by D J Harrison
‘Kelvin Montgomery, that’s his full name. He’s Scottish.’
‘Scottish, with a name like that?’ Alex chortles. ‘Are you sure it’s real or is he making it up?’
‘Of course he’s real. I wouldn’t let a pretend Scotsman into my flat.’
‘Oh, so he’s been in your flat has he?’
‘Of course he has, Alex. I’ve told you, he looks after me. How else can he do that if he’s not close by? You said it yourself.’
‘How do you know you can trust him? I don’t like the sound of this whole arrangement, Jenny. If you can hire him, then anyone could. Even the thugs who are out to get you.’
‘Don’t be silly, Alex, Monty’s all right, he’s on our side. He only does protection jobs, no killing at all. He’s given that up for Lent.’
My arms are tired from hanging on, so I’m grateful when Alex parks my bum on the worktop.
‘It’s not Lent.’ Alex stares hard at me. I try not to laugh but fail miserably.
‘You are so suspicious,’ I tell him. ‘Maybe you’re a bit jealous as well.’
‘Why? Do I have any reason to be jealous?’ Alex laughs as he speaks; he knows exactly where he stands with me: right on top of the ground I worship.
‘Of course not, don’t be daft. I only let him sleep in my bed for professional reasons. Anyway it’s not much fun having sex with someone who is always having to look over his shoulder.’
‘Seriously though, he sleeps in your flat?’ Alex has his serious face on now, he’s ignoring the banter completely.
‘On the sofa, don’t get alarmed,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, Monty’s okay, I trust him.’
‘I suppose he’s had ample opportunity to harm you if that’s his intention. I’d feel better if I talk to him myself.’
‘Later.’ My arms are holding on around Alex’s neck. Now I’ve wriggled out of my tights and knickers, although otherwise I’m still fully dressed. Alex’s penis is sticking out of his trousers and I’m wonderfully impaled, my weight pushing it deep. Alex is bracing himself against the wall, but I cajole him into walking around, giving me a reverse piggy-back where every step sends beautiful waves of stimulation up inside me. I jiggle about, squeezing tight, enjoying the sheer audacity of it. I have a crazy desire for him to walk me around outside his flat, taking the risk of meeting his neighbours. I still have my skirt on, they can only guess what’s happening underneath. Alex is not receptive to the suggestion. The thought of it makes me excited, as does the feel of Alex between my legs. I start squeezing my thighs together. Alex tries to calm me down; urges me to relax, let go, breathe away the tension. I only feel the urgent knot of energy in my core. I hold it tightly, and make it grow until it bursts inside me, taking my breath with it, leaving me gasping and weak.
Alex lowers me gently onto the settee. I unclasp my arms and hold his prick in both hands.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ I say.
‘That’s okay,’ he replies. ‘I’ve told you before, I really don’t need to ejaculate.’
‘But I need you to,’ I say, putting the tip of his penis into my mouth. He’s standing knees slightly bent, legs apart, un-protesting now. I can feel him relinquishing control, his whole body is relaxing into my touch. I like this new arrangement where I’m controlling things; until now there’s only been Alex in charge and me in submission. I’m surprised at how quickly he climaxes once he’s set his mind on it.
‘I thought you said you didn’t need to ejaculate.’
Alex fetches a box of tissues and hands me a few.
‘How could I refuse such an elegant invitation?’ He smiles and takes me in his arms. I try to kiss him, probe his mouth with my tongue, but he turns away and clamps my head to his chest where I can feel his heaves of laughter and gladly join in.
22
Sandy Slater is only slightly less irritating than I remember him but at least there’s a nice view from here and I don’t have to look at him. Instead I stand at the window overlooking Salford Quays and Media City. Almost below me is the weird tin box that is the War Museum and the more pleasing shape of the Lowry across the canal. Sandy has summoned me to this bare meeting room in Security Group’s offices for what he calls a progress meeting. Thankfully Hector isn’t involved so I am spared his looming presence and the need to be polite.
