by D J Harrison
‘Can I speak to him?’ Usman asks.
‘That’s not possible at the moment. He’s in the Middle East now, and then he has to travel to New York. I’m not expecting him back before next Friday when he’ll finalise the portfolio purchases. If you want your development to be considered, please let us have the details we require before then.’
‘What details are those?’
‘Oh, details of the building, architect’s reports, structural reports, occupation, sales history …’ I pause. ‘Are you writing these down?’
‘No,’ he admits.
‘Then you need to. It’s too late to send you our standard enquiry pack.’ I continue to reel off a long list of things then finish with, ‘Oh, and you must send letters with each of the reports agreeing to assign them to our clients.’
‘What do you mean?’ Usman asks.
‘We need confirmation that all the reports and the building contract will be assigned, otherwise our clients will not deal. All it means is a letter from each of them – the architect, the builder, the structural engineer and the facilities engineer – stating that they would be willing to legally assign all rights to their reports. They must also state any financial payments they’d require to do this. Of course, the vendor would be responsible for payment of any assignment fees.’
Usman remains quiet. I presume he is still writing. Finally he says, ‘I would still prefer it if I could speak to Hugo Mann.’
I pause for effect and lower my voice. ‘I’ll give you his personal mobile number, but you must promise not to reveal it to anyone else and only use it yourself for this one purpose.’
‘Okay,’ Usman says. ‘Thanks.’
‘You promise?’ I ask.
‘Absolutely. I promise, and thanks,’ he replies. I give him my mobile number complete with international prefix for good effect, and then hang up.
26
‘Usman,’ he answers immediately, then, ‘Good morning, Miss Parker.’
I know he is happy to hear from me. Not from his tone of voice but from the five missed calls on my mobile. It’s a simple matter to change the voicemail greeting to one that says, ‘This is the personal mobile number of Hugo Mann’.
‘Mr Usman, good morning,’ I begin. ‘Mr Mann is in transit as you know, and regrets he hasn’t been able to return your calls.’
‘I understand,’ Usman says, ‘but I need to speak to him. When will that be possible?’
‘The next opportunity will be Friday.’
‘But you said the decisions regarding the property purchases, whether you wanted to buy my development, you said that would be Friday.’
‘That’s right.’ I’m enjoying his discomfiture. He sounds like a very greedy little man. ‘Mr Mann has seen the valuations from our estate surveyors and has asked me to tell you that he will recommend your property to our clients.’
‘Yes, but how much, what are they offering? I need to know that, I must know how much.’
‘Mr Mann will telephone you on Friday with the offer.’
‘Can’t you give me an idea? Do you know what the valuation was?’
‘Of course, I have seen the report, Mr Usman, but I’m not in a position to divulge that information. I am sure you’ll understand.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He pauses. ‘Can you give me a clue, some ball park figure?’
‘Look, Mr Usman, all you need to do is get the details requested over to our Manchester office. You have the address? Good, and I must emphasise that all the documentation must be submitted by Friday. Mr Mann made it quite clear that any outstanding issues would mean that there can be no deal.’
Usman is quiet now; I can feel him wondering.
‘I can tell you,’ I add, ‘that our clients are willing to pay a premium to get the properties they want.’
‘Okay.’ His voice sounds very positive; my pep talk appears to have done the trick. ‘I’ll get the stuff to you. Should I mark it for your attention?’
‘No; address it to Mr Hugo Mann and put the reference HMAD27 on the envelope.’
****
When Usman is put through to me at Jervis & Co I feel an enormous thrill and excitement which almost throws me completely. Alan has kept his promise and is allowing me to deal with him. I have to keep my voice lower and broaden my Mancunian accent throughout the conversation if I am to avoid awkward recognition.
‘Jenny Jervis,’ I adopt my alter ego.
‘This is Usman. I need to speak to Alan on an urgent matter.’
‘You can speak to me. I’m the finance director and Alan’s wife. Is it about the outstanding account?’
