by D J Harrison
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ George gasps. ‘What makes you think I know the people who attacked you or the ones who stole our trailer? That would make me an accessory. Is that what you’re implying?’
‘No, George, I’m making no implications. I’m accusing you of nothing. All I’m doing now is giving you this disc and saying my piece. Now I’m going to leave. As far as I’m concerned we never had this conversation. Next time I see you it’ll be to discuss our service and agree some better rates.’
He sits transfixed in his chair, not even bothering to see me out or say goodbye. I feel exhausted now that the excitement is fading. I know I have to get this exactly right. Talking to George is the easy bit. Things are going to get harder from now on.
33
‘Better now.’ Toby kisses the ragged edge of what he calls my poorly ear. I clasp him hard to me, his body reacts by going entirely limp in protest.
Outside the house the August sunshine should feel much warmer than it does. A surprisingly chilly breeze sweeps my hair away, exposing my ear. I wish I’d brought a hat.
The children’s play area is sparsely populated, a couple of tentative princesses are swept aside by Toby’s brash entrance. He invades the elaborate climbing frame, dashing across the wobbly bridge, clambering through the tube, sliding down the pole then back again for more. It’s a route he’s taken many times, one that I watch with trepidation. The contraption appears to consist of snares and pitfalls, an accident zone waiting to claim Toby as its next statistic. Sure enough he trips, falls headlong, lies trapped in rope netting, red-faced, teary-eyed and a few inches from falling from a great height onto his head.
I rush over to extricate him, carefully lifting him out and saving him from more serious injury. There are a few spots of blood appearing on his right knee which I wipe away quickly, then dab the tears with the same tissue. A few gulps of breath is all Toby needs and then he’s off and running, climbing, slipping, falling, crashing to the ground, picking himself up, smearing mud on the polished steel as he struggles to ascend the slide.
By the time his energy is spent and I can persuade him that sitting in the café eating chips is an essential part of the park experience, I am old with worry, exhausted with fear, weary of holding onto my concern. It’s only been a couple of hours. I wonder with a heavy heart if full-time motherhood would be survivable.
34
It’s my phone choosing the most inconvenient moment. I am stark naked, dripping wet, in a hurry trying to get myself ready for Alex. The show starts at seven-thirty, it’ll be a miracle if we get there on time as it is.
It’s Chris, my heart beats faster. ‘Your package is on the move, again.’
Yesterday it moved from George’s office to George’s house. It’s been there all day. I was wondering if George had decided to stick it in his attic and forget about it. Now he’s taking it somewhere.
‘I’ll be right there.’ It’ll take me five minutes to dress and ten minutes for the drive, I have to go but my heart lurches at the prospect of missing out on an evening with Alex. He’ll be on his way here already, it’s too late to ring and tell him I can’t make it tonight.
My doorbell rings. It’s either the ear-cutting thugs or Alex, neither of whom are welcome in my current state of undress and confusion. I throw on my dressing gown and answer the door.
‘Sorry, Alex, something’s come up. I can’t make the theatre tonight.’ He looks suitably disconsolate and hands me a bunch of tulips. ‘Come in for a minute,’ I say, ‘I’ll get dressed and explain.’
The excitement of the package and its importance overwhelms even Alex’s presence. I bustle around, throwing on clothes, unsnagging my hair, snapping on shoes. All the time I talk, tell him I’m sorry, that I’ve been looking forward to the theatre, that it’s lousy timing.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘What’s what?’ I stop chattering, stop moving about and stand by the door, ready to leave.
‘The work thing you have to do, will it take all night? Can’t we salvage some of our evening?’
I look at him, smart blue sweater, navy blue chinos, dark brown hair neatly trimmed. His broad shoulders are tensed, he looks taller than I remember him now that he’s framed in my doorway. He’s bought the tickets, made the effort, turned up and I’m brushing him off. The reality of how it must look sinks in and I know I can’t risk him thinking I’m fobbing him off and that I have something in my life more attractive than him.
‘It would take too long to explain, Alex, I’m sorry. It’s something I really have to do, not something I want to do.’
‘Then tell me about it, Jenny.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not? You said it’s work, what is there about your work that I can’t be trusted with? Do you think I’ll start robbing the places you’re guarding?’ He’s starting to look like Toby when I refuse him a visit to McDonald’s.
‘No, of course not, but it’s not entirely work, it’s also personal.’
‘So, you don’t want me interfering in your personal life. Okay, I get the picture. Maybe I can sell the tickets outside the theatre, I might as well go and try.’ He shrugs his shoulders and turns away.
‘Wait.’ I can’t help myself. I can’t let him walk away like this. ‘I am sorry, it’s not fair on you, I’m being awful. I don’t mean to. I’ll come to the theatre, I don’t want to spoil our evening. I really do want to go out with you.’
He turns slowly, his shoulders are relaxing, arms out by his side, hands open and pointing at me.
‘It’s me that should be sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m acting like a spoilt kid. It’s what I do – go off in a huff when I don’t get what I want.’ He smiles.
