Our House

by Louise Candlish

  I might be able to get you some cash.

  This you, Bram?

  Yes.

  I’d prefer you to use the phone I left you.

  Well, I’d prefer to use this one.

  I took petty pleasure in challenging him, enjoyed the pause that followed.

  ‘Do you not have an iPhone?’ said Rich, the intern, from the driver’s seat, noticing my cheap pay-as-you-go of dubious brand. He was young, didn’t spot my nervous breakdown, only my uncool phone.

  ‘I do, yes, for work. This one’s for my second job at MI5,’ I said. It beggared belief that I was now in possession of three mobile phones, like a drug trafficker or a polygamist.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Rich laughed, and I resisted the urge to lecture him about valuing his life and all those in it, to warn him against making the same mistakes I had because if he did not then nothing less than a living hell awaited.

  Mike was back:

  What cash? Not interested in shrapnel.

  Not shrapnel. 15K, better than the reward money.

  Fifty per cent better: surely that would satisfy him?

  Let’s talk. I’ll come to Trinity Avenue tonight.

  No! I keep telling you, I’m in rented digs.

  I added the address for the flat, an unnecessary courtesy since he appeared to already know every last detail of my circumstances.

  I’ll be there at 8. You’d better not be scamming me.

  That was his sign off. Not a trace of irony.

  *

  The client meeting was pure torture. Throughout my presentation of new products, my mind churned the same phrases: life-threatening injuries . . . multiple surgeries . . . identity of the speeding driver . . . The client, marginally more emotionally intelligent than the intern, remarked on my being off-colour.

  ‘All right, Bram? You’re away with the fairies today.’

  Realizing I was chewing my fingers in an agitated, simian way, I dropped my hand to my side. ‘Sorry, no, I’m fine. Just got a few things on my mind.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I heard about your domestic troubles,’ he said. ‘Happens to the best of us, mate.’

  He’d told me previously that his wife had left him to shack up with a colleague of hers, consigning him to a bachelor existence of Netflix, ready meals and porn.

  ‘Who’s she dumped you for?’ he asked, kindly.

  ‘No one,’ I said. ‘There wasn’t anyone else involved.’

  Mercifully, he gave me the benefit of the doubt on that. He saw us as kindred spirits, godforsaken – wife-forsaken.

  He didn’t have a clue.

  26

  Bram, Word document

  I have no problem saying I fantasized about cracking him over the head as he came through the door. Or sliding a knife between his ribs and watching him crumple to the floor, a jointless puppet. But then what? When you think it through, when you try malice aforethought for yourself, you quickly realize there really isn’t any foolproof method for murder, what with security cameras everywhere and phones betraying our every step, not to mention DNA and forensics.

  No, of course I wouldn’t kill the bastard. I could only hope to pay him – and that grasping slut Wendy, wherever she’d got to – to go away.

  I watched for him from the balcony. One after another, the vehicles of Alder Rise crawled up to the traffic lights on the eastern side of the park – silver-blonde mothers chauffeuring their charges from late sports clubs and music lessons; the evening Ocado deliveries of avocados and sauvignon blanc – and I experienced the physical cramp of grief. I missed Fi and the boys the way you miss a sense like sight or touch. I missed driving. Being behind the wheel had been, I saw now, a genuine passion. I’d offered lifts, I’d volunteered for chores, I whizzed here and there with the kids. Fitting the child seats that foxed Fi, securing the belts, ruffling the boys’ hair before clunking shut their doors and sliding into the driver’s seat. I’d felt so relaxed, so in command – apart from when I got riled up by other motorists or by cyclists or pedestrians, but that was par for the course in London, wasn’t it? All drivers had their lapses.

  Except mine had had terrible consequences.

  Consequences that were about to get worse.

  A filthy white Toyota pulled up and reversed into the only available space in range. The driver’s and passenger’s doors opened simultaneously and I watched as Mike and Wendy stepped out. He stood staring up at Baby Deco, at me – I resisted the instinct to duck out of view, but made no acknowledgement – while she consulted her phone, and then together they approached the main doors.

