by Tim Lott
He wants to take her there and then, and manoeuvres himself on top of her, when she whispers urgently.
Do you have anything?
Anything?
Any kind of protection?
Protection from what?
Susan giggles, nips at his neck.
French letters. Do you have a sheath?
Charlie smiles with relief.
Of course. Of course I do.
He remembers that the condoms are in the pocket of his jacket downstairs, hanging up in the hall, and slips out of the covers and, naked, heads down the stairs.
It is cold in the hall, the central heating having clicked off some time ago, and he feels himself shrink slightly as he makes it to the jacket. He fumbles in the top pockets for the condoms, finds the pack of three, hopes it will be enough, then half laughs at himself for the vanity. More than enough.
The slippery silver foil falls through his fingers and lands on the telephone table beneath the coat rack. He reaches out to retrieve them, then, out of the corner of his eye, notices the name written on the notepad. Ruth.
He picks up the condoms. Ruth. Condoms. Ruth. Cassie.
Cassie is HIV-positive. Fresh, freckled Cassie. She said it was something at the dentist’s. What did that mean? He doubts that she is telling the truth. You would say something. You would make an excuse.
Fear of AIDS now rises up in this cold hall like a spectre from the Spanish guitar barometer that adorns the hallway’s approach to the stairs, one of the few artefacts he retains from the divorce. Susan Galloway. Who is she? How many men has she slept with? How do you get AIDS anyway? Charlie finds himself unsure. He is not 100 per cent that it cannot be got from kissing. He is not 100 per cent that it cannot be got simply by drinking from the same glass. Something in him recoils and shrivels. He stares again at the telephone pad. He looks up at the door to the bedroom, where Susan waits for him, the wetness between her legs, her infected wetness, her venomous gap.
Charlie! Come on! Come on, sweetheart.
His legs feel heavy. He makes his way slowly up the stairs, does not answer. On the way, he drops the condoms into a small wicker bin in the hall. He re-enters the bedroom.
Couldn’t find any.
Oh. Oh.
Thought I had some. Sorry.
Never mind. Never mind. We can think of other ways to keep ourselves entertained. Can’t we, Charlie?
She has pulled the covers right back now, to show the spreading vagueness of her body in the too-harsh light of the standard lamp in the corner of the room. She holds out her arms. Her lips a crimson line. Charlie feels an uprush of nausea within him.
Not feeling too well.
Can I…
It’s OK. I just… just need to sleep.
Charlie lays his head in the crook of Susan Galloway’s shoulder, closes his eyes. He feels her stiffness under the weight of his head, and hears, after a minute or two, the slight rhythm of her breath interrupted by the sharp intakes of air. He knows this is sobbing withheld. And he searches for a way to soothe it, but finds none, allowing himself instead to drift into anaesthetic, remorseful sleep.
It’s a stupid idea, Peter.
Maureen tucks into a large wedge of carrot cake. She has given up dieting, now eats what she wants, but finds that what she wants isn’t very much at all. Since wholeheartedly giving up on this lifelong regime of denial, she has lost weight. Abandoning control has, amazingly, led to control.
I don’t see what’s stupid about it. And I don’t see why you have to talk to me like that. I am your partner. In several ways.
The time is not right to start buying up more cars. We don’t have the business to justify what we’ve got at the moment.
But the interest rates are low, there are some amazing deals at the moment. If we don’t spend now, we’re going to regret it in six months’ time. It’s boom time, Maureen. Everyone’s getting rich. Why not us? In five years, who knows where we could be? That villa in Spain. A house with a swimming pool. Everything’s going our way.
Maureen taps her finger on the stack of heavy books in front of her on the desk of the small Portakabin that serves as an office for M&P Driving Centre.
Nothing ever stays the same, Peter. Your investments can go down as well as up, as the small print says.
Listen, Maureen…
Maureen is aware of Peter puffing out his chest slightly, an affectation she finds sweet but occasionally irritating. This, she decides, is definitely one of the latter occasions. Peter continues.
… you live in the past. Everything’s changed. All this boom and bust, it’s a thing of the past. We’ve solved the problems. The unions have been whipped into line. We’ve got rid of all the dinosaurs. Britain’s a great country again, Maureen! A great country! The sky’s the limit. With enterprise and a spirit of adventure, there are fortunes to be made.
Maureen sighs.
Come on, Peter. I’m not going to have a discussion about ‘this country’. That’s just silly stuff. That’s just you taking newspapers too seriously. I’m talking about the way things are. Things come and go. Opportunities open, then they shut. You have to run to get through the door, or you have to hold yourself back, to keep your distance from the lemmings. Everything always changes, all the time, but people always fool themselves that it will always stay the same. If you want to be successful in business, you’ve got to have a successful world view, every part of your life. It goes beyond these…
She indicates the heavy black volumes.
