Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  As he says the word attractive my heart leaps and my brain stops working. I can feel the heat in my cheeks as I search for words. Before I speak though, my brain catches up and prompts me with the end of the sentence. Attractive, not to him, but to fraudsters. Disappointment and relief meet in the centre of my chest and battle it out. Neither wins decisively.

  ‘I work for a security firm in Trafford Park, GOD Security.’

  ‘Oh, GOD is watching you. I’ve seen your signs. Love it. Was that your idea?’

  ‘No, the owner was Gary O’Donnell. It’s his initials. I think it’s brilliant. Most people smile about it.’

  ‘You work for this Gary O’Donnell then?’

  ‘No, I used to, he’s dead. I work for his widow now.’

  ‘Sounds a bit sad. What did he die of?’

  ‘He was shot by criminals, trying to protect his family.’ He was trying to protect me but the reasons for that aren’t something I’m willing to reveal just yet. Maybe if I marry Alex and have half a dozen of his children, I’ll take him into my confidence. Best leave those details untouched and unremembered for the time being.

  ‘It’s a rough world out there,’ Alex says.

  ‘Where do you live?’ I ask.

  ‘Salford Quays, I have a flat in the NV Building.’

  ‘Wow, that’s an impressive building, what’s it like to live there?’

  ‘It’s okay, just a bit weird living on my own,’ Alex says. ‘Only been there for a month.’

  As Alex speaks I try to place the feelings that are coursing through my body. I’m fifteen again, going through the same abandonment of sense and reason that I did then. Against all the parental counselling, all my own knowledge, I was overwhelmed by uncontrollable need. His name was Jake, I shuffled him off into a bedroom at a party and yielded him my virginity on a pile of discarded coats. I remember his face contorted in a mixture of ecstasy and embarrassment as he ejaculated as soon as I had fumbled him inside me. It was the warmth, the closeness, the deep intimacy of the act that I needed so desperately. I held on to him until he softened so much he was automatically ejected and fled in disarray.

  Now I have that same irrational desire, not for sexual pleasure, but for surrender and comfort. It’s as if I’d do anything at all to be close to this man, even if it means losing myself completely, giving myself up, abandoning everything.

  My focus returns to the here and now but my aching persists. A nagging uncertainty intrudes. My mind races ahead of me, trying to interpret this latest remark of his. Sadness and disappointment replace reckless excitement.

  ‘I’ve always lived in East Sussex and worked in the London area. A month ago I was moved up here,’ Alex continues. ‘It’s a pain in the arse for me, but in my job you go where you’re sent.’

  A picture is beginning to emerge and I don’t like it. I feel really stupid and let down. That pseudo-detective evaluation of his shopping and my leaped-at conclusion regarding his availability are looking very naïve.

  ‘Worst thing is,’ he says, ‘I miss my kids.’

  I gulp my drink, swallow my hope and abandon my expectations.

  24

  A black steel gate slides obligingly and allows access to a wide gravelled area, where two identical silver Mercedes are already parked. There’s still plenty of room for my Range Rover and several more besides. The long, low garage building suggests more exotic automobiles may be secreted there.

  The house looks modern, stonework bright and clean, every line of mortar straight and white, dark hardwood double-glazed units, shining red roof tiles perfectly aligned. According to O’Brian’s list, everything I’m looking at is cosmetic surgery performed on a crumbling old edifice at the cost of over three hundred thousand pounds, half of it paid in cash.

  I want to show the patronising old bugger that he is wrong and I am right. These people have possessions to protect and GOD Security are willing to protect them for a very reasonable fee. The fact that this is the only prospect willing to grant me an audience is additional incentive to push this one hard. First impressions are good, there are no dogs are barking, there doesn’t seem to be any CCTV installed, the walls and gate could do with an upgrade to increase security. All positive signs, there are plenty of reasons to hire a good security firm, lots of things we can help with.

  This is the only place on O’Brian’s list of twenty-eight properties that would agree to see me. A pleasant-sounding man called Williams had answered my voice mail message explaining who I was and what GOD Security had to offer. Now I’m going to sort out nice Mr Williams, protect his obvious wealth and show O’Brian that his sarcastic laughter is misplaced.

