Michael’s wife really loved him.
But then, everyone did. Michael was the most popular man in the entire apartment building. The security guard gave him preferential treatment because, unlike the other tenants, he never complained about the heating, which was always too hot or non-existent. Betty, Michael’s next-door neighbour, adored him because he had once scared a drugged-up burglar from the hallway at two in the morning, because he professed an admiration for the people of North Yorkshire where she had grown up, and because he had shown her how to replace the washers in her bathroom taps. Mitzi and Karen, the two blonde Australian flight attendants on the floor below, liked him because he was cute and a gentleman, because he paid them the respect they were denied in the air and because they were attuned to potential romantic material, married or otherwise.
But it wasn’t just the apartment building. The staff at work loved Michael and showed it, which was unusual, because in London-based companies very few people are willing to reveal their personal loyalties in any direction. The Asian couple who ran the deli at the corner doted on him, because he always asked after their handicapped son, and managed to pronounce the boy’s name correctly. And dozens of other people whose lives crossed Michael’s felt a little bit richer for knowing him. He was a popular guy. And if he was honest with himself, he knew it.
Michael had been aware of his popularity since the age of five, winning over creepy aunts and tobacco-stained uncles with an easy smile. An only child in a quiet middle-class family, he had grown up in sun-dappled suburbia, lavished with love. His parents still worshipped him, calling once a week to catch up with his latest exploits. He had been a golden child who remained golden in adulthood.
Golden. That was the perfect word.
Blond haired, blue eyed, broad shouldered, thirty-two, and married to an intelligent, talented, attractive woman. When Michael spoke others listened, nodding sagely as they considered his point. They wanted to call him by a nickname that would imply intimate friendship, Micky or Mike. What they liked about him was hard for them to define; perhaps they enjoyed basking in the reflection of his success. Perhaps he made them feel more confident in their own abilities.
The truth was simpler than that. Michael was at ease in his world. Even his most casual conversations made sound sense. In a life that was filled with uncertainties he was a totally reliable factor, a bedrock, a touchstone. And others sensed it. Everyone knew that they were in the presence of a winner.
Until the night of the accident, that is.
* * *
It really wasn’t Michael’s fault. The rain was beating so heavily that the windscreen wipers couldn’t clear it on the fastest setting. It was a little after 11 pm, and he was driving slowly and carefully back from the office, where he had been working late. He was thinking about Marla curled up in bed, waiting to hear his key in the lock. He had just coasted the Mercedes through the water chute that a few hours ago had been the road leading to Muswell Hill Broadway when a bicycle materialised from the downpour. On it sat a heavy-set figure in a yellow slicker – but not for long. The figure slammed into the bonnet of the car, then rolled off heavily and fell to the ground. Michael stamped his boot down on the brake, caused the car to fishtail up against the kerb in a spray of dirty water.
He jumped out of the vehicle and ran to the prostrate figure.
“Jeesus focking Christ!” The cyclist was in his late forties, possibly South American, very pissed off. Michael tried to help him to his feet but was shoved away. “Don’ touch me, man, just don’ focking touch me!” He turned back to his bicycle and pulled it upright. The thing had no lights, no brakes, nothing. And the guy sounded drunk or stoned. Michael was feeling less guilty by the second.
“Look, I’m really sorry I hit you, but you just appeared in front of me. It’s lucky I wasn’t going any faster.”
“Yeah, right – lucky me.” The handlebars of the bike were twisted, and it didn’t look like they could be straightened out without spanners. He hurled the bicycle onto the verge in disgust.
“I can give you a ride,” offered Michael. The driver door of the Mercedes was still open. The leather upholstery was getting wet.
“I don’ want no focking ride in a rich man’s car, asshole!” shouted the cyclist, pushing him away.
“Look, I’m trying to be civilised about this,” said Michael, who was always civilised. “You had no lights on, you came straight through a stop sign without even slowing down, what on earth was I supposed to do?”
“I could sue your ass off is what I could do.” The cyclist stared angrily as he gingerly felt his neck and shoulder. “I don’ know that nothin’ is broken here.”
“You’ve probably pulled a muscle,” said Michael, trying to be helpful.
“What, are you a doctor?” The reply was aggressive, the glare relentless.
It was a no-win situation. Time to get away from this crazy person and go back to the car, dry off the seats and head for home. Michael started to back away.
“I’ve offered you a lift, but if you’re going to be—”
“Don’ put yoursel’ out. I live right over there.” The cyclist pointed across the block. “Just give me your address. Write it down so I can contact you.”
Michael hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of giving his address to a stranger. “Why would you need to call me?” he asked.
“Jeesus, why do you think? It turns out I got a dislocated shoulder or something, I gonna get a claim in on you, make you pay to get it fixed. You just better pray they don’ find nothin’ wrong with me, man.”
Reluctantly, Michael pulled a business card from his wallet and passed it across. Moments later he was heading back to the car and checking his watch. The whole business had lasted less than a couple of minutes. Behind the wheel once more, he watched the yellow slicker drift away into the rain mist and thought about the accident.