I go to him, stand close, let those arms wrap around me, it’s warm and safe in here, this is where I want to be. I look up at his face. He tilts his head and kisses me on the lips. His soft strength spreads a warmth throughout my body, awakening every cell. The heat is starting to intensify in my belly. His hands move slowly, one holding the small of my back, the other slides gently up to the back of my neck, caresses me, pulls me in even deeper. Then he releases me gradually, places me back into my own separate world. Now I’m standing close to him and we are apart.
‘It’s those men.’ I look into his eyes. ‘The ones who killed my security guard.’ He looks puzzled then concerned.
‘What about them?’
‘I’m trying to find out where they are.’
‘How?’
‘I sent them a parcel, it has a tracking device in it.’
‘If you know where to send the parcel, you must know where they are already,’ he says.
‘No, it’s not that simple. I’ve planted the device with a man who I know is mixed up in the break-in where he was killed.’
His face tells me he needs a much better explanation. My excitement shows me I have to join Chris, to watch the position of the device, to see the action unfold.
‘Come with me,’ I suggest. ‘Let’s go together, I’ll explain on the way.’ His face brightens up. ‘Are you okay with missing the theatre, though?’ I ask.
‘Sure, when you said you had better things to do I was a bit miffed. Now I understand completely. This is much more important, let’s go.’
By the time we pull up outside Chris’s house I’ve told Alex everything, about the child brothel, the trailer theft, Alan’s murder, my suspicions about George Bottomley.
Something inside me starts to release. I feel lighter, as if part of my heavy load has been passed on.
‘I don’t understand,’ Alex says. ‘Do you think the brothel keepers who cut off your ear are the men who robbed the trailer park?’
‘I’m sure they are. The threatening phone calls started after I told George I had a surveillance tape showing what went on at the trailer park. When they cut my ear they went on about me stealing their lorry. At the time I didn’t understand what that meant but it must be the trailer they were referrin
g to. From the questions they asked, they assume that I’m working for someone, a rival gang perhaps. That’s why they’re so concerned about the security camera record. I think they may have trashed my flat looking for it, I’m sure they killed Alan to cover their activities. If there’s a film showing what went on they know it means big trouble for them. That’s why I gave the tracker to George. He’s got to be in on it.’
Chris drags an extra chair for me in front of the monitor, leaving Alex to hover uncomfortably in the rear.
‘This is the trace so far.’ Chris brings up a map with a red line on it. ‘He’s driven from Eccles to Pendleton, down Frederick Road and stopped on Seaford Road. That’s it, the package is in there now. Hasn’t moved for half an hour.’
Lottie comes in bearing a tray laden with tea and biscuits. I sense Alex’s reaction to this vision of young loveliness and am comforted that it feels like genuine surprise and pleasure without any hint of lustful longing. I need him to be lustfully longing for me, not my radiant Ukrainian friend.
‘This is Alex,’ I say, ‘the man I told you about.’
Lottie smiles. ‘Hello, Alex, Jenny has told me lots about you. It’s nice to meet you.’ There’s something about Lottie’s manner that’s worrying me, she appears subdued, maybe a little sad.
We drink tea, make small talk. Alex is interested in the tracker, asking Chris for technical details which he is all too happy to provide. Lottie disappears after bringing the drinks. I find myself wondering what has upset her. It’s not something I can ask Chris, I doubt he’s even noticed.
‘I need the loo,’ I announce.
‘Upstairs, first door on the right,’ Chris tells me. I leave the morass of technical debris and walk out into the tidy hall.
35
Lottie is sitting at the kitchen table reading a book which has an indecipherable title and a lurid picture on the cover. She looks nervous as she sees me, puts down the book and stands up. The kitchen is pristine, worktops clear and sparkling, the tidiness is so intense it leaves me with a hollow feeling.
‘Hi Lottie,’ I say. ‘Didn’t mean to disturb you, I got fed up sitting in there with Chris. ‘
‘Can I get you something? Are you hungry?’ she asks.
I sit down uninvited and wave her back to her chair. ‘Relax,’ I say. ‘I just got bored. What are you reading?’
‘Oh.’ She looks at the discarded book. ‘It’s about a Polish girl called Vavara in eighteenth century Russia.’
‘No, I meant what language?’
‘Ah, Russian, it’s a Russian book.’
‘I thought you were Ukrainian, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Ukrainian, not Russian. They teach us Russian at school. It’s still a big influence, how you say, control from Moscow.’
‘Are you okay? You look a little sad today. You’re not depressed because I made you wear a bra, are you?’
Lottie smiles, ‘No, I like my bra. You are right, I think Chris is a little less crazy when we go out these days. He says he really likes my new look.’
‘Great, so why so sad?’
‘It’s Kat,’ she says. ‘I’ve not heard anything from her for three days now.’
‘That’s not so long, maybe she’s busy.’
‘You don’t understand.’ Lottie leans forward over the table, fists clenched. ‘Kat emails me every day, five or ten times. Always she keeps in touch. Suddenly now, nothing.’
‘Could there be a problem with her computer or her email account? There’s all sorts of things that could explain it.’
‘No, then she would text me or phone or something. Also my mother doesn’t know where she is, she’s worried as well.’