  I waited in the hallway for them, already blazing with fury.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ I hissed, as soon as they emerged from the lift, and the brute hostility attracted a startled look from my neighbour leaving her flat (sod’s law, the only time I saw another soul on my floor and it was when I was with these two).

  Mike had the gall to look offended. ‘What? You knew I was coming, what’s the problem? You don’t mind that I’ve brought Wendy along? Thought you might like to get reacquainted.’

  I hustled them in, closed the door behind them. ‘I mean the car! The Toyota. I thought you said you got rid of it?’

  Mike frowned. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘You said joyriders took it!’ Thirty seconds in and already I was on the back foot, speaking in just the wild exclamations I’d been determined to avoid.

  Wendy, who had not uttered a word until then, said, conversationally, ‘If I were the police and someone said they’d seen a Toyota at the scene of a crime, the first one I’d check out would be the one that’s just been reported stolen. I’d think, A bit of a coincidence, that.’ She regarded me, wide-eyed.

  ‘You haven’t gone and got rid of the Audi, have you, mate?’ Mike said, with unconvincing concern. ‘That would be a mistake.’

  Now he said it, it was obvious. I’d been played. I’d reacted to his text about joyriders exactly as he’d hoped, heedlessly incriminating my own vehicle and giving him even more leverage than he already had. The A3 would have been a needle in a VW/Audi haystack had I not left it for the police to find, had I not reported it missing. How many others had been stolen in the last month? Even in the whole of the South East there couldn’t be more than, what, ten, twenty? Few enough for each owner to be given reasonable consideration, even before you added the new detail of it being a hatchback. Even before you cross-referenced said owners against the database of motoring convictions . . .

  I was a fuckwit. At this rate, I was going to jail and I was throwing away my own key.

  ‘Mind you,’ Mike said, pleasantly, ‘even the other driver hasn’t mentioned a Toyota, so it’s a moot point.’ He paused to savour the phrase, before glancing about the flat with an amiable air. ‘Not a bad little place this, is it, mate? Compact. Not a patch on the main house, obviously, but needs must. This is what happens when your wife finds out you’ve been a naughty boy, eh?’

  What? How the hell did he know that? Guesswork, I supposed, based on my present circumstances, based on my willingness to fall into bed with Wendy.

  ‘You don’t know anything about my wife,’ I said, bitterly. ‘You’ve never been in my house and you never will.’

  He smirked. ‘Someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning, didn’t he? I won’t ask whose.’

  ‘Sadly not mine,’ Wendy said, with a ghastly simper.

  Without being invited, they seated themselves in the two armchairs, their heads turned to me at symmetrical angles, as if operated by a single brain. The blinds were drawn, the lamplight creating a terrible intimacy between the three of us.

  ‘You not going to offer us a beverage, then?’ Mike said.

  ‘Got nothing in,’ I said, perching on a bar stool, too agitated to settle.

  ‘Not very domesticated, is he?’ Mike said to Wendy.

  ‘He had plenty of refreshments last time,’ she said, as if puzzled by the discrepancy.

  ‘I bet he did.�
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  I loathed them. I wanted to lock them in their Toyota and put a bomb under it. ‘So what’s the deal with you two?’ I demanded. ‘It’s obvious you knew each other before all this.’

  ‘Irrelevant background,’ Mike said, his agreeable tone at odds with my belligerence. ‘So, tell us about the money. Found an account you’d forgotten you had, have you?’

  ‘It’s the car insurance money,’ I said. ‘But it may be another week or two before they pay out – they have to be satisfied it was definitely stolen.’

  It struck me that the claims investigator might have been referred to the Collisions Unit, which may in turn have served to remind detectives of a vehicle they’d all but discounted following that preliminary chat with Fi. It was only a matter of time, surely, before they returned, this time to question me. I was the originator of the report, after all, even if Fi had stated she was the last to drive the thing. Tomorrow, perhaps? They must know about the second residence by now; they might come before I left for work, escort me to a squad car as the school-run mums drove by . . . Who would I call? Fi? My mother? Why hadn’t I thought to line up a solicitor?