  The man who answers the door is not what I am expecting. He is the exact opposite of the kindly sexagenarian Englishman I visualised.

  ‘Is Mr Williams at home?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, it is I,’ he answers in a thick accent. This man looks unpleasant and sounds nothing like the man I spoke with on the phone.

  ‘I’m Jenny Parker.’ I reach out a tentative hand which he ignores and waves me inside. The hallway is lavishly paved in white marble, I can almost hear O’Brian chuckling as he worked out the bill for all this opulence. There is an impressive staircase with stainless steel balustrades and wire posts in front of me. Ordinarily I would be captivated by the way it appears to hang in mid-air, float its way upwards, but I’m too busy grappling with the terrible feeling of anxiety in my stomach. I’m beginning to think all this is a mistake, that I should never have come. There’s something here that makes me feel afraid and vulnerable.

  The tall swarthy man with the prominent thin nose and slicked black hair leads me into a large room with dark wooden floors and three white leather settees. It’s not only his appearance that disturbs me, it’s the whole atmosphere in this house. There are no pictures on the walls, no ornaments on the shelves. No bookcases, no vases of flowers. No signs of normal life in a normal house. A bad smell pervades the whole room, a combination of stale tobacco, septic drains and diesel oil. The unpleasantness of the situation is easily matched by the unwelcoming aroma.

  My mind is busily castigating me for being such a fool. The goad of pride, of getting one over O’Brian, of showing him who’s the smart one, that’s what got me in here. I have a sad desperate feeling that I may never get out and that it’s a lesson I will never be able to apply.

  ‘Look, I’ve made a mistake,’ I speak to the man’s back. ‘I really should leave now, I have to go.’

  ‘Wait here,’ the man says as he leaves the room, closing the door after him. I sit, perched on the edge of the middle settee facing the ornate fireplace and clutching my sheaf of brochures. Trying not to panic, I breathe in and out slowly. Apart from the unexpected appearance of the man who admitted me, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m in a perfectly respectable neighbourhood and dealing with one of O’Brian’s customers. My mind turns reluctantly to the sale pitch I’m going to give. Upgrade the gate, put some razor wire on top of the walls, install CCTV linked to our central surveillance unit. We can offer a 24 hour service, Mr Williams can rest easy that his property will be monitored constantly even while he’s away. Think of the peace of mind that gives, and all for an easily affordable monthly fee. The way I feel at the moment, the fee is getting smaller and smaller, I don’t want to upset the rather fearsome-looking Mr Williams.

  I take my phone out of my handbag to check in with the office but it’s showing no signal. Williams is taking his time, I wonder if he’s making some tea. If so, he needn’t bother, I want to get out of here as quickly as possible. Anyway, he’s not asked me whether I want a drink, or even how I take my tea. For all he knows I could be a Mormon or something and unable to drink any form of stimulant.

  It’s a long ten minutes, sitting alone, fiddling with my phone. I stand up and wave it in the air, hoping for some connection, but it remains awkwardly off line. Collecting my things, I move over to the door and listen. I can hear nothing through the door, no footsteps
, no voices.

  I visualise the front door, the drive, my car and the open road. If I can slip out now, perhaps I should. The only problem might be an embarrassing confrontation if Williams turns up in the hall. I can always say I’m looking for the toilet, I suppose.

  It’s taken me half an hour to drive here, that’s after two hours spent on fruitless phone calls. Maybe I should hang on a bit longer. Perhaps Williams has himself been caught short and is occupying his toilet worried and embarrassed at what I might be thinking. If that’s the case, he’d be really upset if I just disappear.

  The room itself begins to bother me even more. It looks like a badly laid out IKEA display, not somewhere lived in. I’m in a show house, or at least a show room, somewhere designed to help sell the property by diminishing the feeling of vacant emptiness. That has to be it, and the consequences of this conclusion start to stiffen my limbs with fright. If nobody lives here then why do they want to discuss security with me?

