‘Which devil?’
His head is bent over the sachet, tangled hair tucked behind his ears, concentrating on that little paper envelope as though his life depends upon it.
‘You don’t really want to hear this, do you?’
‘Why not? We’re a captive audience.’ Abigail casts a covert glance at Sam. ‘In every sense of the word.’
‘True.’
‘Hardly the moment for small talk, is it? Come on, Neil. Spill.’
TWENTY
Neil
Perhaps there’s a limit to how much terror a person can experience: an upper level, above which it trickles away down the overflow. He woke up this morning cold, hungry and—more pervasive than all his other sources of misery—lonely. Now he’s none of these things. He’s connected to other human beings, sharing an experience with them. The people with him now aren’t scurrying commuters grabbing a Big Issue, keen to get home to their central heating. He hasn’t shared a day like this for a very, very long time.
‘I’ve been a complete and utter knob,’ he says.
Abi chuckles bitterly. ‘Doesn’t disqualify you from high office. There’s quite a few knobs running countries right now, and they’re not living on the streets. You had a career, a family. What went wrong?’
He likes her. She’s impatient, maybe a bit arrogant, but she’s honest. She doesn’t mince her words. He can imagine her cross-examining some stammering witness in court. She’s probably not much older than his Belinda, but he suspects the two wouldn’t get along at all.
What went wrong? If he traces the river of his self-destruction back through the years, where will he find its source?
‘I was a teacher for twenty-five years,’ he begins. ‘Married almost as long. Two children, Belinda and Jesse. It wasn’t till near the end that the stress got on top of me. I’m not making excuses.’ He considers this statement. ‘Yes, I am. Making excuses, yet again. Stress began the downward slide. Day after day, year after year. Parents, management. Paper trails, Ofsted inspections. I taught in a challenging school in Bristol. “Challenging” is doublespeak. What it means is bedlam. Kids bringing knives and drugs in.’
Abi has turned sideways in the booth, so that she’s facing him.
‘Knives. Too many of those around nowadays.’
‘They said they were for self-protection, when I rumbled their cache. I need it to protect myself, Mr Cunningham. We had a lot of hungry kids so I tried to set up a breakfast club.’ Neil scratches his chin under his beard, reliving the disappointment. ‘I tried pretty hard but it never got off the ground. No funding, no interest from management. My dad died; he was a good friend and suddenly he was gone. Every day it seemed harder to get out of bed in the morning. I couldn’t achieve anything. I felt I was failing. I was failing.’
Mutesi shakes her head. ‘Teachers shouldn’t feel like that.’
‘I don’t think mine ever did,’ says Abi. ‘Half of them flew on broomsticks, the other half had ’em shoved up their arses. Sorry, Neil.’ She turns back to him with a wide smile. ‘I’m sure you’re the exception that proves the rule.’
‘I’ve got a feeling you went to a different kind of school.’
‘Possibly.’
He unfolds the sugar packet, smoothing it flat with the pads of his fingers. He’s getting to the part of the story that makes him want to cry.
‘One day I was off sick. I called it flu but really I just couldn’t face leaving the house. I was on my laptop, looking for a new job. We had a massive mortgage. Anyway … this advert popped up on my screen. An ad for online gambling, you know? They’re always there. Bright colours. Flashing. A disco on my screen. I didn’t even know how to play the stupid game but I thought, Why not? Might be fun. So I put on a fiver and I won. Hooray! That win gave me a bit of a high. I put the whole lot back on, won again—Blimey, I can do this, I’m good at it, I can win—ridiculous ’cos there was absolutely no skill involved. I was like a kid in a sweetshop. For once in my life I was a winner! By the time Heather came home I’d made us thirty quid. I didn’t tell her because in my heart I was ashamed. But I was in a better mood; I’d had a few hours off from the stress. A little holiday.’
‘Maybe they let you win at first?’ Brigitte suggests. ‘To get you hooked.’
‘They do exactly that. And it works. It switched on a circuit in my mind that I hadn’t known existed—the gambler part of me. I imagine it as flashing disco lights in my brain.’
