Plender

by Ted Lewis

  I got out of the car and found myself trailing after Plender. Plender kept on walking and eventually disappeared into the darkness of Sammy’s Point. Bells rang and the Ferry began to churn away from the pier. I followed Plender into the darkness and then stopped. Lank grass fell softly over my feet. As the Ferry passed by Sammy’s Point before it began its outward curve towards the other side, the lights from its portholes illuminated the bulwarks at the edge of the grass. Plender was standing at the edge, talking to the man, smoking, looking amiable and relaxed. The man in the raincoat passed Plender something and Plender put whatever it was in his coat pocket and then the Ferry slid away and everything was dark again. I watched the lights of the Ferry grow smaller in the darkness and I wished I was on board and seventeen again and on my way home to my mother and one of her big suppers. Tears welled up in my eyes and then I heard voices and a few seconds later Plender and the man emerged from the blackness, talking in low voices. The man in the raincoat didn’t look very happy, but Plender was still relaxed and smiling his quiet smile. Then there was a movement behind me and I began to turn to see what it was but before I could do that two men brushed past me, one either side, and walked towards Plender and the man. Plender stepped back slightly, his expression not changing. One of the two men took hold of the arms of the man in the raincoat and pinned them behind his back in a wrestler’s grip. The other man hit the man in the raincoat in the stomach, twice. The man in the raincoat was released and he fell to the ground, vomiting. Plender looked down at him and said, “That’s what happens if you’re late. It hurts, but it only happens once. Next time there won’t be anything like this. The stuff goes straight to your wife. Or even to your kid, on her way home from school. Someone walks by her and puts some pictures in her hand. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  The man on the ground crawled his knees up to his chest and tried to draw his breath back into his body. Plender looked at him for a moment then stepped round him and began to stroll towards me. The other two men fell in behind him, lighting up cigarettes as they walked. It had all happened as if I hadn’t been there, as if I hadn’t seen anything. Plender approached me as if nothing extraordinary had happened, and the two men just ignored me.

  As Plender drew level with me he said to the two men, “Come on, lads, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  He winked at me and I found myself falling into step with him.

  “You do all kinds of business in my kind of business,” said Plender.

  The forecourt was completely deserted now. A soft drizzle had begun to drift down from the sky, wafting like thin smoke past the lights of the public convenience and the Tivoli Tavern. The pier was dark and quiet and there was no sign of the ticket collector. Our footsteps echoed in the emptiness.

  A part of me wanted to run to my car and leave this present too precise unreality behind me, but another part of my mind, the part that contained the reasons for my presence, made me stay, made me wait like an actor waiting for direction.

  At the Tavern, one of the two men overtook Plender and myself and pushed open the door for us. Plender went in first and walked over to the bar.

  Now that the Ferry had gone, the Tivoli was quiet. Only a few dockland regulars were left in the bar. A small fire burned in the grate and the smell of sawdust was thick in the small room. Plender leant against the bar and faced the two men.

  “What’s it to be, lads?”

  “Guinness and Bitter,” said one.

  “Rum and Black,” said the other.

  “And two large scotches,” Plender said to the landlady. Plender turned back and said to me “Peter, let me introduce you. This is Col and this is Terry. We work together from time to time. Lads, this is Peter. Don’t worry about him. He’s one of us.”

  PLENDER

  I sat at my desk and drafted replies to Misters Harris, Codd, and Potter of Leeds, Doncaster and Barnsley respectively.

  Dear________,

  I was thrilled to receive your reply to my advertisement which I placed in last month’s Friendly Magazine. I imagine (if you are at all a like soul, as I know you are) that it was almost as difficult for you to reply as it was for me to advertise, especially as I didn’t want to give the impression of being the wrong kind of person. How lucky I was, therefore, to discover in you a correspondent that so obviously realises what kind of person I am. It’s wonderful to know that somewhere there is someone who understands. It was only through desperation that in fact I turned to Friendly Magazine as a last resort. But I’m sure I don’t have to explain, not to you.

  Your letter filled me with excitement. I can hardly wait to meet you and put into practice all the wonderful things you suggested. I think your ideas for disciplining naughty girls are delightful. (Perhaps you will demonstrate them to me when we meet. From talking to my friends, I know that my own boss would have a more efficient office if he put a few of your ideas into practice!!!)

  I enclose a photograph as you requested. It was taken by my girlfriend when we were on holiday at Filey Butlin’s last summer. As you can see, short skirts can be awkward when you’re roller skating!

  If you would like us to meet, then you can phone me at the above telephone number after seven, any evening. I shall be waiting by the phone for your call!

  When I’d done that I went through into the outer office and asked my secretary to give me the information she’d looked up concerning the new correspondents. Two of them looked promising so I filed the data in my filing cabinet and locked the drawer.

  I sat down at my desk and buzzed for coffee. Outside the day was grey and wet wind buffeted the city. I sat and stared out of the window at the sky until my secretary brought in the coffee.

