by Mark Dawson
‘Fuck off. You can all go to hell. I don’t need any of you.’
As he starts to leave I reach for his arm. He swipes my hand away and glowers down at me. He says, ‘Leave it. I’ve had enough. I don’t need you any more.’
Brian heads for the door and strides into the storm.
And there’s no way I’m going to follow him out there - on my own with him in the gloom and the empty streets.
I know what to do now; my mind is completely made up. I put a call in on my mobile as I get up to leave, confirming the details of the appointment I set up earlier.
EXPOSÉ
Scott Dolan is already waiting for me where we had arranged, leaning back with one foot braced against the wall of yet another coffee shop on the way back to the office. There are a dozen of them around here. I spot his hair from a hundred yards away, red against a shifting curtain of white. Snow is gathering on his shoulders. He brushes it off. I can’t help feeling a little flicker of satisfaction when I notice the scabbed crust of blood around his nostrils. He smiles a neutral smile as I approach, the corners of his mouth down turned, and I take his hand when he offers it. We find a table inside and sit down. He orders cappuccinos, sets up his recording machine on the table, and thumbs to a fresh page in his notebook.
‘I’m glad you’ve had a change of heart,’ he says. ‘Now - let’s get down to business, shall we? What’ve you got to say?’
The tape starts rolling. I gesture for him to switch it off.
‘It’s not so much what I’ve got to say,’ I suggest. ‘It’s more what I can give you.’
THE WHIMS OF FASHION
After I’m done with Dolan I’ve still got half an hour to kill until the rush hour kicks in and the office empties out. I visit the record store to check out how Brian’s album is doing.
New releases have taken the place of last week’s offerings, although Monster Munch’s albums have been moved to a huge display immediately inside the doors, filling the space that was previously occupied by the Dahlias. There aren’t many copies of their album left.
I root around the racks devoted to the charts and then, having no luck, browse the alphabetical shelving where back catalogue is deposited. Nothing. As I’m about to leave the shop I pause by the bargain bucket. Among failed singles from soap stars and charity records for obscure causes, I find the remaining four copies of Brian’s record, reduced to half-price to dear. This after just one week.
‘Why’s this so cheap?’ I ask the guy behind the counter, another copy of the album in hand.
Have you heard it?’ he asks me. I shake my head. ‘You can’t even give these away. We’ve only sold one copy.’
‘I thought he was still popular.’
‘He was, once,’ he replies. ‘Not any more. And that’s the worst thing about stars like him. They think they can keep trotting out the same old stuff year after year after year, but they can’t. Times change. Tastes change. And if you can’t keep up, you might as well quit. The album’s been deleted. It only sold a few hundred. Disastrous. You can give it a couple of months tops before his label cuts its losses and drops him altogether. And that’ll be the last we ever hear of him.’
PREPARATIONS
En route to the office, I divert to a cash machine and try to withdraw enough money to see me through the night. My request for cash is denied. I eject my card, insert it and punch in my number again. Rejection. I request a balance instead. While the machine clicks and hums to itself I work out how much of my final, abbreviated pay cheque will be absorbed by the mortgage and bills, and realize I’m going to be facing a serious shortfall. The thought that I’ll be bankrupt does not fill me with the dread it should, since I won’t be around to suffer the consequences.
The machine finishes its calculations and reports back that I have the grand total of twenty-three pounds and change. This should be all I need for now.
BURNING BRIDGES AND THE MIDNIGHT OIL
The office is empty as I creep back inside. Everyone must be on their way to the party. This suits me fine.
Ray, one of the downstairs security guards, is on duty. He’s engrossed in a magazine involving motorbikes and naked women. He looks up as I approach and grunts at me.
‘You missing the fun too, eh?’ he says. The news of my dismissal has evidently not yet been circulated to the support staff.
I nod glumly. ‘Pain in the arse.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he accedes.
