Say You Never Met Me

by Martin Yallop

  SAY YOU

  NEVER

  MET ME

  Martin Yallop

  Copyright © 2008 Martin Yallop

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

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  Leicester LE1 7FW, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 255 9311 / 9312

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication (CIP) catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  While this is a work of fiction, most of the named locations are real: London Bridge Station and Leadenhall Market exist, there are clubs with signs advertising ‘cabaret’ and ‘live show’ clustered beside the port roundabout in Lanarca and, until the latest extension was completed, there was a bar upstairs in ‘Departures’ in Terminal One at Heathrow.

  All the people and events are entirely imaginary. Nevertheless, the stories of cruelty to the trafficked girls and women are typical of what really happens and ae often drawn from press and other reports. Despite the efforts of campaigners, governments and national and international law enforcement agencies, trafficking continues and the willingness of ruthless people – mainly men – to exploit and abuse vulnerable women is unabated.

  This is for Jennifer

  Paranoia! Paranoia!

  Everybody’s coming to get me.

  Just say you never met me.

  I’m running underground with the moles,

  Digging holes.

  from ‘Flagpole Sitta’ by Harvey Danger

  London Records

  Chapter 1

  “I’m going up for a siesta. Coming?”

  George shook his head. “Better not. Theodorus said he’d look in for the rent this afternoon.” He knew though that the chances of the landlord actually turning up were fifty fifty at best and probably a lot less, especially in the sweltering and sleepy holiday month of August when even less than usual got done. Even if Theodorus did show up, it would be around six or seven when it was cooler and certainly not during the hot time of rest after lunch. He hadn’t missed the invitation in Susanna’s voice or the slightly longer and deeper look than was necessary as she stopped halfway up the wooden staircase leading up the outside wall of the house. He was looking for an excuse to avoid sex. He had eaten more than he really wanted and had had a glass or two of wine more than he should, the best part of the bottle in fact, and he wasn’t quite sure of his ability to perform. He felt bloated and, glancing with distaste at his midriff, he noted for the umpteenth time that he was putting on weight. He definitely didn’t feel at his best.

  He had not always felt like that. There were times when a couple of games of squash or visits to the bank’s gym had burned off the frustration as well as the calories. Not so many years ago he had even boasted quite a six pack – at least enough to allow him to hold up his head with the swinging dicks from the dealing room. George liked to be liked and went out of his way to be likeable, but, for all the male bonhomie and ostensibly good-natured banter in the changing room, George had always been pretty sure he was tolerated rather than liked. So he settled for admiration when he could get it and respect as an acceptable alternative; perhaps sometimes he was even feared a little. His status came largely from his supposed power and knowledge. As personnel director, he had been credited with a deep and intimate knowledge of salary packages, promotion prospects and personal lives. In practice, he often had trouble even remembering the names that went with the hundreds of familiar faces and found himself replying to a cheery ‘Hello, George. How’s it going?’ with an anodyne, ‘Great, great. Good to see you. And how are things with you? ’ without any recollection of the name of the member of staff he was greeting. Even if he had possessed a photographic memory, he couldn’t have recalled all of the employment or private information about more than one in ten of the people he met in the gym, and unless there was some special reason for doing so, wouldn’t have had the time or interest to glance an anyone’s record from one annual appraisal to the next, if then. As for their personal lives, the little he knew was at best petty, invariably tedious and hardly ever memorable. George had always been mildly surprised to find that most staff attributed the power of reward or punishment to the personnel department, ‘HR’ in the later days, while, in truth almost all decision-making power lay exclusively with heads of departments and their directors, with George only becoming involved to execute decisions after they had been made or to rescue some hapless manager from the consequences of a more than usually capricious or inane misjudgement in some routine piece of staff management. In the interests of preserving some mystique around the job, he had allowed staff to carry on thinking that HR had more authority than it really possessed and he had sometimes allowed managers to wade blithely into administrative hot water instead of warning them in advance. The kudos of a neatly executed rescue helped to reinforce his reputation as a good bloke whose friendship – or at least, acquaintance – was worth courting. And it enhanced the respect that substituted for affection.

  Most of his colleagues at the bank fell into one of two social categories. There were the products of upper middle class families, public schools and good universities whose polished chumminess, George suspected, hid a sneering contempt for his own grammar school background and discounted the master’s degree, professional qualifications and, eventually, the PhD he had acquired over the years to bolster both his own self-respect and attract that of others. Nicholas (never ‘Nick’) had been one of these. As the holder of three middling ‘A’ levels and a pass degree in something to do with antiques, he was clearly an ideal candidate for a job in personnel, or so his father, a client of the bank’s private banking department, obviously believed. What was more, having flunked his banking exams, Nicholas was a perfect fit for the role of head of professional development where he could oversee the training arrangements that would equip graduate entrants to succeed in their banking careers. George had had very little say in his appointment. Then there were the ‘barrow-boys-made-good’ from the East End – or more often now, from Essex. Their mateyness seemed to hide even more hostility and contempt. It was fine to be a bit of a lad from Ilford or a jolly good type from leafy Surrey or Berkshire but not an ordinary, middle of the road sort of bloke from rural Suffolk.

