by D J Harrison
I can feel my frustration mounting. I am really annoyed with Lottie, with Kat, but mostly with myself. I can’t believe what I’m doing, how much I sacrificed, what risks I took and all on behalf of some selfish girl who can’t be bothered phoning home.
Everything about my life is unravelling, falling apart, disappearing down a large drain I’ve excavated myself. Lottie has her husband back, her life back in order, her sister safe. Yvonne has her money, her income, her private medical treatment, new hope. O’Brian can take care of himself. Lafferty means nothing to me except in relation to Doreen. And Alex. My heart breaks when I think his name. My love, the love of my life, my hope, my everything. Now he’s been told he can’t see me any more and he’s chosen to obey. It’s his job, it’s the government, it’s the authorities, it’s those who hold the power. But he’s the one who’s listened and obeyed. He’s the one who’s choosing them over me. He’s the one who’s turning away and leaving me to cope alone. I’m not sure I can any more.
38
The festering pile of refuse has grown. There’s hardly room for any more. The temporary offices are in danger of obliteration under an avalanche of detritus. None of the workers are doing anything; two are standing talking, one is sitting on an upturned plastic bucket reading a tattered magazine. Stefan looks up from his own newspaper when I enter the office. His eyes are wide with surprise at my unheralded presence. He quickly puts down the paper and stands up.
‘Good morning, Jenny,’ he says. ‘It’s a bit early for you to be making a visit. Yvonne won’t be here until nine.’
The clock on the wall with the missing minute hand indicates it’s still before 8 a.m.
‘I’ve arranged to meet Dan Henderson here, we need to have a strategy for sorting out all this crap,’ I say.
‘We’re doing our best,’ Stefan says. ‘I can’t see how an expensive consultant can help. It’s practical assistance we need. I’ve not enough men to do the picking.’
‘You don’t seem to have any pickers, only standers-around doing naff all,’ I say.
‘It’s hard for them, there’s no room to work. Even when they pull cardboard and metal out there’s hardly any space to stockpile it.’
I follow his eyes and see Dan Henderson walking gingerly around the heap, clad in a dayglo jacket and yellow hard hat. The workers are more animated now, poking around at the base of the rubbish mountain and picking up bits and pieces. I walk out and meet Dan. Stefan remains in the office, either needing an invitation or unwilling to get involved. Either way I’m happy to have him stay there.
‘You are muck-bound,’ Dan announces cheerily.
‘What do you mean by that?’ I ask.
‘There’s so much crap in here you can’t move. There’s no room to process it, you need space and you’ve got none.’ He indicates the workman. ‘These guys are wasting their time.’
‘So what can we do?’
‘All this needs to be put through the trammel to separate out the big stuff. Make two piles, one for the tip and one you can use as soil substitute. There’s also the chance to pick out cardboard, metal and wood which you can sell.’
‘Sounds simple.’
‘It is, provided you have the right outlets for all the stuff. Otherwise there’s no point. You might just as well tip the lot.’
‘Stefan says they can’t get rid of the trommel fines any more.’
‘I’ll sort that out if you want,’ Dan smiles. ‘It’ll cost you though.’
‘I’m happy to pay a disposal cost as long as it makes financial sense and gets rid of the pile.’
‘I wasn’t talking about disposal costs, I’m referring to my own consultancy fees.’
‘Don’t worry, if you can help sort out my problem, I’ll see you right.’
Dan smiles and looks me straight in the eye. ‘I’ll leave the bonus to your discretion, but if you want me to work on this I’ll need you to pay my daily rate.’
‘Okay, what’s your daily rate?’
‘For a job like this a thousand. I’ll need ten days up front, then I’ll invoice you monthly after that.’
A pang of doubt saws away inside my gut. ‘Ten thousand up front?’ I ask.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Dan stands in front of me, face relaxed, eyes bright and accessible.