‘He’s a hard man to get to,’ I’m explaining. ‘He’s all over the world, hardly ever here and when he is he’s busy as hell.’
‘That’s not good enough, Jenny. Hector told us you could be relied on to get to Lafferty, that you were close to him. What’s going on here, whose side are you on?’
I am glad my back’s to him, otherwise he’ll see the anger on my face before I can mask it. His questions make me wonder what the hell I am doing. This little shit works for Alex, maybe not directly, yet I’m finding him totally unsympathetic and the prospect of betraying Lafferty to him is starting to become unthinkable. What’s happening here is I’ve been too successful. I followed Hector’s orders, set up the trap for Fergus and then sprung it to the tune of nearly two million in cash. Now I’ve got the money I’m trapped between the police and whatever organised crime faction Lafferty gets his money from. I can’t afford to upset anyone, but Sandy Slater isn’t the one I fear most.
‘I don’t see how you might think Fergus Lafferty is this big arch-criminal. What’s he done?’
‘He’s amassed a huge business empire funded by proceeds of crime. All we have to do is catch him at it.’
‘If you know all this, why don’t you just arrest him and have done with it?’
‘We could, but by the time we get him to court the evidence would be gone, everything would be covered up. It’s happened so many times before. The Serious Fraud Office where I used to work was abolished because of all the complex cases we brought and lost. People like Lafferty can afford the very best lawyers and accountants. By the time they’ve done their bit, the courts have no chance of understanding what’s going on and all we get is a long, expensive trial where we are made to look more and more inadequate.’
‘How does my involvement make any difference?’ I ask.
‘You get him to pass over a substantial amount of cash, say ten thousand pounds, then we can use POCA, get a restraint order, freeze all his assets and accounts, and then we’ve got him. He can’t move, he’s stuck where he is and we have plenty of time to sift through everything he’s up to.’
‘Ten thousand pounds in cash?’ I ask. ‘You originally said two thousand.’
‘Yes I know, it’s a lot of money, five might be enough. See what you can get off him.’
One point eight million in a few holdalls, that’s what I managed to get. The problem is I’ve done too well; I can’t see them leaving me out of it when that kind of money’s involved. There’s also the complication that Popov is holding the cash for me. I can hardly come clean with Mr Slater and expect him to carefully unravel all the knots I’ve been making.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So I get some cash from Lafferty, then what?’
‘Like I said, we’ve got him on a money-laundering offence, that’s it as far as you’re concerned, simple.’
It may be simple for Slater but I don’t believe that’s true for me. Money-laundering is what I was convicted and imprisoned for. If it’s an offence for Fergus to give me the money, it’s just as much an offence for me to take it. There will be a prosecution, and I’ll have to be involved. Then there’s Doreen to think about, and how unhappy she’s going to be at my betrayal of our close friendship.
‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be in touch when I’ve thought of something and talked to Lafferty.’
‘Not good enough,’ Slater says. ‘It has to be this week. You’ve had long enough already. If you don’t do this for us, we will have to take the view that you are not being cooperative, that maybe you are already involved in criminal activities, that it’s you whom we should be investigating. You’ve got one week at the most before that happens, so you ha
d better get busy.’
23
There’s a harsh, metallic taste in my mouth. My lungs crackle and protest with each dusty breath. I’m getting used to the smell but the dust won’t be ignored. The cabin inside the waste reception building is where Yvonne keeps her information, so I’m stuck here, leafing through thick wads of paperwork, trying to get a picture of how this business operates. The dim light filters yellow brown through the caked windows. I watch luminous figures meandering through the piles, occasionally standing back as a new load arrives, and then poking around in the fresh deposit. When Yvonne tells me she’s not making much in the way of profit, she’s understating the problem. Her measure is almost entirely based on cash flow and she’s ignoring the liabilities that are literally piling up before my eyes.