  Susanna was a mousy blond with a mouth that was a little too wide and full for a true beauty but her warm smile, clear skin and good-natured approach more than compensated. She was what she seemed: a nice, English girl. George had been attracted to Susanna by her deference that he initially mistook for admiration and her willingness to accept his status as her boss with unquestioning loyalty. She had obviously been impressed and flattered to find herself as the secretary to a director of a bank with such an impressive pedigree – stretching back to the Napoleonic wars as the publicity material pointed out in an understated sort of a way, and she accepted his job title and the letters after his name on his business cards as more than sufficient evidence of his professional expertise. Attracte
d and flattered, George was smitten, more or less on Susanna’s first day. Lunch, ‘so I can fill you in without the phone ringing all the time,’ had led to a drink after work, dinner a few days later and, before long, clandestine nights and weekends ‘discussing potential redundancies with our Dutch directors in Amsterdam.’ George had a nagging feeling that his wife had known about Susanna almost from the start but she had never said anything; perhaps she was less possessive than other women he had known. He was pretty sure he had not given the game away. Certainly the coincidence of similar names, his wife, Susan at home and his secretary and girlfriend, Susanna in the office, had reduced the risk of a slip of the tongue at moments of intimacy or distraction. Maybe some sort of female chemistry, a special pheromone, had passed between them when they had fleetingly met at one or another of the bank’s many ad hoc social gatherings or when Susan had rung the office to speak to him. Perhaps he had been guilty of an incautious glance or inflection in his voice or possibly some colleague had put two and two together and mentioned it at home to generate a ‘between us girls’ tip-off to Susan. The adage that the wife is always the last to know did not seem to hold good in this case. On the contrary, thought George, Susan seemed to have been the first to twig that he was playing away from home.

  George and Susan had lived in the same house near Tonbridge for eleven years. They had moved there when they had finally accepted that their marriage was going to be childless. It had been a fresh start. Irrationally George found himself wondering how Susan was coping with the large lawns in the front garden and behind the mock-Tudor house. The grass would soon be growing fast again now that mid summer was well past, and Susan’s petite, almost elfin physique was ill-suited to lugging the petrol mower out of the shed behind the conifers in the corner of the garden. He wondered too if she was still working in her part-time job in the claims section of the insurance brokers in Tonbridge. Having allowed his conscience to torment him for a minute or so, he pushed thoughts of Susan from his mind with a snort of irritation at his own lack of self-control.

  Depression fuelled by the cheap wine led George to the morose conclusion that he was probably dishonest by nature. The nagging feeling that he had sold out, gone over to the other side because of what he had done returned, adding to his depression. He had certainly tried to deceive Susan. And with rather more success, apparently, he had misled Susanna about the reason for their hurried departure from London and their secluded existence for the last five or six months. He could not be sure how she would react to his involvement in something that she would think of as shady and he hadn’t dared take the risk of explaining that she was not the only reason that he had left the bank so abruptly. He knew he was probably making too much of that, using it as an excuse for so many things including, on occasions, tendency to wallow in a sense of persecution. He was worried about his growing sense of persecution and realised he should make an effort to snap out of it. After all, what he had done might be unethical but almost certainly it was not criminal. On the other hand, some form of retribution was probably to be expected and he was anxious about that. And he was worried about becoming unjustifiably anxious. He might be getting ill.

  One of the semi-wild cats that had adopted them as soon as they had arrived appeared on top of the courtyard wall and strolled towards him with super-model strides on ballerina legs. The cat stopped and fixed him with an appraising stare. As he stared back he realised that the cat’s gaze was directed over the top of his head and he turned just in time to see one of the small, green and brown, pinstriped lizards shoot around the corner of the house. The cat slid with liquid grace over the far side of the wall to resume its patrol. George liked lizards. Provided they did not bring him small, fluttering, half-dead birds to be released, re-caught and lost to cower under furniture or in corners of the room, he liked cats, too. The sight of this one put him in a better frame of mind, and prompted sharply by his conscience, he rose stiffly to go up and try to make amends for his cavalier rejection of Susanna’s invitation and to make sure he still held a firm place in her affections.