  “Mr. Gurney’s on his way up,” she said. “Shall I send him in?”

  I smiled. Gurney hated not having automatic access to my office. He always had to ask my secretary if I was available.

  “Yes, all right,” I said. “And give him a cup and saucer on his way in.”

  A few moments later Gurney came in.

  “Good morning Mr. Plender,” he said.

  “Have some coffee,” I said.

  Gurney poured some coffee.

  “Andrea and Len set up for tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, Mr. Plender. Their place at eight. They’re meeting the clients in Peggy’s.

  I took a sip of my coffee and nodded.

  “Who’s taking the pictures? Harry or myself?” Gurney asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  KNOTT

  I got to the studio early on Monday morning. I’d forgotten about the stains on the warehouse floor. I’d woken up at half past five, almost weeping with fear and anger at myself for not remembering. And then I’d had to lie there for another hour until I was sure my wife had gone back into a deep sleep because when I’d remembered, I’d sat bolt upright in bed and startled her awake.

  I’d known I’d be too late. The warehouse men started at five. But I had to get there as early as possible, just to see.

  I stepped through the small door and into the warehouse. The usual men gave me the usual greetings, laced with a few remarks about the hour of my appearance. I walked over to the stairs, looking for the spot and pretending not to be looking for anything. But there were no signs of any stains. Perhaps the cobbled floor was so old and porous that the blood had sunk into the stone, not leaving a trace.

  But there’d been more than just blood. I walked up the stairs trying to imagine why. No trace. No marks. No hair. Nothing. It had been cleaned away. Sometimes the warehouse men hosed down the floor, but not today; the floor was bone dry.

  I shuddered as the simile struck me.

  I let myself into the studio, closed the door and walked through the reception area into the studio and over to the leather chair in the middle of the
floor and sat down and tried to think, but the memories of Saturday night hung round the objects in the studio so then I tried not to think at all.

  The objects.

  I looked round the studio. It was all wrong. It wasn’t as I’d left it. It had been changed. Little things. The rug had been straightened. The divan had been folded up. The glasses were gone. The film . . . I stared at the coffee table. The spools of film weren’t there anymore. God. Where were they? I rushed over to the table as if my haste would make them miraculously reappear. I got down on all fours to see if they’d rolled under anything but there was nothing. I must have put them somewhere else. The changing room? But I hadn’t been in there, not afterwards. Look anyway. I ran into the changing room. The bed had been remade. I wanted to scream. I turned and hurried into the kitchen. The glasses were all washed and dried and neatly stacked on the drainer.

  Now I knew I was mad.

  I went back into the studio and opened the divan and lay down on it, drawing my knees up to my chest, pulling my coat tight around me.

  I lay there until quarter to ten until Dave, my assistant, arrived.

  He opened the door that led from the reception area and closed it behind him and stared at me.

  “What the bloody hell’s up with you?” he said.

  I slid my legs off the divan and stood up.

  “Hangover,” I said. “I was out with an old school friend last night.”

  Dave hung his coat up and nodded in understanding.

  “Male or female?” he said.

  “Male,” I said.

  Dave walked past the divan and threw his newspaper on to the coffee table and went into the kitchen. I sat down again and picked up the paper and glanced through it, hoping my actions would ease my behaviour back into some semblance of normality.

  I heard Dave fill the kettle.

  “I expect you’d like some coffee,” he called.

  “Yes, I would,” I said.

  Dave leant against the doorway into the kitchen while he waited for the kettle to boil. He’d been out of the local Art School just under a year and he’d affected his generation’s dispassionate attitudes just like all the rest of them. To him, I was an old man.

  “So it was a heavy night on the booze then, was it?”

  I nodded.

  “You should try smoking,” he said. “Leaves you fresh as a daisy next day.”

  “Perhaps I should,” I said.

  “Can’t understand it,” he said. “Alcohol’s a killer. Poison.”

  The kettle began to whistle and Dave went back into the kitchen.

  The headline read: GIRL, 17, MISSING FROM FLAT. It was at the bottom of the page, just a paragraph. The story described how Eileen’s landlady had got in touch with the police on Sunday evening after Eileen hadn’t returned since going out on Saturday night. Eileen was described as a secretary with Priestley and Squires, Advertising Agents.

  Dave came out of the kitchen with the coffee. I folded up the paper and put it down next to me on the divan. Dave handed me my mug and picked up the paper.

  “Sod all in this rag,” he said. “Don’t know why I buy it.”

  Oh but there is, I wanted to say. There’s a little bit in it about me. Well, not about me, actually, but about the girl I killed on Saturday night. Well, I didn’t actually kill her, but it doesn’t make any difference now. I’m for the chop just the same. You’ll find it at the bottom of page three, the column at the end.

  Dave threw the paper back on the coffee table.

  “Anyway, what do you want me to do?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Do. Work. What’s on?”

  “Oh. Work. The handbag shots. They’ve got to be done.”

  “Terrific. Still, it’s better than doing prints all day long.”

