Final Demand

by Deborah Moggach

  She’s gone to join Jesus, said Sheila’s Aunt Shirley, another Christian. She’s at peace now. She had wanted them to have that inscribed on the headstone. Sheila thought: If only I believed in God. If I did, then I could believe that Chloe didn’t die alone.

  But how, if she didn’t believe before, could she possibly believe now? The car slid forward. She heard a roaring noise; the droplets of water were blasted from the windscreen. They flew aside, shivering, and disappeared. And then the car slid forward again and emerged into the vaulted space. Men started rubbing it down.

  Winding down the window, Sheila spoke to a man’s belt. ‘Is Cheddar here?’

  There was a shout. The midriff moved away and a huge face filled the window.

  ‘Yes please, I am Cheddar.’ He squatted down on his haunches.

  ‘I’m Chloe Milner’s mother,’ she said. ‘The girl who died.’

  His mouth dropped open. He was a plain man, with terrible skin.

  ‘I hear this noise, like an angel,’ he said.

  ‘An angel?’

  ‘She is standing there, in the light, it is so bright, and she is singing.’

  Sheila stared at him. ‘You’ve seen her?’

  Cheddar nodded.

  Sheila’s heart turned over. ‘Is she all right?’ The man might be mad but she needed to believe him. Never, in her life, had she needed to believe in something more strongly. ‘Did you speak to her?’

  He nodded. ‘We have a little talk. After she sing the song and everyone is clapping her.’

  It was then that Sheila realized what he was talking about. Chloe had sung a song at the party. Rowena, the hostess, had told her about it. She looked so pretty, Mrs Milner, I always remember she had a lovely voice. I can’t believe I’m never going to see her again.

  ‘Her singing is so beautiful . . . my heart, it feels like this.’ His great hands spread open. ‘I think – she is lonely too.’

  Behind her, a car hooted.

  ‘Did she look happy?’ Sheila asked. ‘Tell me she looked happy. I just want to know that.’

  His eyes filled with tears. ‘When I hear she is dead, I cry and I cry . . .’ He wiped his streaming nose. ‘And it is my fault.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I let her walk home. I am responsible.’

  ‘Of course you’re not—’

  ‘It is all because of me.’ He jabbed his chest. ‘So I leave my job – I go away. How do I make my promise to protect these people when I let this thing happen? When the beautiful fat girl is dead?’ He blew his nose on a chamois leather.

  Tenderness swept over Sheila. She suddenly felt intimate with him. He had been there; he cared. She put her hand through the window and stroked his pitted cheek.

  ‘David, that’s my husband, he blames himself.’

  ‘We are men, this is our job, to protect our women.’ He broke into renewed sobs. ‘And we fail.’

  Behind them the car hooted again. And another one, behind it. One of the men shouted at Cheddar in a foreign language, probably to move the car on.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said.

  She took his great hand, pulled it into the car and kissed it. Then she wound up the window, started the engine and drove away.

  Take it one day at a time, said her friends. However long it takes, you will feel better.

  They were trying to be helpful, these people, but they hadn’t a clue. How could they? For it didn’t get better; if anything, it got worse.

  And here Sheila was, a month later, back at Pixies. She had to do this thing; she realized it now. The sky was stained pink; somewhere behind the buildings, the sun was sinking. It was another glorious evening in midsummer, the ninetieth evening her daughter hadn’t experienced. Another Friday, and the city was humming. A group of girls clattered past, making their way to the club. Sheila smelt their perfume. Why should they live? Sheila asked herself. What have they done to deserve it?

  She walked past the corner where the boutique had been, where she too had dressed herself up. Two of the flats now had SOLD stickers on their windows. She knew the way home. Off and on, she had lived in Manchester all her life. What route would Chloe have taken when she had stepped out, alone, into the darkness? Her daughter had a poor sense of direction, it had been a source of irritation to both her parents. In the last place they had lived, Chloe had lost her way returning from the corner shop.

  Sheila walked past Afflecks Palace, with its giant metal flower-lamps hung from the wall. This area had changed since she had been Chloe’s age; it seemed a century ago that she herself had been young. She walked down the pedestrian precinct past Debenhams and into Piccadilly Gardens, the city centre. This much Chloe would have known. Sheila’s feet made no sound. She realized, with vague surprise, that she was wearing her bedroom slippers. She crossed the road and walked down Mosley Street. This was the most direct route home. Above her the sky was a luminous blue, flushed with yellow. The moon hung there faintly, almost full. A blackbird was singing, surprisingly near; there must be a tree somewhere, here in the middle of the city. It was singing its heart out. Her singing is so beautiful.

  I’m with you, she told Chloe. I know I’m too late, but I’m here.