Neil discards his sugar wrapper. Now he’s telling the story, he feels a compulsive need to confess. He wants these strangers to know what he is. Even the lad is listening. The killer. He’s just a boy really. Hair that hasn’t seen a comb for a while, stubble, the weary droop of a sixth-former who’s had a heavy weekend on the tiles and chemistry first thing Monday morning. True fact: as you get older, doctors, coppers and murderous hostage takers just seem younger and younger.
‘I had another flutter the same night,’ he says. ‘And the next. It was a nice distraction. I was putting back too much whisky in the evenings but I didn’t smoke, didn’t do anything really except work. I didn’t think of it as getting addicted, I told myself it was just a game, but I was gambling every evening after Heather had gone to bed. Other husbands watch porn every chance they get. Not me. Never watched a single minute of porn.’
‘Charlie claims he hasn’t either,’ says Abi. ‘Might be more fun if he did.’
‘Whoa!’ protests Neil, holding up a hand. ‘Way too much information. Young women have changed since my day. Anyway, I might have been better watching porn because, before I knew it, I was possessed. I gambled in every way known to man. Casinos, bookies, slot machines. I kept expecting the Big Win, that marvellous, wonderful day when Heather and I could give up our jobs, pay off our mortgage and give the kids better schools and holidays and … Jesus, I was a knob.’
He’s feeling it now: the sickening ache in his stomach. The shame. The lies. The lies.
‘When our mortgage payment wasn’t going to go through, I borrowed from my mother to fill the gap. I told her a pack of lies. I got more credit cards behind Heather’s back. Before I knew it I’d maxed out three cards, couldn’t afford the interest. Christmas was coming, we had to buy presents and food and the bank was doing its nut. I went to all kinds of lengths to catch the post before Heather saw the threatening letters. I ended up getting a stomach ulcer.’
Arthur winces. ‘Nasty. I’ve had one of those.’
‘Well—you’d know then, Arthur. I was more or less catatonic by this time. I wasn’t sleeping, kept flying off the handle. Got myself a written warning for swearing at a pupil.’
‘Heather must have noticed something was wrong?’
‘Oh God, oh God.’ He presses his palm to his eyes. ‘She asked and asked. I denied there was a problem. Denied it to myself. I thought: I’m a scientist, I can beat those bloody algorithms. I sat down and worked out a system to win everything back. The week before Christmas I borrowed from a loan shark and put all the money on one horse. I had a good feeling about that horse. I still hoped I could save us.’
‘Oh dear,’ murmurs Abi. ‘I think we can all see where this is going.’
‘You’ve guessed it. Lost the lot.’
‘Heather found out in the end?’
‘Heather’s no slouch. She suspected I was having an affair so she searched my drawers, found the credit card bills and letters from the bank and the loan shark and the receipt from the pawnbroker who had my wedding ring and my collection of vinyls and even Jesse’s silver cups that he got for skating. She went through my internet browser history and that told her all she needed to know.’
He remembers the day with horrible clarity. Parking in the drive, walking into an eerily quiet house, the Christmas tree drooping in the corner with its lights turned off. Tinsel. Presents in a pile; presents that they couldn’t afford. Heather, sitting on the sofa in the dark. He confessed before she accused—blurted out the whole story. He felt relieved.
/>
‘She left me for a month,’ he says. ‘Took the children and went to her parents. They were all a lot more forgiving than I deserved. In the February she gave me a second chance. Her parents bailed us out financially. I signed up to Gambler’s Anonymous and started seeing an addiction counsellor. I promised, promised, promised. I stayed off the websites and out of the casinos and bookies—swore I’d never touch them again. We had a chance of getting back on our feet thanks to Heather taking a second job as a fees clerk. We staggered through to summer when her parents paid for us to have a week in Wales. That was nice. Until one day … one day …’ He stops, trying to swallow the aching tightness in his throat. ‘I let my guard down. Someone gave me a hot tip for a steeplechase. I was such a stupid … I listened to this little voice in my head whispering, Go on! You’re not a gambler anymore. This is just a bit of fun. I put on a tenner.’
‘And won?’ asks Brigitte.
‘Bloody won.’ Tears are dripping from Neil’s nose. Abi passes him a serviette and he presses his face into it.
