by Simon Wood
‘Excuse me, missus,’ he said. ‘Are you open? It’s just that the sign says you are.’
Damning herself for a fool, Pamela realized that, when she’d locked up earlier, she’d neglected to turn the ‘Open’ sign around.
‘Erm…I’m not, no,’ she replied. ‘We’ve had to close early.’
‘Oh…right.’
He didn’t seem like an unpleasant man, she thought. In fact, he looked a little dropped on.
‘It’s just…well, I go to the Tech,’ he said, referencing the A-Level College not three streets away. ‘I usually get picked up by my dad at the end of the road here…you know, when he’s coming home from work. I’ve seen you open a few times, and I wondered if you might be interested in these old textbooks?’
He held up the cloth bag.
That would be a nice gesture, Pamela realized. Students at the Tech usually sold their old textbooks. But she would still need to open the door to take them off him.
‘It’s very kind of you,’ she said, stalling. ‘But I’d need to go and find the keys, and that might, erm…it might take…’
A pair of headlights pulled up beyond the gate. Pamela spied the dented, green bodywork of what looked like an old transit van. The young man glanced around.
‘My old fella’s here,’ he said. ‘That means I’ve got to go. Tell you what…’ He placed the books on the step and edged backwards. ‘They’ll be okay here, wont they…while you go looking for the key? It’s not raining, or nothing.’
‘Okay…right. That’s an excellent idea. Thanks.’
She had to shout because his back was already turned as he hurried away, jumping into the front passenger seat of the vehicle, which pulled off away.
Pamela’s head drooped as she pondered the ludicrousness of the situation, tears mingling with the sweat on her cheeks. Eventually, she went out through the hatch and unlocked the glass door.
You’ve seen the bushes down either side of the path? Someone could be hiding.
Reminding herself that the bushes were largely leafless, she stepped determinedly outside, reclaimed the bag from the step, and taking it back indoors, examined the contents.
Three textbooks, as promised. The Enlightenment, The Rise of National Thought and The Early Modern Age. Good, solid hardbacks, in excellent condition—they almost looked new.
And Pamela had nearly turned them away.
She sighed as she re-bagged them and left them on the counter. She’d find space for them on the shelves tomorrow. In the meantime, she needed to get fixed up. Gerald would be here soon, and he wouldn’t be impressed to see that she’d been crying.
A few minutes later, after touching up the minimal make-up she wore these days, she grabbed her mac and bag, hit the lights and locked up behind her. Gerald’s Mercedes was waiting at the end of the path. She walked quickly towards it, glancing neither right nor left.
It was too easy to imagine that someone could be crouching in those bushes. But at least Gerald was here now.
It won’t be a problem tomorrow either…because then you’ll have the man.
He was well enough presented, in a superficial sort of way, wearing an Italian leather jacket, a short-sleeved shirt with a neck chain showing, pressed trousers and polished brogues. He had handsome, chiseled features, with short, dark hair slicked to one side. But there was an air of cunning about him. He seemed relaxed and confident as he sat in the office chair, unusually so given the reason he was here.
When Pamela asked if he’d like coffee, he shook his head. Even before she’d sat back at her own desk, he’d lost interest in her, muttering to himself, cracking his knuckles. This drew her attention to his hands, which looked disproportionately large, knobbled and hairy, a single, black star tattooed on the back of the left one. When his gaze suddenly darted back towards her, she averted her eyes, but felt pinned in place as he silently and protractedly appraised her. He was looking at her legs, she realized. That wasn’t unusual. There was no modesty board, and at Gerald’s urging she’d always adopted the ‘office glam’ approach: high heels, pencil skirt, silk blouse, blond hair cut in a fetching bob.
‘Always make the best of yourself, darling,’ as her hubby had once said. ‘Don’t listen to that feminist claptrap. Sure, you want the bosses to value you for your efficiency. But all legal secretaries are efficient. You’ve got extra tools—use them.’
At that moment, her ‘tools’ felt as if they might be a disadvantage.