  Susanna lay on the bed staring at the lampshade swinging gently in the breeze from the open window. The bed was hot to the touch; everything was hot to the touch and she felt moist with sweat on top and damp where her back, buttocks and legs pressed against the mattress. George had been against air conditioning saying it was not worth the money because the village was usually cooled by sea breezes and so less hot than the sweltering mainland. He was wrong, though. At this time of year the difference was negligible. She jerked her head up long enough to drag her hair from under her sweating neck and shoulders and spread it above her on the already damp pillow. She had been charmed at first by the picturesque scenery and remoteness of the village, but it had worn off since they had arrived in March. Swept off her feet by his invitation to throw everything up and run off to a Greek island where they would be unknown and have no need to hide their relationship she had imagined a life of Mediterranean idyll and romantic ecstasy. George was still a considerate lover and his sense of fun made her laugh but she was beginning to feel isolated. When they were in London, George had been more than happy to spend several evenings every week buying rounds in the wine bar and, allowing for his domestic responsibilities and the need for them to be discreet, he had also been more than happy to live it up at weekends. Now he was so reluctant to join in the island’s nightlife, and God knows, it was limited enough; she wondered if he was somehow ashamed of her or embarrassed to be seen with her. George was certainly more experienced than her in many ways but naïve and vulnerable in others. Dark, strongly-built and with his hair worn rather longer that was fashionable, he was an attractive man. There was something sexy about his cool manner in public and his distant, mournful expression until he smiled when his good nature and tolerance shone out. Susanna had never before been close to anyone with an aura of hidden strength and an almost child-like need for affection and she found it exciting. Okay, so he was older than her but forty-six wasn’t old. He was a very good-looking guy for his age, for any age. She had quickly sensed, with surprise as well as pleasure, that he was attracted to her. Lying motionless on the bed, she recalled the melt in the mouth, warm scallops on a bed of young leaves, veal in a light wine sauce and two glasses of something white and wonderful from the Loire. It was the best lunch Susanna had eaten for years – certainly the best she had ever had on her first day in a new job. George was a courtly host, feeding her tit bits of information and news about other members of the department and which directors to watch out for while effortlessly disposing of the rest of the bottle. She had never before been so immediately and intimately immersed in an organisation’s family secrets; although, admittedly, as this was only her third job, she did not have much experience on which to base her assessment. It had been natural to accept an invitation for a ‘quick drink’ on the way home when it was issued a couple of days later and dinner had followed a few days after that. George’s continuing passion for rock music had given them something in common and bridged the generations and she found it easy to dream about long days and nights together with no risk of her losing him to the TV or local football ground every Saturday afternoon or of her becoming a golf widow like her mother had been while her father was still alive. She had soon found out that George was married, not because he had told her but because she had spoken to Susan on the telephone when she rang while George was out of his office. Susan had wished her good luck in her new job. They had laughed about the similarity of their names.

  “We shall have to be careful he doesn’t get us mixed up,” Susan had joked. Had that been a warning or just an ingenuous, light-hearted remark?

  ‘It’s not that I am unhappy,’ thought Susanna. George was sweet to her and the little house was lovely. It was tiny, two-bed-roomed and with a combined kitchen-cum-living room but, Tardis-like, far bigger than it seemed from the narrow street. It was one of those little, Mediterranean houses, sparkling white against a deep
blue sky, crammed amongst a jumble of other red-tiled and deeply-eaved houses so cleverly set together that while she could hear a neighbour’s fork incautiously laid on a plate in an adjoining courtyard, she never felt overlooked. Indeed, it felt so private as to be almost isolated. The village and the rest of the island was populated with kindly people as far as she could tell with her ‘yes, no, good morning, thank-you’ command of Greek. Admittedly the villagers were curious about strangers, especially about what a middle aged man was doing with a much younger girl and they were generous with well-intentioned but unasked-for advice on everything from the vital importance of staying in the shade to preserve her complexion, to the correct way to choose and prepare local produce but they had made them feel welcome. If the house did not exactly fit her ideal of a love nest, it was not far off - more bougainvillea than roses around the door with the cracked and uneven stone paving of the courtyard ledges and angles crammed with terracotta and painted pots of flame–red geraniums and cool green cacti producing an exotic but tamed feel. Certainly it was very, very different from her mother’s house where she had finally grown exasperated of being treated as a wilful child, or from the dingy, shared flats in the cheaper parts of London. But things here were just too… too static. They were where they were with no plans. She had tried to talk to George about the future and he had agreed that they should make some longer-term plans but vaguely and without commitment to do anything. He seemed to find it easier to drift back to thoughts of the past than to focus on the future. So the topic of the future had drifted into the sand or, on more than one occasion, into the bedroom. That was good. This was definitely the place for good sex. George’s almost obsessive need for affection and intimacy made him an energetic lover.