Our bond of shared grievance established, I don’t even need to show him my security pass. He just waves me inside.
My office is dark. I stumble over packing crates until I reach the angle poise on the desk. I click it on and hunker down behind its golden cone of light. I still feel nauseous and dog-tired but I push my frailties to one side. I have work to do. It won’t take long and then I can relax. The plan is almost fully-formed now. I just have to put it into operation.
Someone has finished off my packing for me. The shelves are naked and my desk is clear. My things have been neatly slotted into place in their crates: books at the bottom, then folders and breakable knick-knacks resting on top. I suspect Elizabeth, and resolve to thank her at the party.
I take the answerphone cassette from where I taped it to the bottom of a drawer and drop it into an envelope. I address the envelope to the investigating officer dealing with the John French inquiry and type a brief note explaining the tape’s significance. I leave the note anonymous - a coward to the last - and place the envelope in the tray for the outgoing post. I’ve missed tonight’s late collection; the tape will be collected tomorrow morning and delivered to the police on Wednesday or Thursday, depending on the post.
On the way out, I stop by the big wall-high filing cabinets and, after thumbing through the index, locate six juicy folders, each stuffed full of papers - correspondence, contracts, attendance notes - held together with treasury tags. I slip them into my bag and leave the office for the last time.
SOUTH OF THE RIVER
There’s one more thing I have to do before the party.
I leave the office, flag down a black cab, and cross the river to head south into Tooting. On arrival I hand the driver one of my two £10 notes, reserving the other for my return trip.
Only one thing will change my mind about leaving the country. Only if Hannah agrees to see me, listens to what I’ve got to say; that’s the only way I’ll still be here on Wednesday, and not cramped in economy class with a miniature do-it-yourself chicken chasseur kit on my lap, following the sun halfway around the world.
I know this is pathetic of me, weak-willed to still be in her thrall after everything she said last night. But her claws have sunk in deep. She’s as much a part of the maelstrom in my head as anything else: Brian, losing my job, my decision to steal the band’s money and leave. I have to at least try to see her before I can go.
The address I’ve been given by Hannah’s agency is for a mid-terraced house in a quiet tree-lined street. As the taxi chugs away down the road, leaving me shivering and alone on a snowy pavement, I stare up at a large bay window and two smaller windows on the first floor. A light is on in one of the bedrooms, painting a barren flower box in a tawny hue. I pace along the pavement for five minutes trying to compose my thoughts and then sit down on a cold bench at the corner of the street where I can watch the house without being observed. I’m feeling unsteady again. I see a shadow move quickly across a window lit by blue light from a flickering TV.
So she’s in.
It’s no use just sitting here, freezing. Be a man: do something. I gather my courage, march up to the front door and knock loudly. There is long delay and I’m about to leave, when the door starts to open.
‘Yes?’ says a girl I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.
She’s tall, good figure, blonde hair and freckles, wearing a white terry-cloth robe with her hair bunched in a vivid red towel. Her skin is wet and puckered.
‘Urn, hello,’ I falter. ‘Sorry if I got you out
of the bath.’
‘I was already out,’ says the girl. ‘It’s OK.’
‘Is Hannah in?’
‘She’s gone out,’ she says warily. ‘Who are you?’
It dawns on me that I have seen her before - she plays one of the other models in Skin Trade. Hannah must have moved in with her. Or perhaps they bought the place together? This confirmation of another, separate life is hurtful, underscoring the finality of our split and confirming she has found an alternative, independent existence - one that doesn’t feature me in it. I would have preferred her to be shivering in a freezing bedsit somewhere, like she was when I originally found her. Now I feel even more pathetic; she’s gotten over this much more easily than I have.
‘I’m a friend,’ I stammer. ‘I was just passing through. Thought I’d stop by and see if she was in. I haven’t seen her for ages.’
‘Well, she’s not, I’m afraid. She went out earlier - to a party, I think. Do you want me to say you called?’