Thomas Hallam was here to see his solicitors, because he was under suspicion of two rapes. He’d already been arrested and bailed once, but as the police collected more evidence, it was increasingly likely that he’d be arrested again—and now he was feasting his eyes on her. At least, she thought he was, because she wouldn’t dare look up and meet his gaze.
Not that she had much choice several hours later, when crossing the underground car park and he sprang out from behind a concrete stanchion.
It was weird how the first thing to go through Pamela’s mind was fascination that he’d been prepared to wait most of the day for her, though further consideration was scrambled as he hit her on the side of the head with pile-driving force. All thoughts went tumbling, the next blow coming from the asphalt floor as she hit it full-length. Before she knew it, one of those big, knobbly paws had twisted into her hair, and he was lugging her away through the oil and grime. The far end of this parking level was undergoing renovation. There were cones down there, and strips of tape. And beyond those, a wall of black shadow.
‘Bitch is going to pay,’ he chuckled to himself. ‘Oh yes. Pay up, totty bitch.’
And then the lift doors opened again, and more male voices intruded, penetrating Pamela’s stupor. They were engaged in cheery banter, though this rapidly stuttered to a halt. Then there was a chaos of angry shouting.
Pamela’s head hit the floor again as her hair was released. His face swam down to hers, his eyes moon-like, his mouth fizzing with fetid saliva.
‘Upper class tart,’ he hissed. ‘You haven’t got away…you hear?’
A bomb exploded in her stomach, and his feet slammed her side with rib-cracking impacts.
Though her physical scars had long faded, every time Pamela relived the experience in her dreams, the pain was just as intense. At least fleetingly.
On this occasion, though it was still three in the morning, she hobbled weakly downstairs. In the kitchen, she sat on a stool, shivering, while the kettle boiled. Her usual routine was to make herself coffee. It was hardly ideal in the middle of the might, but then sleep was often an ordeal in itself.
In truth, she could have cried, but one of the few things Gerald said about this that did ring true was that self-pity only isolated a person more, and that you at least had to make an effort to be strong, otherwise you’d end up with no allies at all. Of course, he’d then ruined the whole thing by extending the argument to her new choice of haircut, which was very short—‘mannish’, in his words—and her unconscious renunciation of the pretty, designer clothes she’d once worn religiously. ‘Trading your Gucci handbag in for a piece of cloth with a shoulder-strap might make it feel as if you don’t look worth robbing,’ he’d said. ‘But seriously, darling…is that what these guys are after? And dressing like a ragamuffin doesn’t make you any less a woman. You’ll still be fair game in their eyes.’
Cheers, my love.
She clutched her mug, exhausted by fear and anxiety, weary of constantly looking over her shoulder and trying to second-guess the motives of every man who came close. Thomas Hallam was now doing fourteen years in prison. But she saw others like him everywhere; in all walks of life, at all times of day.
Are you saying they aren’t out there?
The wind gusted outside, and something skittered along the windowpane. Pamela glanced around. The kitchen light showed a vortex of autumn leaves swirling in the garden.
She relaxed again. A little bit.
One step at
a time, but yes it was true, at some point you actually had to take that step.
Tomorrow was the obvious occasion, but it wouldn’t be easy.
Ironically, she’d been planning to carry a hammer in her handbag. Quite seriously, though purely for practical reasons.
Who knew, though, it might reassure her in other ways.
When morning came, Gerald, predictably, was grudging about it.
He bought her explanation that a window panel was loose and needed nailing in place until it could be fixed properly, and even went to the shed and got his claw-hammer, along with some nails. But he didn’t look happy.
‘Going the whole hog now, are we? Not just dressing like a bloke but acting like one too.’
These words played themselves through Pamela’s mind again and again as the Merc pulled away, and she started up the path to the front door. But interestingly, they angered her as well as shamed her. And maybe that was good. Maybe it signaled that some of her old spirit was returning. Not that this mood of defiance lasted very long.