At a certain point, business isn’t about plans and figures and investment and capital and cash flow. It’s recognizing the way the world is. It’s sniffing things out. It’s using your nose. And everything I smell tells me at the moment that the economy, all of it, is… too hot. Too… I don’t know… hysterical. There’s something unreal about it all. I can’t put my finger on it, but what I am sure of is this. It’s no time to be borrowing £50,000.
Well, I think you’re wrong.
Well, I don’t care.
I’m going to order the cars.
And I’m not going to sign the cheques.
You don’t need to sign the cheques.
I do now. I instructed the bank as of this morning that no monies could be released without joint signatures.
Peter sits down slowly in the plain grey office chair.
You don’t trust me.
Maureen sits down beside him, puts a hand on his shoulder.
I trust you absolutely, Peter. I love you. But this is my business too. And it has to be run like a business. We don’t make the investment unless we get my say-so too. And we don’t have my say-so.
Peter sits still for several more seconds, feeling the weight of Maureen’s hand on his shoulder. The warmth from it seems to be almost clearly discernible through the fabric of his suit. He looks up.
OK, Peter?
OK, Maureen. You’re the boss.
And although this is meant as a joke, Maureen does not trouble herself to issue a contradiction. Her mind is on something else now. Important matters need to be settled, and a tide is running.
And there’s another reason why I don’t want to be taking on any more responsibility.
Why’s that?
Maureen pauses. She only vaguely knows why she chooses to announce this now. Perhaps it is because Peter is beginning to acknowledge what she already knows. That she will, in the end, have her way.
I want to get pregnant.
Pregnant!
Yes, Polly Parrot. Pregnant.
Peter sits heavily down.
But you’re forty-seven years old!
They’ve got drugs now. Being old isn’t what it was.
I don’t know, Maureen. I’ve already got three.
Then a couple more won’t make any difference, will it?
A couple?
These drugs sometimes do that. Twins are common. I’ve looked into it.
Peter’s eyes widen.
How closely?
>
I’ve been to see a doctor. He’s referred me. I’ve taken up the referral. The specialists says there’s a decent chance. Now all that’s left is the fun bit.
She smiles at Peter archly. Peter wants to deny her, but he knows, he has learned, that she has become too strong to resist. He nods weakly, gives a matching smile in return.
17
Spring 1990. The beginning of a new decade, yet the spirit of the old is far from exhausted, is still not exhausted today. Charlie stares at the two letters spread out before him on the table. Tommy sits opposite him, in a Gabicci shirt and designer jeans. They have both sat in silence now for several minutes. Tommy realizes that he has run out of suggestions.
It’s not possible. They’ve got it wrong, he says finally, picking up the letter nearest to him.
He has uttered this phrase several times already. And each time Charlie, sitting opposite him, has responded with an answering incantation.
I’ve had the valuation done four times. They all said more or less the same thing.
But it can’t be worth so little. How can it go down from 120 Κ to less than seventy Κ in the space of two years? The valuations have got to be bent. There’s some kind of percentage in it for them.
They’re independent.
Who’s independent? They’re all in each other’s pockets. They’re out to snooker the little man.
They’re succeeding.
Let’s think this through. Run through the situation at the shop. That – what’s his face… Buttercup.
Butterfield.
That Buttercup is coming to see us about.
Charlie sighs.
I’ve got creditors chasing me down hard. I’m way beyond the ninety days on most of them. The interest rates are hitting me too hard. Business is way down. I’ve done all the arithmetic. Take a look at this.
He reaches under the table into an old cardboard apple box which is full of sheets of A4 paper, scribbled on as if by a child with special needs. Figures spread across the white spaces like a virus, underlined, crossed out, added, subtracted, divided. Charlie fumbles among them, drops them, retrieves what he can, reshuffles them, trying to make sense. Tommy winces.
Has your accountant looked at all this?
It costs me an arm and a leg to make a phone call to him. I can’t afford to do it any more. I’ve got to sort all this out myself. I’m on top of it. I can get on top of it. Now where’s that sheet for last month gone? Jesus God Almighty!
He scrabbles hopelessly among the mounting nest of paper, eventually drawing out three dog-eared sheets with apparently random hieroglyphics inscribed on them. He studies these, face rapt with attention, as if their base metal can yield up gold through the alchemy of simple concentration.
See, the way I figure it, I can get out of trouble. I can capitalize the lease on the shop. I can return some of the stock perhaps. I can get a rate rebate. It’s all a matter of cash flow really. That’s what’s killing me. If I could make it through to Christmas. That’s when I do the best business. If I could get the other side of that, things might play out. Give back the Merc, get something smaller.
Much smaller.
Yeah. All right. Much smaller.
So what figure of money are we talking about?
Forty.
Forty quid? Forty buttons? Forty packhorses? How much, Charlie?
Forty grand. If I could get hold of £40,000, it would see me through to the other side of Christmas. I reckon I could save the business, the house, everything. It would be tough. But I could do it, I know I could do it.
Can’t you borrow it again?
No one’ll look at me, Tommy. They know my credit’s up the Swanee. They’ve got it all on the computer nowadays. They won’t touch me with a thirty-foot bargepole.