I’m not about to identify myself and blow my cover, so I politely decline and tell her that I’ll telephone later instead. Then, taking me by surprise, inspiration. I say, ‘She’s with Vinny, I suppose?’
The girl relaxes. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘He came by with Rip to pick her up fifteen minutes ago. Don’t know what he’s doing going out - his leg’s broken, you know.’
‘I should’ve explained,’ I say more confidently. ‘I’m a friend of Vinny’s. I directed his first movie. I know Hannah through him. I was going to talk movies with her, actually. I’ve got one just about to start shooting.’
A half-embarrassed smile cracks the stern face. ‘Look, I’m sorry if you thought I was being rude - it’s just that Hannah’s been having problems with one of her ex-boyfriends. He’s been nosing around most of last week and he managed to get this address off her agent this morning. We’ve both been a little on edge.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say. ‘You can’t be too careful.’
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ she says.
‘Uh, Jeremy,’ I say.
‘Listen - Jeremy - can I offer you a cup of tea? It’s freezing cold out here and I feel awful for being so rude.’
‘That’d be really great,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
HANNAH’S HOME FROM HOME
The inside of the house has been decorated in an exaggeratedly feminine fashion. The walls are painted orange and there are bunches of bright flowers thrust into jaunty vases. The furniture, a mixture of expensive designer pieces and cheap junk from Ikea that Hannah liberated from our flat, marks the recent swelling of her income. She can afford the stuff now that we could only dream about before; I remember afternoons spent drooling over classy tables and chairs through the windows of boutiques that credit-check you before they even let you inside.
‘I’m Jessica, by the way,’ the girl says, offering me a hand puckered red by hot water.
I take it, warm and a little damp. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Mmmm, two sugars, please.’
‘Won’t be a moment.’ She tightens the cord of her robe and swishes into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Hannah’s things.
I wander around the room, carefully lifting ornaments from the mantelpiece, turning them over in my hands, inspecting them. Some of them I recognize, things we bought together; others are new and unfamiliar. Some might be Jessica’s, I suppose.
On a bookshelf I find a framed, signed picture of Vincent Haines. I’m tempted to throw it against the wall.
‘Biscuit?’ calls Jessica.
‘Uh, no,’ I force out. ‘No, thanks.’ I replace the photo carefully.
She comes back into the lounge with a cup of tea. ‘I’m just going to go upstairs and get changed,’ she says. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
I wait until she’s out of the way before continuing my search. In an alcove between the chimney breast and the wall I find a cardboard box full of stuff. I crouch down and scrabble inside it. The box contains several of Hannah’s old photo albums and a lot of junk.
I take one of the albums out and flip through pages protected with thin sheets of adhesive plastic. There are dozens of pictures of Hannah and me: pictures of us on holiday; pictures of us at Christmas and at birthday parties; pictures of us looking happy and relaxed at home. I carefully replace the album with the others in the box and take out a picture frame I recognize. Hannah used to have it on her bedside table. It is a picture of us, together, taken by a guard on the observation deck of the Empire State Building when we visited New York last spring. We are clutching each other, hair and clothes tousled by the night wind, everything frozen in the white glare of the flash, the Chrysler Building glowing out-of-focus over my right shoulder, both of us grinning with exhilaration.
‘Look at all that rubbish,’ says Jessica. I didn’t notice her returning downstairs. She’s changed into a chunky jumper and leggings. I quickly thrust the picture back down into the box.
‘Sorry, I was just-’
‘Don’t worry, it’s just Hannah’s old bits and pieces you know, bric a brac that reminds her of her old boyfriend. Did you know him?’
‘Uh, no,’ I say. ‘Before my time.’
‘Me too. But he’s ancient history, right? She said she’s going to bin all that crap tomorrow.’
I fight to keep my voice from catching, and say, ‘She’s just going to throw it away?’