  ‘I got the impression you had the cash ready to go,’ Mike said, frowning. ‘Fifteen won’t be enough, by the way. Twenty would be better, and I suggest you chase it up sharpish because we need it for the new documentation.’

  I snapped to attention. ‘What documentation?’

  He adopted the air of exaggerated helpfulness I now knew to be his trademark, as if obliging an elderly tourist’s request for directions. ‘Well, for starters, we’re going to need new passports and we’re looking at five grand a pop minimum for the kind that gets you across borders. Plus we’ll need help with the bank account, probably in the Middle East, somewhere like Dubai, beyond the tentacles of the British taxman.’

  I bounced in my seat. ‘What the fuck . . .? Who needs a new passport? Who needs to cross borders?’

  ‘Well, you will, for one. When the sale goes through, your ex isn’t just going to walk away, is she? She’ll go mental. She’ll want to get the police involved, find out what’s happened to her share, and chances are they’ll alert the border folks, maybe even Interpol. You won’t be able to travel on your own passport and new ones can’t be magicked up overnight. They’re works of art, Bram.’

  I gaped. When the sale goes through? Interpol? The understanding that the money I’d offered had not slaked his lunatic appetite entered me through my open mouth, a monster cockroach blocking my airways. Finally, I managed to rasp: ‘Come on, Mike, forget this fantasy about the house. I’ll try and get twenty for you. Take it and move on. It’s a decent pay-off.’

  His expression remained phlegmatic. ‘It’s not a fantasy, it’s a plan, and it’s time to get it underway. The first thing we need from you is a look at Mrs Lawson’s passport photo, so Wendy here can do a bit of restyling.’

  At this, Wendy pulled a theatrically modest face, as if receiving news of a promotion.

  ‘Just take a picture of the relevant page, will you, next time you’re home, and ping it over on the new phone. And a shot of her signature as well, please.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, what the hell are you talking about, “restyling”?’ I said.

  ‘She’ll be Fiona Lawson, of course. I told you this last time,’ Mike said. ‘Keep up.’

  I laughed, the demented tone of it belying my certainty that this had to be halted now. ‘Look, this has gone way too far.’ I sprang to my feet. ‘You’ve left me with no choice but to go to the police. I should have gone straight away.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ Mike rose too, took a step towards me. In the lamplight, the bones of his face were cadaverous. ‘Go on, tell us, we’re fascinated. It wasn’t just because of the ban, was it? A charmer like you, you’d probably be able to persuade a judge to stick to the minimum sentence.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re on about,’ I said, apprehensive in a whole new way.

  He pulled an expression of faux surprise. ‘Your assault conviction, of course. You can’t have forgotten that.’

  I felt a smash of cold, like a ridge of ice collapsing on my upper body.

  ‘A suspended sentence, wasn’t it? What, four years ago now? In return for a guilty plea, I’m guessing. Quite a record you’ve got there, Brammy boy. If you ask me, going to the police is the last thing you should do. Does your boss know, by the way? What about your wife?’

  I said nothing.

  He whistled. ‘A hell of a lot of secrets you’ve been keeping, Bram. But you can’t keep them from the police, can you? It all counts as evidence of bad character, when the time comes.’

  When the time comes?

  The blood roared in my skull. ‘Get out,’ I said. ‘The deal’s off. No money, nothing.’

  Mike did not reply, simply looked at Wendy, who produced her phone and began dialling. I hovered, impotent, as she selected speakerphone mode and placed the phone on the coffee table between them.

  A voice emerged: ‘Croydon Hospital?’

  ‘Critical care ward, please,’ Wendy said, her tone grave.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hissed, lunging forwards. ‘Why are you ringing the hospital?’

  With her eyes fixed blankly on mine, she continued to speak loudly into the phone. ‘Oh, hello. I’m enquiring about little Ellie Rutherford, the victim of the Silver Road accident. How is she?’

  ‘Stop!’ I gasped. My pulse hammered viciously.

  ‘But you just said you wanted to cut your losses,’ Mike murmured, voice close to my ear, as if genuinely puzzled by my protest.