  That thought does it for me; I decide to leave before Williams returns. The door to the hallway opens easily enough. I let out a deep sigh of relief at finding it unlocked.

  As I creep into the hall the silent appearance of another man bars my escape. This man I recognise. He is wearing a smart grey suit, white shirt and yellow tie speckled with blue. His shoes are polished and his hair neatly parted to one side. At first, I note only the way he looks familiar then realise that the last time I saw him he was in a grubby vest and I head-butted my way past him and out of Mrs Mather’s flat. Now he’s well prepared for any repeat of our last encounter and the element of surprise I had then has long since disappeared. Williams appears, grips my shoulders and pushes me back into the room. I allow myself to be manoeuvred into a sitting position back on the settee opposite the large ornamental fireplace. Both men stand over me confrontationally.

  ‘What do you want, Jenny Parker?’ Williams asks.

  ‘Er nothing, it’s all a mistake. I thought you needed security.’

  ‘Security?’ The men exchange glances.

  ‘You mean protection?’ The second man chips in.

  ‘No, well, not exactly. Like I explained, I represent a security firm, we protect premises, you know, offices and factories and some big houses. I thought…’ My voice trails away as I lose the will to say anything further.

  ‘What do you want?’ Williams repeats. ‘Why are you interfering in our business, who sent you?’

  ‘Nobody sent me, it’s all a misunderstanding.’

  ‘You have been at one of our places, you attacked Demitri. You cause big trouble, problems with police.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, the sweat dampening my hair at the back of my neck. ‘Like I said, it’s all a big misunderstanding.’

  ‘Then you steal our lorry. Is that more mistake? What do you want with it? Tell me or it will be bad for you,’ Williams demands.

  ‘Let me explain,’ I say. ‘When I met your friend Demitri all I wanted was to find out who had taken Mrs Mather’s council flat. It was she who asked me to go there. As for your lorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Neither man looks at all interested. ‘I’m sorry for hitting Demitri.’ I look at the big man’s face and detect nothing to indicate he is accepting my apology. I pick up the GOD Security brochures and offer them to Williams. ‘Here, take a look. This is my business, all I wanted to do was to sell you some security services. I had no idea you were the people at Mrs Mather’s apartment.’

  ‘Who are you working for?’ Williams fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. My fear is beginning to be replaced by excitement as the adrenalin rushes through my veins. My mind is clear now, any befuddlement blown away by the heavy waves of stimulus.

  ‘Nobody, myself, how many times do have to tell you?’ I stand up but Demitri pushes me back onto the sofa. ‘Let me go,’ I say, ‘or you’ll regret it. You can’t keep me here, my people know where I am.’ I jump up this time, try to twist away as William’s heavy hand comes to restrain me. Demitri moves to block my exit, pulling an automatic pistol from his pocket and aiming it at my chest. I freeze, my legs weak with shock.

  The gun is a very bad thing. Not only does it ruin any prospects of escape, it also provides an unwelcome complication. If they are to let me go, I have to convince them not only that I’m not a threat but that I won’t report the gun to the police. Hand guns in English suburbia are taken very seriously by the authorities. I wonder if these men realise what trouble they’re potentially bringing down on themselves by threatening me with a pistol. A darker thought pushes itself forward and asks me if they even care and suggests that they’ve no intention of allowing me any opportunity to report them; that I am going to die here and very soon.

  ‘I’m not here to interfere. I thought you might need help, that’s all. Look, I’m not going to make any trouble for you, I promise. There may be things I can help you with, money for instance. Cleaning money, making black money legitimate, it’s what I do.’

  Williams looks as if he might be interested. He leans forward, cigarette between his lips. The smoke from it burns my eyes and they start to water. I feel myself recoil automatically at his approach, trying to avoid the glowing tip as it threatens my face. Sucking deeply on it, he takes it from his mouth and away to the side. I feel myself breathe again and watch as his left hand reaches out. Suddenly he grabs my hair and pushes the cigarette into my face. I feel a terrible burning pain just below my eye as he grinds the cigarette into the top of my cheek. I raise my arms to try to protect myself and he hits me open-handed across my wounded cheek and throws me to the floor. As he kneels on my chest, face pressed close to mine, he repeats, ‘Who sent you?’