  He peeled off his lumberjacket. “Want me to start setting them up?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Dave went to work setting up. I sat where I was, drinking my coffee, holding on to my cup as though it was a lifebelt.

  “Anybody coming in this morning?” Dave asked, unrolling the huge expanse of backing paper.

  “Coming in?” I said.

  “Yeah. Any of the birds.”

  “No,” I said. “We’ve no models booked in this morning.”

  “Thank Christ. That’s one thing I can do without first thing on a Monday morning, a load of twittering dolly birds. They give me a pain in the bum. What about this afternoon?”

  “Two,” I said. “Some nightwear shots to do.”

  Dave laughed.

  “That nightwear stuff kills me,” he said. “I don’t believe anybody wears gear like that anymore. It’s pure 1950s. I mean, imagine getting into bed with a bird togged up like that. It’d give you writer’s cramp.”

  I drank some more coffee.

  “Still, I suppose it appeals to the stocking tops and dirty macintosh brigade.”

  I stood up.

  “I should get a move on,” I said. “It’s all got to be clear for this afternoon.”

  “Who’s coming, anyway?”

  “Lyn and Suki.”

  “Suki. Would you fucking well believe it. Suki from the Holden Road Estate. I tell you . . .”

  The phone rang. I knew it was Plender. I went into the reception area. Angela, my receptionist, hadn’t arrived yet so I sat down on her desk and picked up the phone and said, “Peter Knott Associates.”

  “Hello, Peter,” said Plender. “How’s things?”

  “It’s in the paper,” I said.

  “Of course it’s in the paper.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “But nothing. It doesn’t say anything about you, does it? It doesn’t say anything about finding her, does it?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “And it won’t. So forget it, because it’s going to get much worse. It’ll be on the front page tomorrow. With a picture.”

  “But how can you say they won’t find her; how can you say they won’t trace her to me?”

  “I told you last night. The only way they’ll trace her to you is if you keep carrying on the way you are doing.”

  “But somebody’s been here.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Somebody’s been here over the weekend. Everything’s been tidied up. There’s some films missing.”

  “I know,” said Plender.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got the films,” he said. “I did the tidying up.”

  “But . . .”

  “Listen, you may not be aware of this, but you were in a bit of a state on Saturday night. Panic stations all along the line. I thought you might have been a bit hasty so I looked up your studio in the phone book and had a wander round.”

  “But I didn’t tell you where it… where I’d been.”

  He sighed.

  “No, you didn’t,” he said. “I know I’m not exactly Sherlock Holmes, but then sometimes I don’t have to be.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me last night?”

  “You had enough on your mind, what with one thing and another.”

  “But I’ve been going mad. I haven’t known what to think.”

  “Then don’t. I’ll do the thinking for you.”

  I pressed my free hand against my face and screwed up my eyes tight shut.

  “All right?” came Plender’s voice from the receiver.

  I couldn’t say anything.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I wondered if I could ask you a little favour?”

  The door to the studio opened and my secretary came in.

  I swivelled round on the desk so that I wouldn’t have to face her.

  “Yes, fine,” I said, as thoug
h I was talking to a client. “What can I do?”

  PLENDER

  I walked into Peggy’s. It was almost seven thirty. It was more crowded than the last time I’d been there. Peggy wasn’t around at the moment but he had three barmen on to cope which was unusual for him because he was a tight-fisted old slag and that was giving him the benefit of the doubt.

  I bought my drink and shouldered my way through the cashmere sweaters and the tight pants and sat down in one of the booths. On the jukebox Harpers Bizarre were sighing their way through “Anything Goes.” And all the sherberts were creaming down their suspenders.

  I drank my drink and waited.

  Peggy appeared behind the bar and cast his eyes over the assembled throng. When he saw me he disappeared back where he’d come from and the next thing I knew he was sliding his big bottom into the bench seat on the other side of the booth.

  “Hello, Peggy,” I said.

  Peggy slipped the evening paper on to the table between us.

  I looked at the paper and then I looked at Peggy.

  “Look at the picture on the front,” Peggy said. “The dolly.”

  I looked at the paper again and then gave Peggy a what-am-I-supposed-to-be-looking-at look.

  “She was in here Saturday night.”

  “I’m surprised you remember,” I said.

  “Don’t shoot shit. I’m telling you, she was in here.”

  “So?”

  Peggy gave me a long look.

  “Mr. Plender,” said Peggy. “We have a very nice relationship. You know enough about me and I know enough about you and that’s why you keep using this place and that’s why I keep letting you use it. So far everything’s worked out. But I want you to tell me something, Mr. Plender, just so’s I’ll know when the boys in blue troll by. Is she part of your scene or is she not? Because you were here when she was here and I don’t want the law linking your little scenes with my little scenes. That’s why I’m asking.”

  I gave him a tired smile.

  “Peggy,” I said, “Peggy. Do me a favour, will you?”

  “Because if she is, and you’re not being straight with me, then I’m going to be in a lot of trouble. Some of those bitches are just dying to bust me.”