It was unusual for him to be placed in any kind of confrontational situation and not come out a winner. His likeability could defuse the most volatile of personalities. As he turned the key in the ignition, he wondered if there would be any repercussions. Suppose this chap had actually broken something and didn’t know it yet? How did he stand, insurance-wise? He was thinking of himself, but hell, it had been the other party’s fault. Michael was nice but no saint. His comfortable life made few allowances for upsets, and breaks in the smooth running of his routine irritated the hell out of him.
* * *
“Darling, you’re all wet. What have you been doing?” Marla reached up and hugged him, her bed-warm body against his damp jacket.
“There was a bit of an accident. I hit a cyclist. Had to get out of the car.” He gently disentangled himself and began removing his clothes.
She pulled the sheet around her. “How awful. What happened?”
“He wasn’t looking where he was going. I could have killed him. Luckily, he didn’t seem hurt, but—”
The telephone rang. Marla shared his look of surprise. Their friends all knew that they had a seven-year-old son in the next room and never called the house late. Michael pulled the instrument toward him by the cord and raised the receiver. A wail of bizarre music squealed from the earpiece.
“Hello, who is this?”
“This the guy you hit tonight, brother.”
“How did you get my ho—”
“My shoulder’s dislocated. Bad news for you. Real bad karma.”
The guy couldn’t have seen a doctor already, even if he’d gone straight to casualty.
“Are you sure? I mean, how—”
“Sure I’m sure, you think you’re dealing with a fockin’ idiot? Patty, she says it’s all bust up. Which means I can’t work. An’ you have to pay me compensation. S’gon be a lot of money, man.”
“Now wait a minute…” Maybe this was some kind of scam, a professional con trick.
Marla was tapping his arm, mouthing, “Who is it?”
He slipped his hand over the mouthpiec
e. “The chap I hit tonight.”
“You still there? You gonna pay me to get fixed up or what?”
“Look, if you think you have a case for extracting money from me, I think you’re wrong.” Michael’s famous niceness was starting to slip. Who the hell did this guy think he was, finding his home number and calling so late at night? “But if you really have damaged yourself, it’s your own fault for riding without lights and not watching the traffic.”
“You don’ know who you’re dealing with,” came the reply. “You just made the biggest mistake of your life.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m just saying that people like you need to be taught a fockin’ lesson, treating guys like me as if we don’ exist.”
Michael stared at the receiver. This was bullshit. He was in the right; the other party was in the wrong. The law was on his side. And he cared, he had a social conscience. But the thought struck him, what if the accident had somehow been his fault after all?
“You still there? Tell me, Mr Townsend, what’s your biggest fear? That your child get sick? That your wife get up and leave you?”
A chill prickled at Michael’s neck. He didn’t like this crazy man using his name, talking about his family. And how did he know he was even married? Was it that obvious, just by looking at the car?
“No, you scared o’ something else even more, but you don’t even know it. I see through people like you. Don’ take much to break a man like you.” There was contempt in the voice, as if the caller was reading his mind.
“Now listen,” Michael snapped, “you have no right to threaten me, not when you endangered my life as well as your own. I could get the police—”
The voice on the line cut in. “When you come to find me – an’ you will – it won’ be with no damn police.”
Suddenly the line went dead. Michael shrugged and replaced the handset.
“Well, what did he say?”
“Oh, he was just – abusive,” he replied distractedly, watching the rain spangle over the streetlights.
“Do you have his number?”
“Hmm?”
“His number, do you have it in case there’s a problem?”
Michael realised that he didn’t even know the name of the man he’d hit.
* * *
He rose early, leaving his wife curled beneath the duvet. Surprisingly, even little Sean had slept on in the adjoining bedroom. Michael showered and donned a shirt, grabbed a piece of toast and poured himself a glass of milk. Then he climbed the stairs and gently woke his wife.
And she slapped his face.
The glass broke. The milk splashed. He stepped back and cut his foot, but the pain had already given way to hurt. Puzzled, he ran his fingers across his reddening cheek.
“What the hell – what are you looking for?”
She was frantically searching beneath the mattress, then pulled up short in confusion.
“You – shouldn’t creep up on me like that.” Marla slunk back beneath the covers, sleep-pressed hair folding over her eyes. She turned her back to him, embarrassed by the vivid dream that had leaked over into reality. Picking the glass from his foot, he watched a drop of crimson blood disperse in an alabaster puddle of milk like a spreading virus.
An Elastoplast took care of the wound. He rattled the glass fragments into a box, which he sealed and placed in the pedal bin beneath the sink, then listened as his son thumped downstairs.
“Sean? You want Crunchy-Crunch?” He cocked his head. No answer. Odd. The boy could always be drawn by mention of his favourite breakfast cereal. “Seanie?”
He looked around to find the boy glaring distrustfully at him through the bars. “Sean, what’s the matter? Come down and pour your milk on.”
The child shook his head slowly and solemnly, mumbling something to himself. He pulled his stripy sweatshirt over his chin and locked his arms around his knees. He stared through the bars, but he wouldn’t descend any further.