‘You must miss your family, it’s hard for you when they’re so far away.’
I think of my own situation, that I don’t even have somewhere to return to, a family to visit, anyone to worry about me. I think of Alex and suddenly I want to be back in there with him.
‘My sister tries to come here,’ Lottie is saying. ‘She told me she met this man who said he would get her a job in Manchester.’ Her face is sad and worried.
‘I’m sure she’ll be okay,’ I say automatically. ‘Give her time.’
‘You don’t understand.’ Lottie is crying softly now.
36
‘It’s stopped transmitting,’ Chris says.
‘What? It’s stopped working?’ My disappointment makes me irritable, despite the presence of Alex. We’ve been sat here half the night and now the dammed thing’s gone faulty, just when we might be getting somewhere.
‘I don’t think it’s a fault in the tracker. Something or someone has interfered with it, or it could be somewhere where the signal is shielded, like in a metal cabinet.’
Chris is fiddling with his computer, scrolling through pages of numbers. I feel upset at this outcome. The excitement of the chase has vanished and I’m left only with dread. If someone has found it, I’m in desperate trouble. They will know that I’m still interfering in their business, despite the warning of the severed ear, and that they have to finish the job they started and kill me properly.
As uncomfortable as this tangled electronic graveyard is, I don’t want to go home and wait for death. I look longingly at Alex, peering over Chris’s shoulder, as if this were a computer game. The implications seem lost on both of them.
‘I need to know what’s happened to it,’ I say. The two men look at me.
‘Hang on. I’ve a good idea where it is and why it’s not transmitting,’ Chris says, pointing to a map on the screen. ‘It moved down Seaford Road, turned right down Gerald Road and stopped at the end. It was moving slowly, someone was carrying it on foot. The last transmission was from here.’ His finger stabs the monitor. ‘I reckon they’ve thrown it in the river.’
A long breath finally escapes from where I’ve been holding it in. Some of my tension releases with it. ‘That’d make sense, wouldn’t it? If you had a computer disc that you wanted to get rid of, what would you do?’
‘I’d wipe it,’ Chris says. ‘Format it, then check it’s clean.’
‘But you’d have to put it into the computer and get it working,’ I say.
‘That’s not difficult.’
‘Not to you.’ I wave my hands at the computer carcasses all around us. ‘But anyone without all this paraphernalia might think differently.’
*
‘You’re right,’ Alex says. ‘Without installing it on a computer they couldn’t know what was on it. Chucking it in the river is probably the best option to get rid, it’s what I’d have done. Better than throwing it in the bin where it might be salvaged.’
‘But I need to know for sure. If they’ve found the tracker and destroyed it, they’ll be after me again.’
‘That’s not likely,’ Chris says. ‘It was still working when it left the house on Seaford Road, that’s where they would have found it. You’re safe, don’t worry. It’s in the river, you’re in the clear and we have their address. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’
‘Well yes,’ I answer. ‘But not really.’
Chris looks puzzled.
‘Look, the whole point is to get them off my back, give them something that tells them I’m no threat, that I’ll leave them alone.’
‘But why the tracker then, you could have just given them the disc?’ Alex asks.
‘I have to know my message has got through. How else can I be sure it worked? I wasn’t even certain that George could deliver it, that he knew where to take it.’
‘Maybe George has thrown it in the river,’ Alex suggests unhelpfully.
‘If he has then we’re back to square one. We need to check that address, see who lives in the house on Seaford Road,’ I say.
‘I’ll do it,’ Alex says.
‘No don’t be silly, you’re not going down there.’
‘I don’t intend to.’ He smiles. ‘Do you imagine I would knock on the door and see who answered?’
&nb
sp; ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s what I would do if I wasn’t so scared of being recognised.’
‘I’ll get all the details from work,’ Alex says. ‘The electoral role and council tax records, that sort of thing.’
‘When?’
‘It won’t be until Monday.’ He smiles and I resign myself to a weekend of uncertainty.
37
The weather has deteriorated by the time I reach the Tesco car park. I find three empty spaces together that allow easy access to my Range Rover’s bulk. I hate all that squeezing slowly between cars, waiting for the horrible scraping noise that tells me I’ve misjudged things again. My car is lovely to drive, I like sitting up high but I have to confess I don’t have an accurate idea of where its corners are or exactly how long it is. Most of the time, I’m pleasantly surprised at how I manage to manoeuvre myself into an inadequate space. If I can avoid all that effort though, I do.
The three consecutive spaces are towards the end of the car park furthest from the entrance but I welcome the marginal benefits of an extra fifty metre walk, I’ve been sitting on my bum all day. The little plastic hut for returned trolleys has but a single occupant, attesting to the relative remoteness of its location. As I walk towards the store, I snuggle into my lovely raincoat, pulling up the hood against the drizzle. Ahead, I see another lone woman climb out of a white Mini and walk ahead of me. There’s something familiar about her, at first I wonder if I might know her then realise it’s the coat she’s wearing. It’s very similar to mine, black with narrow horizontal quilting, fur-trimmed hood, cute belt that accentuates her nice figure. I hope I look as good in mine as she does in hers.