All this rubbish has to be disposed of eventually. The amount of useful stuff that’s being hand-picked from the piles is so tiny it’s hardly worth the effort. Yvonne’s main problem is that she’s not getting enough revenue even to cover the landfill tax element of her disposal costs. That’s why the pile grows visibly every day. Soon the whole place will be piled high and her income will dry up. Or more accurately my income. We did the deal yesterday, signed all the papers; now I own the business or rather my caravan business does. Lafferty and O’Brian’s investment is now completely dependent on me making this work and I’m getting more anxious by the hour.
My idea was simple; continue to run the business for two years until the planning permission runs out. Then release the environmental fund to pay O’Brian to do the restoration work. All the accounts I was given showed that was possible. I missed the big problem that’s now staring through the window at me. None of the accounts allow for the huge pile of refuse. In order to come to terms with the situation and find out exactly how much of Lafferty’s money is going to be lost, I have to somehow reconcile various sets of figures that are almost impossible to compare. It’s no wonder that neither Yvonne nor her accountants are fully aware of what a mess she was in and now I’ve joined her.
Most of the rubbish comes in skips. The charge she makes for delivering a skip to site, leaving it to be filled, then picking it up and bringing it back here for disposal is one hundred and twenty pounds. This is a price per load. When the skips arrive here they can be weighed for the first time. Most are weighed but not all of them. Bearing in mind it costs seventy-two pounds per tonne in landfill tax alone to dispose of the waste, then if a skip has two tonnes in it the price we get doesn’t even cover the tax, never mind the cost of running the wagons and the site. That’s why I am feverishly leafing my way through weighbridge tickets, trying to come up with an average weight.
The more I look at, the worse I feel. When I tot up the hundreds of weights received over the last six months, I get a figure of four and a quarter tonnes on average. The whole thing’s a disaster. By my reckoning, every load Yvonne brought in here should cost at least two hundred pounds more than she charged for it. Her only salvation is that the tax isn’t incurred until the waste is put in the landfill. That’s why the pile is so huge.
I rest my chin on my hands, stare through the grime and consider my options. Walk away, write off the money spent so far, tell Lafferty he can have his cash back less fifty grand or so in expenses. He’s not going to be pleased and I have no idea what he’ll do to me when I tell him. I’ve made a terrible blunder. I thought I was being clever, that I knew better, that I saw things others didn’t see. Now I feel blind and stupid, out of my depth. I’m not going to solve this by massaging figures on a set of accounts. This problem is real, it’s physical, it’s sitting in a big heap waiting to collapse onto my head and bury me.
24
I no longer have to park in that dark, scary under croft where I could barely squeeze the Range Rover into the inadequate space. Here I have a wide drive, enough room to swing around to face the way out. As I step out of my car, I get a wonderful feeling of expansiveness and room to breathe; it’s a place that allows my spirit to expand. Two days in my new house have already changed the way I feel. I am beginning to realise how much tension I was holding from living in that cramped apartment and such a dangerous environment. As I look around I don’t know whether to jump for joy or burst into tears. Being here allows my problems to melt away, to save themselves for another time to wait their turn for my attention. Monty’s comforting presence is even more welcome now that we have a big house where he can allow me more space and privacy.
This afternoon all I want to concentrate on is Toby’s first visit. His little half sister has something wrong with her eye, so Tim informs me. This necessitates a medical appointment at an inconvenient time. That means Toby needs picking up from school. Two days is all it’s taken for my carefully laid plan to bear fruit. My proximity to Toby’s school gives me such an advantage now. When Tim asked me and I accepted, he even sounded relieved and grateful. There’s many more occasions like this to come, I just know it.
‘This is where Mummy lives now,’ I tell him proudly. It’s a crisp, sunny afternoon. ‘Do you want to play out for a bit while I make your tea?’ I show him the path that runs down one side of the house, the patio area at the back and the driveway along the other side. It’s a complete circuit for riding the new bike I bought for him and he sets off with obvious enthusiasm. Even when it’s teatime he’s reluctant to abandon his bike and come inside. He’s having so much fun, I resolve to have security lights fitted to illuminate his progress for when it’s dark. My heart is bursting with excitement and pride at what I’ve achieved here. The healthy glow of exertion stays with my little boy as he demolishes his sausages, beans and potato waffles.