  Her noiseless feet padded past the Bank of Scotland. She reached Charlotte Street. A taxi stopped and two girls jumped out. Did you turn left here and walk through Chinatown, or did you carry straight on? She paused, waiting for a response. A car passed, music pounding from its open windows. She left the main road and walked past a Chinese supermarket, loud with chatter, and a row of restaurants. Unrescued by your father, were you starting to feel nervous?

  Chinatown was full of people. Even at that late hour, when Chloe had walked home, there would have been people around, certainly if she had stuck to the main roads. Where did you lose your way, my darling? I’m treading in your footsteps, my foot fitting yours, I want to see what you saw . . . Oh tell me where you went.

  Darkness was falling. Sheila felt light on her feet, as if she didn’t exist. I’m never going home. I’m like you, I’m never going to get there. Outside an office building, tubs were filled with bushes. Their flowers gave off the sweetest scent; it made her dizzy. If only he had killed me, and let you live.

  A passer-by shot her a look. She must be talking out loud, a mad woman in fluffy slippers. She felt strangely light-headed. Nobody else mattered, it was just herself and Chloe, alone in the city. In fact, she herself was barely there; it was her daughter who seemed the real person, close to her now. She was her mother’s guide; her presence walked beside Sheila as if she knew the way and it was her mother who needed looking after. Don’t worry, she said, I’m all right. It’s worse for you than it is for me, honestly it is.

  In a cruel moment, David had said, She waddles. Chloe didn’t now. She sprang along, as slim as she had been when she was ten. She escorted Sheila silently, under the moon. It sees everything, the moon. It saw what happened that night. And does it get upset?

  Cheddar had seen her in heaven, singing. In her mind Sheila knew this wasn’t the case, but her mind hardly mattered. Chloe looked radiant now, and quite calm. She led her mother down Faulkner Street, down the next street, past CLASSY FASHION: WE ALSO DO BIG SIZES. Sheila knew these streets but tonight they were as strange as if she were in a foreign city. Sure you don’t want to take a bus? Chloe asked. Come along then.

  Where are you taking me? Sheila spoke aloud. You’re not taking me home?

  They stopped at the traffic lights. The street was empty here. They were about to cross when a bus appeared, brightly lit. In it a woman, dressed in red, sat up straight. Then it was gone.

  It wasn’t blossom; Sheila could smell Chloe’s hair – the musty, secret fragrance of her baby hair, when Sheila buried her nose in her daughter’s scalp.

  Of course I’m taking you home, Chloe said. You can’t come with me.

  Let me come! said Sheila, the panic rising.

  Course you can’t, said Chloe kindly.


  Don’t go!

  But it was too late. The wind got up and she was gone. Far off, a car hooted.

  Chloe had left her at Oxford Street. She had known the way, after all. From there, it was straight ahead, under the railway bridge, past the BBC building and under the motorway. A mile’s walk due south and Sheila was home. It was eleven o’clock when she reached the pub. The door was open to the balmy air but the bar was empty. David, in a cloud of smoke, sat at a table.

  He looked up. ‘Where have you been?’

  She decided to tell him. ‘I went to that nightclub and walked home.’

  She waited for him to flare up: Why the hell did you do that, are you mad? Do you want to get killed too?

  But David didn’t. He just drained his glass and asked: ‘Which way did you go?’

  Sheila looked at him. ‘So you’ve done it too?’

  He nodded. Outside, there was a rattle as Mr Hassan pulled down the shutters of Europa Food and Wine.

  ‘So that’s where you go,’ she said.

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Why didn’t we go together?’ she asked.

  Chapter Three

  SITTING IN THEIR paddling pool, the children heard the scream. It came from next door, where the murderer lived – an ear-splitting yell.

  ‘I told you,’ said Dominic to his sister. ‘That’s him killing one. He slits their throats, and he put them in his sheds and he does things to them there.’

  ‘What things?’ asked his sister, gazing at him.

  Dominic flicked water in her face. ‘Just things. I’ve heard him, in the night. Then, when he’s done things to them he buries them in his garden. The bits of them that are left.’

  Their mother hurried out from the kitchen. ‘What was that noise?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’

  Dominic shook his head. ‘It was him next door.’

  Natalie sat down heavily on the edge of the bath.

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ said Colin. ‘See, the phone rang and I forgot about him.’ An iguana sat in the basin. ‘He’s got this fungal infection—’

  ‘I don’t give a shit what he’s got—’

  ‘And I was putting on his ointment.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Colin, I got such a shock. Just keep them out of the house.’

  Colin hung his head. He looked like a puppy that had puddled the floor.

  Natalie ruffled his hair. ‘You’re a funny bloke, Stumpy. Don’t know why I put up with you.’

  ‘I’ll get rid of them all, if you want me to.’

  ‘Christ, no.’ If he didn’t have his reptiles to keep him busy he would be hanging around her all the time. She was fond of Colin, but she had to admit that he was dull. In fact, that they had very little in common at all. His worship of her was starting to irritate, too. Though it was gratifying, to be gazed at as though she were a box of truffles, she was starting to feel stifled. Those sultry August days, the walls closed her in.

