and punks and soulgirls weren’t supposed to mix. All those tribes that made up England in the late Seventies. Jill was the opposite to Kate. They didn’t talk much. Just went to bed and had the sex which was good and uncomplicated and that was all there was to it. No emotion or feeling except for what happened between their legs, and when it was over Jill always wanted to put some twelve-inch American import on the record player and talk about her Kevin and their plans for the future. That was a real turn-off because it made Pete think of the silly sod working and trusting her, and he started telling himself he shouldn’t be there in someone else’s bed taking their place. It wasn’t right, but he’d been so into his music and sulphate that he went along with everything and dismissed any kind of morality as old-fashioned.

  He saw Kate a few more times and then the nightmare began. Kate told him she was going back to Norfolk and invited him round for a goodbye drink, that she knew of a job if he was interested because he couldn’t stay on the dole for the rest of his life. They’d gone down that pub in Greenford and drunk till closing and ended up in bed together. Watching the older woman striptease in front of him throwing her bra in his face and peeling off her panties. It had been different. Another kind of sex. More warm and human. The next morning she told him there was work on the farm if he wanted it, that she would have to hire someone anyway now she had inherited the place. It wasn’t big, but too much for Kate on her own. She also told him that she had cancer. She didn’t want to hide anything away and didn’t want Pete feeling sorry for her either, because maybe she would live to be an old country lady, or if she was unlucky she would last a few more years. She was being upfront. There were no ties. He could come and work for a couple of months and save a bit of cash and then leave without any hassle. He should know about the cancer though. Just in case.

  Pete wanted to ask questions but was embarrassed searching for details. So he left with her. Just like that. His head getting to grips with the sex and the work and the illness that would kill her one day. Just like that. Because he needed the money and because he liked her.

  Sin and retribution they called it. He didn’t believe in the dogma, but he had been guilty. If you were able to pay for your sins and achieve some kind of redemption, then he was in there with a claim. If there was a God responsible for everything, and if he operated how the preachers insisted, then he would be there with gold stars next to his name. The idea of justice had to come from somewhere. Natural justice. And he felt these things free from any kind of indoctrination because he had only ever been to church a couple of times in his life and didn’t come from anything near a religious family. Maybe it was built into his culture. Your everyday person had a greater morality about them than the rich and powerful. It was natural to feel remorse and guilt. There weren’t enough people learning from their mistakes. But he had suffered. Nothing but cancer eating Kate away for the last year, the visits to the hospital and treatment, the hopelessness. Making arrangements. The years spent mourning. Then the obsession with death. Kevin Bennett, Jill Smart and now Kate. He was paying his dues. For all the good and bad sex and endless attempts at procreation, there was only ever going to be one end to the affair.

  Finally it got to the point when he had to push himself, with Kate dead for four years. He decided to phone his Uncle Ted and ask about the family. He wanted to test the ground. He became scared when he couldn’t find his old address book, digging through cupboards and finding it wrapped up in a decaying Snow White T-shirt. He held the shirt up in front of him. Snow White enjoying an orgy with the seven dwarfs. He couldn’t believe he was the same person who used to wear that shirt. He threw it across the room and opened the address book, sat down on his bed. Pete flicked through the pages that had turned yellow with the passing years. He saw Jill’s number in among the names of people he’d once known. The reality hit home, making him realise that eighteen years was a lifetime for some people. His mother could be dead. Or his dad. Perhaps both of them. His sisters. And what about Jimmy who would’ve been waiting for his big brother to come home. How could he do that to the boy who’d looked up to and admired him? He was a selfish bastard wrapped up in his own misery. Self-centred and full of himself, and that was what had gone wrong in the first place. He’d had no sense of responsibility, following his knob straight up Jill and then running away. But living with a dying woman had taught him respect and humility. He appreciated the world now. Working on a farm brought you back to some kind of starting-point. He was disciplined and had picked up Kate’s honesty. She had changed him for the better.

  Pete ran through the book again and finally phoned his uncle, found out that his aunt was dead. His mind was made up. He had to go back. He had shut that other world away in a cell pretending it didn’t exist. He’d exhausted himself working the land, pushing his body through the hard, miserable winters and busy summers. He’d spent his days either shivering from the cold or sweating in the sun. His muscles ached yet he pushed himself. His body was healthy but at the expense of his head which he wanted to keep numb. Others would have turned to drink, but Pete worked until he was too exhausted even to get pissed. Now and then he would have a pint, but more for the walk than the alcohol. In the evenings he mostly sat in front of the fire thinking of how the woman who had sat opposite him gradually lost her grip on life and faded away, tortured by chemotherapy. When she died East Anglia seemed alien. For four years he had kept going until the worst was over and he had to move again.

  He started looking back, examining where it had gone wrong. First there’d been the guilt of Kev Bennett and Jill Smart, that was obvious, and he had submerged it caring for Kate, but with her death any sense of atonement had been replaced by guilt for what he’d done to his family and friends. The longer it went on the worse it became. He hurt everyone he came into contact with. He was a disaster and wasting time. His uncle was so excited to hear from him that it filled Pete with shame, explaining that their greatest fear was that he’d been murdered. If only they’d had some news that he was alive and well. Why hadn’t he phoned? Written a letter. Got in touch. But now he was alive. Back from the grave. Some kind of resurrection. Ted said it was a miracle. When was he coming home? He couldn’t wait to see him again. Everybody would be excited.

  Pete phoned his parents. Amnesia was the excuse, the only explanation with which he could come up. It would cope with the bitterness and prevent him having to explain things in too much detail. Sickness had claimed him one day and he had drifted away and become a farmer in the country. He wasn’t sure of all the details. Then his memory had gradually returned. Very slowly over the years till one morning he woke up and remembered his life in London. Imagine that. Without memory you didn’t exist. You were nothing. Amnesia would make everything much easier to handle. All those years away and it was sex that had led to his downfall and the guilt that came with the consequences of fucking people about. Kev Bennett and Jill Smart, forever together.

  Mango checked his watch again. It was a quarter to seven. Normally he would be hard at work burrowing into rows of letters and numbers pushing himself to identify a good investment. Instead he was hurrying to the bathroom and arriving just in time. He leant over the toilet and was sick into the bowl.

  That girl last night. A woman. S
ophisticated with exotic eyes and eyebrows that stretched up and away towards her temples. She was beautiful, with a nice voice and a slight tilt to her head. Black hair cut in a bob like thousands of Cleopatra office girls. Except she was no office girl this one. Hetherington at WorldView had recommended her personally. Mango sat in awe as she drank the gin he’d poured, her gaze wandering around the flat. Her legs were long and shapely and he imagined Hetherington with the whip turning her back into a mass of lacerations. He had paid heavily for the privilege, the sight of blood costing extra. After all, she would need a few days to recover and it wasn’t as if Hetherington didn’t have cash to throw around. His colleague had explained it to James. That it was the desire for power that drove people to the top of the pecking order and that once you joined the march you had to crush everything in your path. Sex was nothing but a display of power. Hard sex. Wilson should think of his pecker as a weapon. Women loved it. They really did.

  When Monica arrived Mango sat there wondering what would happen next. Whether he would chop off her head in a fit of free expression or merely thrash her to within an inch of her life. He had never been interested in sadism, but Hetherington and Ridley from WorldView were always encouraging their colleague to give it a go. They had painstakingly explained the mechanics of power, and how sex could be inverted. He had ended up with all that class in front of him and what had Mango done? Bottled it. That’s what. He could remember the look of scorn on the woman’s face as he asked her to leave. It withered him and he was sure the chaps from the office would find out that he didn’t have what it took.