I recognise the danger of my becoming a kind of indulgent aunt, buying Toby’s affection with a series of extravagant gifts and letting him have a freedom of action here that he can’t get at home. It’s true, I have a smart electric car hidden away waiting for his birthday, something he can drive proudly around my extensive grounds. I know it will be something he’ll want to have all the time. I know I’m bribing him to spend more time here with me. What the hell. I’ve missed so much, been excluded from a huge chunk of his young life so far. Now I’m here he can have the run of the place, feel special, invite his friends, be himself. All I have to do is keep myself out of jail.
*
‘Say hello to Lottie.’
Toby staggers over to her and grabs on to her leg. ‘Play cars,’ he says.
Lottie bends down, takes Toby’s hand and allows herself to be lead over to the Fisher Price garage.
‘Do the lift. Wind the handle.’ He puts her hand gently on to the mechanism, rolls a car into the cage and squeals happily when she successfully delivers it to the roof, where it slides out and shoots down the ramp and on to the floor. ‘Yay!’ Toby claps his hands in excitement than crams the car back into the lift and invites Lottie to repeat the process. Then again and again with undiminished excitement at every successful trip.
When I announce that tea is served and invite them both to sit up to the table, I’m greeted with protests from both of them.
‘Ottie!’ Toby shouts. ‘Again, Ottie.’
‘He’s gorgeous, you must be very happy here with him,’ Lottie says.
‘Yes he is. But I still don’t see enough of him. What gets me is how quickly he’s growing. It’s so easy for me to feel resentful at all the time I’m still missing in his life. When you have yours, make sure you savour every precious moment.’
Lottie screws her face up. ‘I don’t think Chris is comfortable with children,’ she says.
‘No man is, believe me. If you give him a choice he’ll always take the easy and safe one. Do nothing, make no changes, that’s what men are all about. They’re frightened of change, scared of responsibility. That’s why God left babies up to us women.’
‘Are you saying I should get pregnant?’ Lottie laughs. ‘That’s a very wicked suggestion to make.’
‘All I’m saying is that if you leave it up to Chris you’ll
not be having any children. And you do want them, don’t you?’
‘Of course. I’m not sure this is the right time, though. We’ve been doing better of late but I’m afraid of things getting worse again.’
Toby passes a handful of squished cake to Lottie, waits patiently while she holds out her hand to receive it and then watches her put it in her mouth and eat it. When she expresses satisfaction he gives a little cheer and gathers up another fistful for her consumption.
‘Ottie play cars now,’ he says, struggling to get out of his chair and resume the fun.
I watch her playing with my son. She’s completely absorbed in the simple game, giving it all her attention and energy. Toby responds; he’s comfortable with her, treats her as an equal, feeds off the pleasure he’s feeling from her. They both let out little squeals of delight at a particularly spectacular somersault performed by a blue truck as it speeds off the roof of the garage and hits the kitchen floor. Lottie still has so much of the child left in her despite the pain and suffering she’s had to endure. Me, I’m always feeling distracted, there’s always something on my mind other than Toby’s game and I’m not fully there for him like she seems to be. This realisation makes me sad and happy at the same time. Sad for the times I’ve failed but happy in the knowledge that it doesn’t have to be that way. If only I can relax, let go of the tension I habitually hold. The new house will help. Toby will teach me, Lottie will be my inspiration.
I kneel down on the floor beside the two of them, take my turn on the lift mechanism, wind the cage to the top and let the cars shoot out.
‘Not you. Ottie.’ Little fingers prise my hand away, making room for Lottie to take over. I help Toby load the cars, a lesser task that he seems happy to trust me with.
‘You sure you want to spend your days like this, Lottie?’ I ask.