‘Well no, err, yes. I suppose so.’
‘When can we expect payment, Mr Usman?’
‘Ah yes, soon. There have been cash-flow problems, you understand. The whole property world has collapsed. I do have some good news though. We may have a purchaser for our development. As soon as we sell we’ll have the funds to pay you.’
‘When will that be? We’ve been waiting a long time.’
‘Soon, a couple of weeks maybe.’
‘Well, that will be good news. Thanks for your call.’
‘Wait ...’
Usman gets to the point I know he has rung to make. ‘Before we do the deal the purchaser wants a Letter of Assignment regarding your report; if you could let me have that urgently, today if possible, tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Let me see …’ I pretend to be looking through documents but I already have the figure written in big letters in front of me. ‘Ah yes, you owe us £63,842 in all. When you pay us that we will let you have your letter.’
‘But we have no money. I told you, we have a cash-flow problem, a temporary cash-flow problem.’
There is no alarm in Usman’s voice at my demands. He knows he has to pay up or miss his chance of a sale. After a few minutes of negotiation he agrees to let us have £40,000 on account and I agree to send the letter the moment it is safely in our bank.
27
Angry voices, shouts, threats, crashing and splintering noises. They are here to arrest me, to drag me away, to destroy what little hope that remains. Dawn kneels on my chest, hands gripping my throat; this time there’ll be no escape as she squeezes my life away. I can hear Toby’s screams in the distance. I struggle awake, flash on the light, blink painfully in the glare. No police, no Dawn, only the usual passing trade, arguing drunkenly, fighting sporadically, destroying what they find. For all the attenuation afforded by the loose windows and thin walls, they might as well be in here with me.
The sheer number of people on the street in the early hours amazes me. Their unbridled urge to scream and shout disturbs what little sleep I can manage in this awful place. It’s a normal terraced house in a downtrodden south Manchester suburb, designed to provide decent accommodation for a small family. Now it offers indecent lodgings for seven unfortunate people. I am housed in what was the front sitting room, closest to the front door and the street. When the people outside are quiet the other inhabitants seem to take turns to slam the door as they enter and exit.
The man upstairs, whom I’ve never seen, provides me with a deep banging noise at all hours of the day and night, the remnants of mindless music after filtration through his floor. The high-pitched screams and shouts attest to a variety of lady friends whom he entertains on a regular basis. The rhythmic thump of the bed and the loud groans of its occupants continue for hours at a time, gradually building up velocity as I lie praying for him to climax and let me rest.
The noise and disturbances are debilitating. The shared toilet and bathroom is a source of even greater sorrow. When I first arrived here I asked what the arrangements were for cleaning the common areas. The landlord’s gruff response was that it was in hand. My sad experience is that there are no arrangements and no signs of any change. The dried on brown pebble-dash effect that stretches out of the bowl and up one of the walls gives testament to that. I approach the hideous place with bleach and rubber gloves every time I n
eed to pee.
The lock on my door has taken a gradual journey downwards, currently lodging below waist level. Its previous positions are marked by splintered wood and in one place by a hole you could push a packet of mints through. I cover this with paper and sellotape but some inquisitive passer-by insists on poking it out on a daily basis.
My calves sting where I absent-mindedly scratch the bites. I don’t try to visualise what bites my legs in the night, just as I calmly flick away the mouse droppings from my pillow before resting my head. My new-found calm is borne out of the temporary nature of my situation. Today, I remember with exaltation, is the day Usman’s money will arrive and with it my share. Tomorrow I’ll be able to move elsewhere; I’ll be able to rest in peaceful cleanliness without feeling threatened.