Jessica is back in the kitchen again, and she misses the anguished edge to my voice. ‘She wants to make a clean break. He’s been totally weird lately - stalking Vinny, trying to find out the address of this place. They went to see him last night to tell him to leave her alone. He broke Vincent’s leg. It was in all the papers this morning, front-page news. If you ask me, he needs help. He’s, like, a total fruitcake.’
‘How long’s she been seeing Vinny for now? It must be, what, three months?’
‘No - longer than that,’ she says.
‘More than three months?’
She comes back in with a teapot.
‘Easily. She must’ve dumped the old guy about, what, three or four months ago? She’d been seeing Vinny a long time before that. She was sleeping with him, I don’t know, at least six months before she split up with her ex.’
I get up sharply and a wave of giddiness washes over me. I have to steady myself on the mantelpiece. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
‘Head rush,’ I say.
‘You sure?’ she asks. ‘You don’t look well.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I bluff. ‘I’m probably just coming down with a cold. It’s the weather.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ She raises the teapot. ‘An aspirin?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks. But I should maybe get going.’
‘What about that movie you mentioned? I was going to ask you about it?’
‘What?’
‘The movie? I’m an actress too - sorry to be so pushy, but I’d love to take a look at the script.’
‘I’ll send you a copy,’ I say brusquely. ‘Look, I have to go.’
‘Should I tell Hannah you called?’
I’m already in the hallway, reaching for the door handle.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll catch her later.’
THE CHRISTMAS PARTY
An hour later, I reach the ballroom of a hotel off the Strand, full of people from the office, dry ice from the disco, and loud music over a background of chattering and general mirth. I sneak in without anyone seeing me.
The men are in black tie and the women in cocktail dresses. A smattering of celebs: Richard Stilgoe, Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee, Anthea Turner, Peter Stringfellow, Bonnie Langford, Cilla Black, Stock, Aitken and Waterman, Shane Richie, Fern Britton, Peter Davison, Carole Smillie, Henry Kelly, Lorraine Kelly, Matthew Kelly, Gillian Taylforth, Tony Hadley, Keith Chegwin, Roger Moore, Richard Whiteley, Keith Harris (with Orville), Terry Wogan, Diddie David Hamilton, The Krankies, Chas (wit
hout Dave), Kilroy, Noel Edmonds, Dave Lee Travis.
The Grumbleweeds, lured out of retirement to indulge their lawyers, are providing the evening’s entertainment from a stage at the front of the room.
I look at everyone and feel a pang of regret.
The party’s been in full swing for a couple of hours and everyone is drunk on the free booze. I’m returning from the toilets where I have just been powerfully sick, but it hasn’t made me feel any better; now I just feel empty. I’ve started to feel dizzy and I can’t stop sweating. I had to splash cold water over my face for five minutes just to cool down and I looked half-dead in the mirror. I must be coming down with something. I’ve been under a lot of stress. I’m probably worn out.
I’m standing at the bar, necking bottles of beer, when I see Brian in the entrance. He stops to scan the room but doesn’t see me. As he’s waiting there, Dawkins appears at his side and says something into his ear. Brian smiles affably at him and nods agreement. They must have come to the party together; the Dork has already taken my place with Brian. I finish the beer, surprised that this has made me angry, when Brian finally spots me and half-jogs across to the bar.
‘What do you want?’ I ask.
‘I need to talk to you,’ he says. ‘I want to apologize.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘Please, Daniel, there’s something I have to tell you.’
‘What are you doing with him,’ I say quickly, pointing at the Dork. He’s already found a couple of the partners to brown-nose.
‘Just a coincidence - he got out of a taxi the same time as me. I thought you might be here, and since I’d already been invited by Mr Fulton I thought I’d check.’
‘You know he’s an idiot, don’t you?’
‘What? The bald guy? Of course I do. He started schmoozing me as soon as he saw me. I already told you he pisses me off.’
‘Make it quick,’ I say.