I have no other strategy. I have to hope Dan is as good as his word. As I stand here breathing the foul air, a spark of excitement ignites in my heart. I think of Alex and his predicament and my longing for him. A fragment of the solution pops into my head. As it does, the energy cascades through my body. I know what I have to do to get Slater off my back. There’s a way out of this for me. It’s going to take some delicate work, it’ll depend on all the elements falling into place and it could all come crashing down with one mistake. But there’s definitely a way forward that doesn’t inevitably lead to my imprisonment or demise. I can even see myself getting Alex back. I feel a sense of purpose flooding through me that I thought I’d lost forever.
‘Ten grand?’ I say. ‘Okay, I’ll get it in cash for you, that way you can start straight away.’
Dan smiles. ‘That’s fine.’ He holds out his hand, I grasp it firmly. ‘I don’t do discounts for cash though, it all has to go through my books.’
‘Of course,’ I agree. ‘I’ll be needing a receipt anyway.’
39
‘He’s not here again until Tuesday,’ Doreen frowns and turns away from the horse she’s grooming to face me. My urgency must be getting through to her.
‘Then I need to see him on Tuesday; please help me with this Doreen, it’s absolutely vital. You know he gave me that money, don’t you?
‘Sure I do, it’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’
‘It was, Doreen. I’m thinking it was a big mistake now, though. The police are breathing down my neck, they’re after Fergus. They think he’s a major criminal.’
‘Ah, they’ll think that about anyone with a bit of money.’ She smiles and pats the huge docile beast on the rump. I’ve always found comfort here in the stables. Some of it’s the feeling I get amongst her horses but mainly it’s her. She exudes total calmness and beatific goodness here. It’s her natural setting, it’s where she belongs.
‘Maybe you’re right but they’ve got it into their heads that he’s up to no good and they want me to set him up for arrest.’
‘But we’ll not be letting them get away with that will we, Jenny?’ The gentleness she carries communicates to the horses. They bask in her warmth and crave her tender touch. Even the most highly strung racing champions soften at her approach. Wide eyes relax, breathing slows and quietens, muscles lose their tension and heads bow in adoration.
‘No we won’t. That’s why we have to tread carefully. I need to meet your Fergus and he needs to give me some more cash.’
‘He’ll meet you all right, don’t you be worrying about that.’
‘You’ll tell Fergus then, let him know what’s going on?’
‘To be sure I will, Jenny, and I’ll make sure he does as he’s told.’
She rests her hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘It’ll be fine. It’ll all work out, I just know it. We’ve had bigger problems and harder times than these.’
My eyes are moistening. There’s so much goodness and love in her I’m overwhelmed almost every time we meet. She reaches out, holds me close to her, stills my gasping breath and silently receives my tears.
40
‘I still think it’s a very bad idea.’ Monty seems reluctant to allow me out of the car now that we’ve arrived.
‘So you keep saying,’ I reply. My nervousness is crawling from my belly to my throat, and it’s hard to keep from throwing up the contents of my stomach into the glove compartment.
‘It’s my experience that these situations are best avoided. Give them time and space and they resolve themselves quietly. You’re risking a confrontation, bringing things to a head. It could get nasty.’
‘That’s why you’re here, Monty.’
I nearly add that it’s about time he started earning his money, that he’s done nothing except chauffeur me around, that I’ve spent thousands on his protection with Popov and now I’m wanting some value. But I don’t because he’s a good man, he’s becoming a friend and I’ve learned to sleep easier with him around.
The house is enormous, three-storey red brick, set back slightly from the busy main road. It’s the kind of place that is normally converted into a dozen flats or used as an old people’s home. There’s a camera pointing at us from a steel cage as we stand patiently to be admitted. On the floor in a corner of the open porch a pigeon is standing, feathers puffed into a ball, neck withdrawn like an aspirant tortoise. It makes no movement to acknowledge my presence. A forlorn figure, staring implacably with cloudy eyes. I can feel how close to death the poorly bird is and my heart aches at its plight. It’s waiting to succumb either to disease or the next predator along. It’s powerless, helpless, resigned to its fate, unable to do anything but wait for death. I’m not that pigeon, I remind myself. That’s why I’m here, that’s why I have to do this, despite Monty’s misgivings.