****
I’m sitting at the reception desk and have received glorious confirmation that, exactly as promised by the desperate Mr Usman, the £40,000 has arrived safely in the Jervis & Co account. I feel like shouting out with joy and excitement, but feel restrained by the two grim-faced men in suits sat in front of me, waiting to see Alan. I feel frustrated that they will have their meeting before I can arrange the payment of my success fee with him. I am a little concerned about the mechanism and timing. If Alan pays me through the books as an employee, Jervis & Co will have to pay employer’s National Insurance on the payment amounting to ten per cent or so – £1,000 for the tax man, in addition to any personal tax. I can’t see Alan agreeing to swallow the whole of the National Insurance and I can ill afford to lose £1,000 out of my proceeds. It might be possible to convince him to pay me in full and deduct the National Insurance from the next payment I extract from Usman.
This is difficult for me. Excitement and positivity are unfamiliar feelings and I need some means of release.
Alan comes out and greets his grumpy visitors. I try to catch his eye but fail. Lunchtime comes and goes without anybody emerging, so I nip out to buy a sandwich and a celebratory coffee which comes at a ridiculous cost, way beyond what I could normally afford, but today is special and I drink the frothy, lukewarm, coffee-flavoured milk with slow relish. Perhaps I will buy myself a coffee machine with my earnings; that’s if I’ve anything left after renting a nice clean apartment and buying a new mattress and new bed linen. Oh and some smart clothes, some comfortable shoes, some crisp clean underwear.
The coffee machine seems to be well down the list now and the likelihood of me having available funds when I reach it is very low. If only I can persuade Alan to pay the National Insurance it might have a glimmer of a chance.
Alan’s door is still firmly closed. I sit impatiently waiting for it to open and give me the chance to sort things out. I have an almost irresistible urge to barge in, to interrupt the meeting, to claim precedence over the dull men in suits. When 3 o’clock arrives I begin to get a worried feeling to add to my frustration. Alan only closes his door when he has visitors, but surely they can’t still be in there.
The phone line in his office lights up to show that he’s making a call; it turns out to be a long call. I wait until he’s finished, knock and enter. He sits there alone, visitors nowhere to be seen. Alan looks up at me, his eyes are narrow and his lips pinched. The twinkle has disappeared.
‘I need to speak to you about Usman,’ I begin.
‘It’s okay,’ he answers quickly. ‘I’ve been sorting that out.’
At first his words sound positive but a feeling of dread crawls up my spine. ‘Oh,’ I reply, ‘you’re sorting out my payment, my success fee?’
He snorts; it is a very unpleasant sound. ‘Absolutely not, I’ve been dealing with Mr Usman myself, he’s sending us £40,000 on account and I’ve made sure we’ll get the rest very soon.’
‘You don’t understand,’ I reply, ‘I got the money out of Usman, just as we agreed. You said I could have anything over £30,000, so I’m owed £10,000.’
‘Nonsense.’ Alan’s words cut to my heart and burn into it.
‘Usman explained to me what happened; he has a buyer. It was he who rang us and offered the money on account; it had absolutely nothing to do with you.’
‘Yes it was. And you promised.’ I feel broken, abused, dysfunctional. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
Alan’s body is hunched, defensive, his hands are clasped tightly together; his eyes are cast down at his desk.
‘I said you could have something if you got the money. You didn’t get it, I don’t owe you anything.’
‘Listen,’ I’m desperately trying to hold on. ‘We can get the rest of the money. Don’t send the letter. I’ll tell him he has to pay up in full before he gets it. This way you get all the money.’
‘Too late,’ he smirks, an evil little smirk. ‘I already sent the letter.’
‘Then you’ll get no more from him,’ I shout. ‘Why didn’t you listen to me?’
‘Because you don’t know what’s going on. I sorted it myself, just like I said. What you don’t realise is that I put an assignment fee of £25,000 in the letter. Don’t you see? That makes sure we get it all, plus a bit extra for our trouble.’
‘When?’ I am angry now at this stupid man.
‘What do you mean, when?’
‘When will you get the twenty-five grand?’
‘Oh, when he sells the development.’
‘Ah yes, when he sells. And what makes you think he’s going to sell?’