  I try to reply but can’t make words out of my screams of agony. He produces a knife which he waves close to my eyes. For a moment I think he’s going to stab my eyes and twist my head, desperately trying to keep away from the blade.

  I hear him say, ‘You have to understand we are serious,’ and feel the knife slicing through my ear. It seems to take an age, sawing its way through gristle and spearing deep pain into my head. A warm gush runs down my neck, soaking my hair. The pain is all-consuming. I can’t believe my ear has been hacked off, but I can believe the pain.

  I feel myself half carried, half dragged into another room. I’m roughly discarded, thrown onto a settee where I bounce off onto the floor. The men slam the door as they leave. No matter how hard I press my hand to my ear, the blood flows like a river, pouring down my arm, dribbling off my elbow, making a slippery puddle. I clamber onto the sofa, grab a loose cushion and try to staunch the wound with it. The sharp pain persists and is joined by a deep throbbing hurt. All my attention is on my face and ear. I have no hope left other than that the pain will subside, that I might die in peace.

  The knife returns every time my heart beats. I pray it will stop. A thick, bloody crust has glued my head to the cushion, its course fibres mingling with my ragged flesh. The pain is a constant. I try holding myself tightly and forcing it away, but it persists. Relaxing, allowing feeling into it, makes it slightly softer but I can’t keep up this posture and revert to clenched wincing again and again. When they come for me they will kill me. I wish they’d hurry, get it over with, make it quick.

  Toby will be all right, he has his life with her now, she is his focus. If she died it would be harder for him. Perversely it’s Alex that forms the centre of my regrets. A fleeting relationship with a self-confessed family man, one tiny encounter in a shop and then an hour in a crowded pub, forms my biggest regret as I anticipate the end of my life. Out of the throbbing torment rises the wish that I hadn’t flounced off, that I’d accepted what was, embraced the situation and him. How can I be so much in love with a man in an instant? Now I will never feel his embrace, never explain to him the passion in my soul, my fears and my joys, my triumphs and my disappointments. Soon I’ll feel nothing but cold death and I have no fight left in me to resist it.

  As soon as I saw the gun, I ought to have realised
my fate. I should have taken my chances on a bullet, at least that would have been decisive. Now I wait for the inevitable. These men have no choice but to kill me. I’ve seen them, I’ve seen the gun, I’ve visited their house. It’s a simple decision for them and one they made long before I arrived.

  Once before, I fought and bit as Gary and Mick bulldozed in and laid waste to my captors. They were wielding a knife at me then, but I wasn’t cut, I was naked and bound but I was still whole. Now I have a burned face and no right ear. Gary is dead and Mick has his own problems. He’s no longer on babysitting duties, there’s no chance of any repeat. I’ve had my one miracle, my entitlement is spent.

  25

  The stab of the needle releases a new cascade of agony. It returns a second time to the base of my ear and is pushed into the base of my eye socket. Each time it releases stinging juices which quickly cool and numb. As the pain subsides into an uncomfortable background throbbing, my mind begins to function for the first time since my ear was cut off.

  There’s still a large residue of resignation and acceptance. I still expect to be killed at any moment. All through the banging on the door, the crashing entry, the black-clad men carrying me out, I knew they were going to kill me. Even though I recognised their police uniforms, I had no hope left, no capacity for any more suffering and no prospect of salvation.

  Now, after they wheeled me past the waiting wounded, fast tracked me into a doctor’s care, I’m beginning to hope again. With the realisation that my death is no longer imminent comes grieving for my disfigurement. There is an endless loop of memory that plays constantly in my head. Hot stabbing cigarette at the top of my cheek, knife hacking through my ear, warm blood soaking my neck.

  How will Toby greet a mother with one ear? Could any man desire a woman with a burnt face and a severed ear? Whatever my chances with Alex were before, they haven’t been improved by my disfiguration.