“Come and have your breakfast, Sean. We can take some up to Mummy.” Another muffled reply.
Michael set the dustpan aside and took a step toward his son. “I can’t hear what you’re saying.”
“You’re not my daddy,” the boy screamed suddenly, scrambling back up the stairs to the safety of his bedroom.
* * *
Michael checked himself in the rear-view mirror. The same pleasant, confident face looked back, although the smile was a little less certain than usual. He drove through the avenue of sodden embankment trees heading into the city and wondered about the behaviour of his family. He didn’t wonder for long; the three of them had managed to maintain a problem-free existence until now, cushioned perhaps by Marla’s inherited wealth and his own easy-going attitude. If they got under each other’s feet in town there was always the cottage in Norfolk, a convenient ivy-covered bolt hole that provided healing seclusion. But the memory of the slap lingered as clearly as if the hand print had remained on his face.
Michael parked the car in the underground garage and took the lift to the seventh floor where he worked for Aberfitch McKiernny, a law firm dealing primarily with property disputes. The receptionist glanced up as he passed but failed to grant him her usual morning smile. The switchboard operators glared sullenly in his wake. Even the postboy seemed to be ignoring him. Why was everyone in such a bad mood today?
Michelle was already waiting by his door. She was the most efficient secretary he had ever employed. Power dressed in tight black raw cotton, her pale hair knotted carefully at her neck, she impatiently tapped a pair of plastic folders against the palm of her hand while she waited for him to remove his coat.
“You were supposed to take these home with you last night,” she explained, passing them over.
“I didn’t get around to them. The Trowerbridge case took up all my time. I’ll try to run them later this morning.”
She reached over and took the folders back. “I don’t think that will do any good. Your ‘opinion’ was needed yesterday; no one will want it today.”
She stressed the words strangely, as if she no longer held much respect for him. Michael seated himself behind his desk and studied her. What was going on here? Michelle had always been his biggest fan, his greatest supporter. It was obvious to everyone that she was more than a little in love with him, and he played on the knowledge mercilessly. But today her tone had changed. There was a testiness in her voice, as if she had seen inside him and no longer desired what she saw.
“Michelle, are you okay?”
She folded her arms across her chest, pure frost. “Fine. Why?”
“I don’t know, you sound so—”
“You’d better get into Leo’s office. He’s been calling for you. He sounds pretty angry about something.”
Leo Tarrant, fifty-seven, the calm centre of the firm, was at peace because he knew he was retiring in a year, and no longer let anything in the world worry him. But this morning he wasn’t like that. His usually slick grey mane was ruffled about his head. His face was sclerotic and mottled with suppressed rage. He tipped back his chair and flicked rhythmically at the sides of a gold cigarette case, reminder of his past habit, now a talisman of his strengthened heart.
“You’ve let me down badly with this Trowerbridge business,” he admitted. “I thought I’d get an early result by placing it in your hands. Instead it now looks as if they’ll have to go to court after all.”
Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He simply couldn’t comprehend Leo’s attitude. Trowerbridge Developments had been sued by one of its tenants for failing to maintain a property. The company, aware that it had little chance of winning the case, had requested the negotiation of an out-of-court settlement by its longstanding legal representatives. Michael had done everything within his power to ensure that this would happen. After all, the clients were friends of his. They saw each other socially. Their kids even played together.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Leo,�
� Michael confessed. “I completed my end of the deal in plenty of time to prevent the planned court action from going ahead.”
“That’s exactly the opposite of what I’ve heard,” said his boss, clicking away at the clasp of the cigarette box. “According to the client’s own progress report you’ve been holding back the negotiations and leaning so far in favour of the tenants that there’s precious little time left for Trowerbridge to cut himself a deal. Neither he nor his son can see any way of making a satisfactory settlement. And there’s something else.”
Michael was dumbfounded. He couldn’t have worked any harder for these people. If this was their way of showing gratitude…
“Have you ever received any financial inducements from the Trowerbridge family? Negative-equity absorbers, anything like that?”
The old man was accusing him of taking a bribe? He could scarcely believe his ears.
“No, of course not,” he spluttered furiously. “I’m amazed that you could even consider—”
“Calm down, I’m not saying you did. It’s something that the corporation suggested I look into. Think back over your relationship with Trowerbridge during the past few months, would you? You’d better make damned sure that there’s nothing in your recent dealings with them that could damage your standing with this firm. Now let’s go over these complaints in detail.” He produced a slim red file and carefully unfolded it.
For the next hour and a half Michael was interrogated about his handling of the impending lawsuit. Although he left Leo’s office more or less vindicated, he knew from the look on the old man’s face that something irretrievable had been lost; a level of trust had been removed. The layer of good faith that had always existed between himself and his superiors had been torn away like the stripes from a dishonoured soldier’s tunic. It wasn’t just a matter of rebuilding Leo’s confidence in him. He wanted to know why his abilities had been so quickly doubted. Clearly the Trowerbridge family, father and son, had lied, and Leo had believed them. But why should they do that? What had they to gain beyond an undesired delay to the lawsuit? It made no sense.
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