‘Possessed again, worse than ever. Lying, stealing. Heather was keeping really tight control of the finances now but I found ways … I fiddled my expenses for a school Duke of Edinburgh trip. I meant to pay it back. I was lucky not to be prosecuted, but I had to agree to resign immediately. The deputy head personally escorted me to collect my things and marched me off the premises. Heather gave me a week to leave the house but I left the next day. I ruined her. We went bankrupt. Bankrupt. It’s not a concept people really understand unless it’s happened to them. The shame. Heather couldn’t hold up her head, we owed so many people money. Belinda and Jesse got bullied at school. I ended up on the streets. Served me right.’
‘Why the streets?’ asks Paige. ‘You must have family or friends.’
‘It took a while. My mum was in a nursing home. She’s died since. My sisters weren’t speaking to me after they found out I’d spent all her savings. Most of our friends were avoiding me. To be fair, I’d borrowed from most of ’em. I didn’t have a car, a job or an address. I had literally no money—I left my last pound coin on the kitchen table as I walked out. All I had was what I could carry. In the end I left Bristol, hitched to London where a guy I knew from my student days let me sleep on the sofa. I looked for jobs … no joy, except I weeded people’s gardens for the odd hour or two. I overstayed my welcome. The people I was dossing with said they were sorry, but they had visitors coming. I said, Righto, cheerio, I’ve got somewhere else lined up. I didn’t. I’d run out of mates.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Phoned home. Used up all my credit.’
That was the last time he’d heard Heather’s voice. He had told her he’d landed an interview for a job in pharmaceuticals, that it was a dead cert, and he’d gone back to Gambler’s Anonymous.
‘Give me one more chance,’ he’d begged. ‘Please.’
‘Oh, Neil.’ A ragged sigh. ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’
The love had flatlined; the love that had bounced them so carelessly and hopefully into marriage and kids. It was dead. She’d finally had enough and nobody on this earth would blame her. She had wrung out every drop of faith, accepted his excuses and apologies and lies, given him chance after chance.
‘There’s been too much damage,’ she’d told him. ‘I have to think about the children now.’
‘I promise—I’ve hit rock bottom.’
She’d said that she’d heard it all before and she couldn’t believe a single word that came out of his lying mouth. She was right, of course. The new job was pure fiction, he hadn’t been anywhere near Gambler’s Anonymous, and he was a very long way from rock bottom, though he didn’t know it yet.
‘That was the first night I spent on the street. I’ve never been so scared in my life.’ Neil glances at the gun in Sam’s hand. ‘Until today. London’s like another city at night. I didn’t sleep a wink; I was much too cold and scared. By the next morning I had an idea of what it means to be hungry. It took me another day to be desperate enough to start begging. You never feel the same about yourself once you’ve had to beg to survive, once you’ve been through rubbish bins. You feel subhuman. You stop mattering to anyone. I was sitting under a bridge and the rain was dripping through. I had a plastic cup in front of me. I was the beggar you walk past. “Spare change? Spare change?”’
He’s never forgotten it: a figure in a mackintosh, barely breaking step with the marching tide of commuters. A male voice, brisk and businesslike—there you go—and then the saviour was gone, but there was money in the cup.
‘One pound seventy,’ he says. ‘One pound seventy. I was so grateful, and so tired—so tired—I started blubbing.’
‘What’s happened to your family?’
‘I didn’t stay in touch. Don’t want them to see me in rags. I hear Heather’s got someone else now and I really, really hope she’s happy. Belinda moved in with her childhood sweetheart. I’ve got a grandson somewhere, never met him … Jesse went into the navy. He gave me a black eye last time I saw him. Fair enough.’ He hesitates. ‘I’ve got a confession to make to you, Mutesi. You gave me four quid this morning. Thanks. I was planning to lay it on a dead cert at Haydock.’
Mutesi smiles, wagging a forefinger. ‘You need to cut that out.’