The skinny youth that opens the door looks no match for Monty’s reassuring solidity. This provides me with some small measure of initial comfort which is soon dispelled when we are ushered into a side room and I see our reception committee. Four men, middle aged, military haircuts, muscles barely restrained by thin t-shirts. None of them are pointing guns at us. Not yet anyway.
Monty and I are guided to the far corner of the room, to the other side of an ancient pot-marked table. There are plenty of chairs available but nobody seems to be interested in sitting down. The four men stand between us and the door now. A breathless panic tightens my chest; this isn’t what I expected, but I should have. My vision of a comfortable chat over a cup of tea was a pathetic illusion, I realise that now. I’m scared and my big idea is diminished to a foolhardy illusion. My objectives have already dwindled to getting out alive. Monty, whose solidity and robustness is my source of strength, looks puny in the company of the bigger, harder, more ruthless men that block our exit.
The only thing that’s keeping my breath under control is Monty’s calm. He looks unperturbed, unfazed. When I look at him, I get a gust of relaxation that quietens my panic and helps me function. The six of us stand uncomfortably waiting in silence. There’s no chit-chat, no attempt to break the ice, no internal communication going on within the four of them. There’s a uniformly military style about all of them in the room. Despite the physical differences they all carry themselves in a similar way; head upright, body straight, arms relaxed and unencumbered. No slouching, hands in pockets or leaning against walls for any of these guys.
It’s a long, awkward five minutes before the door opens and he steps into the room. His eyebrows raise suddenly as his gaze flicks from Monty and on to me. I’m obviously not what he’s expecting, though he’s exactly the man I want to see. The last time we met he attacked me with a knife. I still bear the marks of disfigurement he left. That episode was a warning; since then he’s had several people try to kill me.
‘Mr Williams,’ I break the silence, ‘or should I call you Wasiewicz?’
He looks around as if considering a quick exit then his eyes fix on mine.
‘Why are you here?’
‘To speak with you,’ I answer. ‘There are matters between us that have to be settled.’ My hand has strayed upwards to caress my ear as if it suddenly needs protection. I make the conscious effort to bring it back to my side; I don’t want to make it look like this is a matter of vengeance. ‘You attacked me, you’ve sent gunmen to kill me. It all has to stop.’
He grimaces, his face twisting into a look that might be puzzlement or could be distaste.
‘You’ve been trying to take our business, what do you expect? We only give it to you?’
‘That’s the problem, I’ve never been interested in taking your horrible business. It’s not true.’
‘Then why did you steal our trailer?’
‘That wasn’t me. The only connection I had at Trafford Trailers was to provide the security guard who was killed in the break-in.’
‘I don’t believe you. It was our new trailer, very special, you took it for yourself. You started using it, bringing in girls from Africa. We know all about you,’ he says. ‘George told us.’
‘George Bottomley from Trafford Trailers?’ I ask. ‘He said I was responsible?’ This conversation isn’t going the way I want it to. It’s following the same pattern as the last time we met and the consequences of that are what I’m desperately trying to get away from. ‘George was telling you lies. He knew I had nothing to do with the trailer theft.’
‘You were working together.’ Wasiewicz’s face is now impassive. ‘That was his bad fortune.’
A chill passes through me. I knew George had died. Now I know why he died and it’s obvious that he’d been putting me forward as the source of all their problems. This isn’t going how I envisaged it. Wasiewicz doesn’t appear interested in what I have to say. There’s great danger here if he’s really as intractable as he seems.
‘George was blaming me to save his own skin. He’s the one who was selling your trailers, not me. All I ever did was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
His face remains stony. I’m not getting through to him at all. Now there’s even more menace in the way they’re standing, blocking the only escape route. I can feel the tension in the air: things are about to turn violent. The next thing I say is likely to be critical.