Charlie turns his eyes up towards his younger brother. The humiliation of this moment burns in his throat. He swallows. Tommy looks away as if he knows what is coming.
Tommy, if you could just…
The doorbell rings. They can see a dark outline through the glass. Neither of them moves. The doorbell rings again.
Best get it over with, Charlie, says Tommy quietly.
Charlie meekly gets up and opens the door.
The man on the other side of the doorway looks not at all like what he in fact is, consequence turned into flesh, fate’s messenger. He is bright and cheerful, with sandy hair, a dense brown moustache and a blue-black suitcase with a gold combination lock. He gives Charlie an enormous grin and holds out a big ham-like hand. It seems he is delighted to see Charlie.
Mr Buck!
Yes.
Hello! I’m Leslie Butterfield from the National and North Bank. I believe you’re expecting me.
Charlie nods him in morosely. Butterfield immediately walks across to where Tommy is sitting, glowering, in an armchair by the table. He reaches out a hand to Tommy which Tommy shakes unenthusiastically.
Hello! I’m…
I know.
Tommy doesn’t offer his name but buries himself further into the cushions of the chair.
Mind if I take a seat?
Without waiting for a reply, Butterfield sits down at the table and places his briefcase on the polished surface, then begins to fiddle with the combination. He looks up at Charlie.
Well, we’ve got one or two things to sort out, haven’t we?
He opens the briefcase. Inside, everything seems to be arranged in perfect symmetry, with colour-coded files, papers highlighted with markers, knife-edge plastic wallets precisely labelled. Inside the briefcase is a world of order.
I suppose so, says Charlie, taking a chair opposite him.
Do you think I might have a glass of water? says Butterfield, as he removes a pack of A4 documents from some initialled recess.
Charlie gets up to go to the kitchen.
No hemlock in it, thanks!
He smiles at Tommy, who bites his lip.
My job doesn’t always stand me very high in the league table of public affection, he confides, the smile growing broader than ever.
Charlie returns and places the water in front of him. Butter-field looks at it, looks at Charlie, then Tommy.
Any chance of a smidgen of ice, do you think?
No ice, says Charlie.
Oh.
Butterfield’s face darkens momentarily. He nods, as if some understanding that has been eluding him till now has been arrived at. Then he seems to brighten.
Well, never mind!
He takes a pair of spectacles out of his top pocket, unfolds them and places them on his face in such a way that they sit on the end of his nose. This changes the aspect of him slightly; it gives him weight. For the first time, Charlie feels slightly afraid of him. Butterfield looks over the spectacles at Tommy.
Sorry. You are…
The victim’s brother.
The victim’s brother. Butterfield frowns. I don’t quite get what you mean.
I’m Charlie’s brother.
Oh, I see. He takes a swig of water. It’s rather warm. Are you sure you don’t have any ice?
I’m afraid not.
Never mind. He peers over his spectacles at Tommy. You think your brother is a victim?
Yeah, says Tommy, throwing a glance at Charlie.
A victim of whom? Of the National and North Bank?
This question is delivered in a slightly sharper tone than previously. Tommy is taken aback.
I was just having a bit of a joke really.
I can assure you, Mr Buck, this is no joke.
Butterfield leaves a long pause, then smiles at Charlie again.
Well, then, Charlie. Do you mind if I call you that?
No.
Charlie, you seem to have got yourself into a bit of a mess.
I suppose so.
Another long pause.
You have not met your payments on this house for the last…
He checks a single sheet of closely typed paper comprising more figures than letters.
It’s not quite as bad as all that. I’ve made one or two part-payments. I’ve explained it all to your other feller… Mr… I can’t recall his name. The man with a type of greyish beard and…
Butterfield waves his hand in the air.
It doesn’t really matter.
What?
Charlie looks startled.
What matters is that we can hardly allow this situation to continue without taking some kind of action.
Charlie nods. Tommy points a finger at Butterfield and starts to speak.
The thing is…
Butterfield clicks the top of his pen. It makes a surprisingly loud report.
Would you mind, Mr Buck – Mr Buck Junior, is it?
I’m his younger brother, that’s right.
Would you mind if, for the sake of clarity, right now I deal solely with Charles?
You what?
With Charlie. Can I just talk to Charlie alone for a little while?
Well, I was just going to say…
Would that be OK with you?
This last phrase comes out clipped, suddenly impatient. Tommy, again taken aback, closes his mouth, shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He is not used to being in conflict situations he cannot end with a punch. Butterfield nods.
Good. Excellent.
Do you want me to leave? mutters Tommy.
Oh no. I’m sure that’s not necessary.
He turns slowly back to Charlie.
When we arranged this meeting, Charlie, you suggested to me that you might have found a way out of our current problems. Is that still the situation?
If I could just get through Christmas, says Charlie desperately.
Christmas, says Butterfield, looking puzzled.
Yes. That’s when the bulk of the trade is, see?
Unless the tradition has been modified and no one has thought to tell me about it, Christmas is in December.