Because the man was waiting on the step.
Smiling as she approached.
He introduced himself as Alan Kyper and he immediately came over as the sort of chap a girl could take home to mother. He was somewhere in his mid-twenties, of average height and build, with soft, wavy fair hair and boyish looks. He dressed smartly too, wearing a Burberry trench coat over trousers, shoes and a checkerboard V-necked sweater, with a shirt and tie underneath—but from the outset, none of it added up.
Why’s a young guy like this not doing a real job?
It occurred to her that he might be under the wrong impression about what would be required of him here. He had a large sports bag, after all, which was zipped closed.
So, what’s in there, his murder kit?
But, he then put the bag in the Stock Room with his coat and chatted amiably with Pamela while she made coffee in the kitchen. He had a faint North Midlands accent, but it was soft and refined, and when he spoke, he articulated well.
‘I guess you’re wondering why I’m here?’ he said, as though he’d been reading her thoughts.
Pamela threw him a guarded glance as she brewed. It wasn’t a big room, but Kyper remained at the other side of it, maintaining a respectful distance.
‘It’s because I’m taking a brief sabbatical,’ he said.
‘Sabbatical?’ She tried to maintain an air of indifference.
‘There’s a project I’m pursuing, which keeps me occupied in the evenings. It’s quite demanding in that it needs a lot of focus and forward-planning. It also keeps me up until late each night.’
Are you actually hearing this?
‘So, I thought it best if during the day I filled my time with…well, something less challenging. No offence, by the way.’
Pamela shrugged.
‘That’s why I’ve come to Manchester. It’s a big change of scene for me, but it’s taken me out of my normal social group, and that’s the point. It means there are less distractions.’
‘So, you’ve only moved to the area recently?’ she couldn’t help but ask.
‘Last June.’
Christ in a cartoon!
Pamela said nothing.
‘Since then, I’ve been, well…’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘Kicking my heels, mostly. Familiarizing myself with the district. Going for walks, riding the bus routes. None of it very constructive. Which is why I started looking for something real to do. I spotted this operation, which, now I’m here, feels as if it’ll be absolutely ideal.’
‘We don’t get very busy, I’m afraid,’ Pamela said.
‘I understand that. But at least I’m connecting with human beings again.’
He wasn’t connecting with human beings when he was down in the Midlands?
‘Hello?’ someone called from the direction of the counter.
Pamela hurried down there, relieved, and was pleased to see Mr. Ogilvy with another of those cardboard boxes, this one also packed to bursting with paperbacks. He was a big man in his mid-fifties, with shaggy grey hair and a scraggy beard. As usual, he wore paint-stained surplus army pants and a baggy, dusty sweatshirt.
‘Just wondering if you can make use of these,’ he said, in a curter voice than usual.
‘It’s very kind of you,’ Pamela said, as he pushed the box across the counter. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without contributions like these.’
Surprised by her pleasant tone, he glanced around, registering Mrs. Brody’s absence. ‘You alone here today?’
‘You mean is Mrs. Brody around? No, she’s not.’
In truth, Pamela was a little surprised that she was being so garrulous. Possibly, she was reacting to the discomforting presence of a stranger like Mr. Kyper by reaching out to the more familiar figure of Mr. Ogilvy. Either way, it felt nice.
‘I’m sorry she was rude to you last time. That’s just the way she is. But no, she’s gone off to have her baby.’
‘Aye, well…I expected that.’ He shrugged. ‘But no apology’s needed. I know it wasn’t you. Anyway…’ he tapped the side of the box, ‘there are just under two-hundred in here.’
‘Good heavens!’
‘I suppose you’re wondering where they’re all coming from, eh?’
‘I was, rather…’ Pamela found herself warming to him even more. Despite his bluff exterior, his ruggedness had a kind of fatherly appeal. Okay, he was scruffy, and his hands were covered in dust and grit, his fingernails marked underneath with what looked like wood-stain, but none of that mattered. They were a working man’s hands. They implied integrity.