‘It’s not important what you think,’ I say. ‘I’m here to give you and your organisation a message, that’s all. It’s a simple message. If you can’t understand it then you need to bring in someone who can.’
‘A message?’ he asks. ‘A message from who?’
‘A message from the government of the United Kingdom.’ He looks around him as if seeking an explanation from his hired help.
‘You tell me you are from the government, that can’t be so.’ He shakes his head. ‘If government want to talk to me they send a letter.’ He smiles. ‘Or the police maybe.’
‘Or the police?’ I say.
‘You are the police?’
‘The secret police,’ I say. ‘Security service, MI5, call us what you like.’
‘That’s not possible.’ He’s still shaking his head.
‘Think about it, Mr Wasiewicz. Every time you send your thugs to kill me what happens? They fail. They get arrested, injured, killed even. Who do you think is protecting me?’
‘And him?’ Wasiewicz points to Monty. ‘Is he secret police also?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘He’s just here to look after me, make sure no harm comes to me.’
‘Then you are crazy,’ he says. ‘One man can’t do anything. I have many; maybe I just kill you both now. End this craziness.’
‘That would be very unwise, very stupid.’ I’m feeling my power increasing all the time as his seems to diminish. His threats now have a hollow sound, his voice is uncertain, I’ve got him confused. I only hope he’s got the intellectual capacity to understand what I’m telling him.
‘My colleague belongs to the SAS, have you heard of the SAS?’
‘Yes, but that can’t be right.’ He looks at the heavyset man next to him who gives a slight shrug.
I follow up quickly, sensing a breakthrough. ‘At least one of your men knows my colleague, and he’ll also tell you that the SAS look after each other. Any harm to us will have dire consequences for all of you.’
Now he’s looking really uneasy, much less confident. Even his thuggish entourage is looking less aggressive.
‘The message,’ I announce, ‘is in two parts. First part. Stop these stupid attempts on my life. If there are any more threats your whole organisation will be wiped out. You will be personally held to account.’ I pause, wait for a reaction, watch my words sink into his thick skull. ‘I don’t like what you do,’ I continue. ‘If it were up to m
e I’d shut you down, arrest you, put you all in prison for a very long time, but it’s not my decision. For the moment it seems we have more pressing priorities than your seedy prostitution racket. Here…’ I pass him the brown envelope with Kat’s details and photograph. ‘This is the second part of the message. Find this girl, bring her to me. I want to speak with her.’
‘Why should I?’ he asks.
‘Priorities can change,’ I say. ‘Making yourselves useful to us might keep you in business.’ My heart is still beating too loudly. If he hears it he’ll know I’m lying. Now I have to get out of here, but it will only happen if he believes me. I walk slowly round the table and face up to the nearest thug, who moves aside. Monty walks past me, opens the door and we leave.
The scrawny guy is by the front door, which he dutifully opens. The porch is empty, the pigeon is gone. I breathe a sigh of relief for myself, for Monty and for the poorly bird. Then I see the smear of grey feathers spread across the path.
41
Alison, Tim’s second wife and Toby’s step-mother, isn’t the evil witch I once imagined her to be. I never thought I’d be thinking this but I’m finding myself warming to her. The initial defensive posturing seems to be diminished on both our parts. Now I’ve shed my animosity towards her, all I see is an ordinary woman doing her best.
We have a shared interest in Toby. I have to admit she always seems to have his best interests at heart, even if we might disagree what they might be. The previously unthinkable is happening. She is standing in my kitchen with a cup of tea in her hand, chatting nervously about Toby’s progress at school. Tony meanwhile is careering around in his electric car, stopping occasionally to take full advantage of having two attentive mothers.
Toby’s little sister, Freya, is sitting quietly on my floor, fascinated by her novel surroundings.
‘Is that your partner?’ Alison asks. The question puzzles me at first, then I realise she is referring to Monty who diplomatically removed himself to another room as soon as Alison arrived.