Alan stands up suddenly, anger flashes in his face. ‘Don’t take that tone with me. Get out. I don’t want you working here any more. I’ll ring the agency and tell them. Now go.’
I stand my ground.
‘Usman has no buyer; nobody wants to buy his poxy development. I pretended there was a buyer, so he would pay us. It’s all my doing. It was me that got you your money, it was me.’
He is coming towards me to physically throw me out. His face is relentless. He no longer hears me. I am lost. My dreams are shattered. I walk out of his office and keep on going.
28
I find myself in the centre of Manchester, walking aimlessly in the early evening dark, unwilling to return to my cockroach-infested and shit-spattered accommodation. Looking down at the Irwell from Blackfriars Bridge I wonder for an instant what that cold oblivion might taste like, and then anger swells up and heats my spirit. I am not finished yet, I tell myself, and start to believe it, at least enough to avoid clambering onto the slippery stone parapet and plunging to my death. There is no joy in my surroundings; the scurrying people hardly glance at my unremarkable figure trudging the streets they use as thoroughfares. The Deansgate bars and restaurants bristle with the recent discharge from nearby offices. I long for a decent meal and a strong drink but even more for sympathetic and supportive company. The first two longings are beyond my financial reach; the last one is made a mockery of by the brash louts who inhabit those places.
Bereft of any sense of purpose, I slip away from the bustle by taking a familiar track down Spinningfields. Peering through the Landers Hoffman glass doors I see the lone security guard seated at the reception desk and my thoughts turn to Gary. The last time I entered the building was the day I confronted Paul, but my lasting memory is the calm comfort that Gary’s presence brought.
My heart leaps with hope as I imagine him being there now, a safe haven among all this turmoil; someone to tell my troubles to, someone who will listen and understand. Strangely, because that last morning was the only time I exchanged more than a good morning or a wave with the man, I know next to nothing about him, only that he has something to do with the security company that guards this building. There is a sticker on the glass door which reads: “GOD Security and GOD is Watching over You.”
I remember now, Gary O’Donnell, that’s his name, it must be his business; either that or someone else has a wicked sense of humour. The lanky guard sees my nose pressed against the glass and waves me away as if dispersing some disagreeable smell. This upsets me; after all, I used to be quite an important person in thi
s office. I rattle the doors angrily, completely out of nervous reaction. He ambles across to dismiss me more effectively, but before he can speak I shout, ‘Gary, I’m looking for Gary, is he here?’
Slowly, painfully, a look of understanding creases the long face. He reaches down and lifts up a bunch of keys hanging by a chain from his belt.
‘Come in.’ He looks up and down the street as if anticipating a horde of the unwashed racing to take advantage of the slight opening he is offering me.
‘It’s Mrs Parker, isn’t it?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Haven’t seen you about for a while.’ He states the obvious.
I don’t bother with the explanation he’s expecting.
‘Do you know where Gary is?’ I ask.
‘He’s doing the football,’ he answers enigmatically.
I stand and look at him waiting for a better explanation, glad of the warmth inside the building. After a minute or two I realise that this is the best explanation he can offer.
‘I need to talk to him.’
He picks a mobile phone sheathed with a rubberised protective case out of his pocket, presses two buttons then hands it to me.
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘Hello,’ Gary answers.
I feel small and pathetic, close to bursting into tears. ‘I need to see you,’ I blurt, ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Who is it?’ he asks gently.
I colour up under the unremitting gaze of the thin security guard, turn away and walk deeper into the building.
‘It’s me, Jenny Parker.’
The silence on the other end confirms my worst fears; that he doesn’t know me and doesn’t want to.
‘Mrs Parker, I used to work here … er, at Landers Hoffman, that’s where I am now, with your man.’
Of course I am; I wince at my inadequacy and wish I hadn’t started this conversation, or at least that I’d started it differently, been authoritative, precise, clear and all the other attributes I once associated with myself but now lack.