  ‘What?’ Wendy was speaking over him. ‘No, no, I’m not a family member, just a concerned member of the public. I think I witnessed the crash, you see, and I’m not sure who I need to speak to.’

  ‘Can I take your name?’ the hospital worker said. ‘And a contact number, please.’

  ‘Sorry, could you repeat that?’ Wendy picked up the phone, covered the mouthpiece, and appealed to me with a phoney tone of dilemma: ‘She wants me to leave a name and number to pass on to the police. Shall I? It’s your call.’

  ‘No!’ I sank to my knees. ‘Hang up, please!’

  Two sets of eyes did not move from me until, at last, Wendy looked at Mike for a signal.

  She uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘No name. Please pass on my best wishes for her recovery.’

  She ended the call.

  ‘That was despicable,’ I said, my breathing tight. ‘Saying you have information and then . . .’ My voice cracked.

  ‘Bless him,’ Wendy said to Mike. ‘I’m sure Karen Rutherford would be touched.’

  ‘How do you know their names? They haven’t been released to the public.’ Quite apart from the stress of this latest stunt, the exposure of the victims’ names was unwelcome to me: Karen and Ellie, they could be a mother and daughter at the boys’ school gate. I wished I could unlearn them.

  ‘Unofficial channels, mate,’ Mike said.

  The same channels he’d used to discover my financial assets, my assault conviction and God only knew what else.

  ‘Bram, I think you need to understand how serious this is,’ he went on, his manner suddenly gentle, paternal. ‘Like I say, we’re ready to get the process underway and there’s plenty to get on with while we wait for the insurance money.’

  ‘Yes, you said. The insane and not at all traceable act of stealing a house by impersonating me and my wife.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for anyone to impersonate you,’ Mike said, chuckling. ‘Even if I had the acting skills, I couldn’t hope to match your matinee idol looks. Fading matinee idol. No, you can play yourself, mate.’

  ‘Get your plot straight,’ I snapped. ‘You just said I’m going to need a new passport. Which is it?’

  ‘Well, you’ll be yourself for the transaction, but when it’s done, like I said, you’ll have a bit of explaining to do and you’ll probably want to move on with a nice new identity.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’
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  ‘Interesting choice of words. Just so long as it’s yours and not little Ellie’s. I hear she’s hanging on by a thread, poor thing, getting new infections all the time.’

  I gaped at him. ‘You’re evil.’

  His shrug was casual, a single shoulder, his gaze cold. ‘Not evil, just practical. You need to understand that you’re not going to get your hands on the picture or the recording until we complete on the house. Meanwhile, there’s always a chance the victim’s memory will improve, especially if Wendy here gives her a call.’

  As I buckled at this confirmation that Wendy had indeed recorded our morning-after exchange, he steamed on: ‘So you see, time really is of the essence here. The faster we work, the faster you can escape. As I understand it, if we get the place on the market now, we should be able to do it in under three months.’

  ‘Three months?’ I laughed, grimly. ‘I’ll be arrested long before then, with or without your sidekick’s tip-off.’

  ‘I was getting to that,’ Mike said. ‘If the police do come calling, then so long as you co-operate nicely I’ll help you out with an alibi for the night of the crash. We got talking in the Half Moon in Clapham Junction, how about that? I assume it would need to be a train station, eh? Since you’re not meant to be on the road.’

  I could feel my right fist itching to smack him, fought to keep it by my side. ‘Fuck your alibi and get out. I won’t ask you again.’

  For the first time his manner edged towards annoyance. ‘You know what? I’m beginning to find these knee-jerk outbursts of yours a bit tedious. Don’t go wrecking another phone, will you? If you do, we’ll have to contact you on your work phone. Better still, leave a message with your boss. Neil Weeks, isn’t it? I imagine he’d be very interested to hear what you’ve got yourself involved in. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was already a bit dismayed by your performance lately. Sales figures down this quarter, are they?’ His hand fell on my shoulder, bony fingers grasping powerfully. ‘So what I suggest is that you have a proper think. I know you’ll reach the right decision.’