‘Came down here from Stirling a few months ago, after my aunt died,’ he explained. ‘She was a second-hand book dealer in central Manchester. I inherited the business. But it wasn’t very profitable. The premises were saleable of course, as was a lot of the stock—so, we sold it all. But then we discovered she had a cellar room in her house, which was loaded with more books. Most of them are in good nick, but I’m in a rush to clear the place, and it just seemed easier to give them all to charity.’ Again, though a gruff sort, he seemed honest, genuine. ‘Anyway, I must be off. I’ll see you again when I’ve boxed the next few up.’
‘Don’t you want to take some in exchange?’ Pamela said. ‘I won’t restrict you to three.’
But he was already edging towards the door. ‘I’m fine but thank you.’
She nodded and smiled, as the big Scotsman left.
‘Friend of yours?’ Mr. Kyper wondered from the staff corridor, where he’d been standing with coffee in hand.
How long’s he been there? Why didn’t he come out where Ogilvy could see him?
‘No, but he’s…erm, he’s a regular,’ Pamela said. ‘He brings us lots of donations.’
He emerged and stood alongside her, peering down at the box of books. ‘If everyone’s that generous, we’ll be going on forever.’
God forbid!
‘Mr. Ogilvy’s a bit of an exception,’ Pamela said.
‘Whatever…you have a lovely rapport with the customers, Pam. Is it okay if I call you Pam?’
Actually, she thought it a little forward of him. Something seemed to have changed in the last minute or so. He was smiling a little, but not quite so innocently, his lips open, his teeth apart. It was almost a leer, and though it was only slight, it made him seem marginally less deferential, less polite.
Use your noggin girl. He’s just seen you flirting with a customer? And he’s already clocked your wedding ring. That’s how these guys gain leverage.
Though just as quickly, it seemed, he now regained his affable persona.
The real him is someone he’d rather keep hidden, isn’t it?
‘I’ll take these through to the kitchen, Pam.’ He picked up his empty coffee mug. ‘Then, shall I put Ogilvy’s contributions on the shelves?’
‘Please, that’d be great,’ she said. ‘Oh, and…I’d prefer Pamela, if you don
’t mind.’
I bet you’d also prefer him to say Mister Ogilvy, eh? But perhaps best not to go there.
‘Sure thing.’ He smiled pleasantly again. ‘Pamela, it is.’
She felt frustrated with herself as she listened to him clattering about in the kitchen, and then start the taps running. Okay, she’d been determined to be strong today, and to use this new period of having to work with someone she didn’t know as the turning-point, as the way back to normality. But while attack was the best form of defense, wasn’t she making things a little hard for herself? There was no need to feel so hostile to this guy.
Yes, he’d seemed a little bumptious a couple of minutes ago, but that had been fleeting. Generally, he’d been amicable—and helpful, which was more than she could say for Gerald.
Isn’t there something about him, though? Why does he make you feel so uncomfortable?
‘He doesn’t,’ she said aloud. ‘It’s just that I don’t know him yet. He’s only just got here. It’s a weird situation.’
Even then, she felt as if she wasn’t being totally honest, but had to bite her lip further as Mr. Kyper re-emerged from the corridor.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Sorry…I thought someone else had come in.’
‘No.’ She tried to smile. ‘Just muttering to myself.’
‘I do that too.’ He lifted the counter hatch. ‘A lot.’
So did Thomas Hallam.
Pamela watched as he breezed through into the Library, carrying the box of books as if it contained nothing more than fluff. There was internal arched window on her right, which gave through into the same area. It meant that she could still keep an eye on him as he dumped the box on the coffee table, pulled up a chair, and begin working his way through the contributions, arranging them into orderly piles. One, he picked up and looked at more closely. She saw that leering grin again. He turned the book around to read the blurb, and then started flicking through its pages. A minute or so passed before he stood up, placing the paperback on top of the nearest pile, swooped that pile up and ambled over to the Thrillers section. One by one, he slotted the books into place.