He stops, exhausted by the sound of his own voice. He hasn’t talked this much in years. There are plenty of things he hasn’t told them. The indignities; the nagging internal voice telling him he’d be better off dead. The violence. People piss on you when you’re asleep. They empty their McDonald’s over your head, or give you a swift kick as a reminder of what a loser you are. It never ceases to amaze him just how viscerally some people hate rough sleepers. He knows a girl—nineteen, Irish, clever—who was outside the National Portrait Gallery when her sleeping bag was set alight with her in it. Sometimes the danger comes from your own: a month ago a young guy, off his head on artificial cannabis, mistook Neil for an anaconda and tried to throttle him. Might have been curtains for Neil if Buddy hadn’t come to the rescue.
While he’s been telling his story, the little girl—Lily, is that her name? Yes, Lily—has been chattering and babbling to her soft toy, bouncing it up and down old Arthur’s arm. She’s a real sweetie, only just learning to talk. She has a turned-up nose.
‘Arta,’ she says. ‘Roo’s jumping on you. Look, Arta!’
When Mutesi glances around at the child, her indulgent smile fades.
‘Arthur? Are you feeling all right?’
There is urgency in the nurse’s voice. Following her gaze, Neil sees the reason for it. Arthur is sitting bolt upright, gripping the edge of the table with both hands, staring rigidly at the opposite wall as though his life depends on not closing his eyes.
‘Not great,’ he wheezes. A sheen of sweat glistens on his face.
‘Any pain?’
‘Here.’ His fingers flick across his chest. ‘Hoping I don’t keel over, make a real fool of myself.’
‘He’s got a heart condition,’ says Paige. She’s loosening his tie and undoing his top button. ‘That’s why we were going to the clinic at the hospital today. He has some pills but they won’t be on him—have you got your pills with you, Arthur? Arthur? Can you hear me?’
Lily joins in. ‘Arta? Arta?’
Arthur has begun gasping for breath. Mutesi leans across the table, running her fingers around his thin wrist. Whatever his pulse is doing, she doesn’t seem happy about it.
‘Not good?’ asks Neil.
She meets his eye with a rapid shake of her head. ‘If someone presented like this at my work, I’d be calling an ambulance and telling them to hurry up.’
‘What can I do?’
‘We have to get him out.’ She straightens, her chin jutting. ‘Sam? Sam! I need you to listen to me. This man may be having a heart attack.’
The lad is watching nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
‘Come and see for yourself,’ urges Mutes
i. ‘Stress and exhaustion: these are triggers. Arthur has suffered both today.’
‘You’re just trying to trick me into opening the door.’
With a cry of exasperation, Abi slides out of the booth. The next moment she’s facing Sam down, her eyes snapping with anger. There’s not a hint of fear in her. Neil admires her for that.
‘Seriously? Seriously? Fuck, Sam, get over yourself! Have you looked at him? D’you want another dead man on your conscience?’
‘I’m all right,’ gulps Arthur, but he isn’t. A grey pallor is spreading across his face, tinges of blue around the lips.
Sam moves closer, his brow furrowed. ‘He says he’s all right.’
‘He’s almost ninety, you moron,’ snarls Abi. ‘He’s been through wartime! His generation doesn’t complain even when they’re at death’s door. Let him go right now, for Christ’s sake—let the kids go too. I’ll help you get them out, I’ll put all the tables back after they’ve gone. I promise I’ll help you. Just get him out of here and off to hospital—or you will have been a double murderer today.’
Sam’s next step brings him up short. He’s clearly horrified at the sight of Arthur’s face.
‘Fuck,’ he mutters. ‘Fuck, this is … he’s … why can’t they just let me see Nicola and Julia?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Mutesi. ‘I’m angry with them too. I wish they’d give you what you want.’
‘It’s on them if he dies. It’s on them.’
Mutesi’s hands are on her hips. Light from the window glints on her glasses. ‘You don’t believe that.’
Sam looks towards the barricaded door—at Abi, who is already beginning to drag a table to one side—and swings back to peer at Arthur. He’s rubbing his nose, his chin, muttering to himself.
‘What are you going to do?’ asks Mutesi.
TWENTY-ONE
Eliza
She’s been holed up in this oppressive little box all her life. It’s her universe.
The Secrets of Strangers Page 12