  Colin lifted the iguana out of the basin. He supported it with both his hands, reverentially, like a priest carrying the sacraments on an altar cloth. He held it away from his body as he carried it downstairs. She stood at the window, watching him. By now all the houses were occupied – kids splashing in paddling pools, parents mowing their pathetic little lawns. How could people bear to lead such boring lives? The night before, Colin had yet again brought up the subject of starting a family. She had realized: This is it. For Colin, this is what life is all about. It ends here, full stop. We live here, and we have kids, and this is it.

  ‘Let’s go on holiday,’ she said at lunchtime. ‘I’m owed three weeks and we didn’t even have a honeymoon.’

  ‘But Nat—’

  ‘Let’s go to Bali! I’ve always wanted to go to Bali. Or New York.’ She fetched some brochures. ‘I got these yesterday, there’s this special offer – look – two weeks—’

  ‘I can’t leave them for two weeks. It’s the breeding season.’

  ‘Your mum can look after them. She’s got bugger-all else to do. Come on, Stumpy, let’s have some fun!’

  She gazed at his round, sunburnt face. Back in January, marriage to him had spelt liberation. She hadn’t really thought beyond that, it wasn’t her way. Just for a moment, she could see the years stretching ahead.

  It was the same at work. By now she would no doubt have left NuLine. During this past month her two closest friends had gone: Sioban had found a new boyfriend, unmarried this time, and gone to live with him in Harrogate; Farida, who was pregnant, had given up work altogether and would soon be leaving for Canada. Nobody in their right mind stayed long in such a monotonous job, and yet there Natalie was, the brightest of them all, still stuck at her desk. She could see the irony of it – she had spun her web and now she was caught in it. O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive!

  That afternoon, as she lay sunbathing, she heard a voice: ‘I thought you were dead.’ The next-door boy gazed at her over the fence.

  ‘I’m not dead. I’m getting a tan.’

  ‘I heard you yelling,’ he said. ‘I thought you was being murdered.’

  ‘Oh, nobody’ll murder me.’ She closed her eyes.

  Sooner or later he’ll make a mistake.

  Or someone will.

  On a hot morning in August, in a bungalow in Hastings, an elderly couple were eating breakfast. Ted and Muriel Cox had eaten breakfast together for forty-two years. On the veranda, the sun shone on a sleeping cat.

  Ted and Muriel were that rare phenomenon, a contented couple. Not so rare amongst the elderly, for they had no vocabulary of dissatisfaction. They had not been brought up with those words. Their marriage had carried on, unanalysed, for nearly half a century. Besides, they were both of a cheerful disposition. The world’s evil washed over them; petty irritations only briefly unsettled them.

  There was one such irritation that morning; minor even by their standards. Muriel was opening the post. From one of the envelopes she pulled out a cheque. For a moment she thought: A windfall. Then she realized that it was signed by her own husband.

  Through her glasses, she peered at the accompanying letter. ‘It’s from some building society in Leeds!’ she shouted; Ted was deaf in one ear. ‘They say they can’t accept this cheque because you wrote last year’s date, you silly billy. They say you’ve got to change it and initial it.’ She passed him the cheque. ‘I mean, we all do it in January, but it is August now, dear.’

  ‘What?’ he asked, distracted.

  She thought he hadn’t heard. ‘I said—’ She stopped.

  He was examining the cheque. ‘It’s written out to N. Taylor.’ He looked across the table at her. ‘Do we know an N. Taylor?’

  Muriel thought for a moment. ‘What’s our window cleaner called?’

  ‘Shawn. And we don’t pay him ninety pounds.’

  She took back the cheque. It took her a moment to realize.

  ‘This is our phone bill,’ she said.

  It was the following Thursday. The weather had broken; rain lashed down. Natalie’s car was buffeted by the wind as she drove to work.

  She was in a good humour, however. Colin had agreed to a week in Penang at the beginning of September – cocktails, huts beside the pool. She pictured herself soaking in the sun like one of his lizards, but with better skin. Like all those who have won an argument, she felt warmly towards the loser. That morning she had decided to buy Colin a motorbike, a 1,000-cc Harley, the one she had pictured Kieran buying all those months ago, in her former life. It had been some time since she had bought Colin a present. Thank goodness he seemed to have stopped the how can we afford it? conversations. They had been starting to annoy her.

  She had also made another decision. It was no fun at NT any more, with her friends gone. In the autumn she would give in her notice. By then she would have stashed away well over fifty thousand pounds in her various accounts. Maybe more. She was no miser; she didn’t sit huddled over her building society statements, totting th
em up. In fact she simply stuffed them into the zipped pocket of her travelling bag, pushed to the back of her cupboard, where they radiated an energy sensed only by herself.

  All good gamblers know they should quit while they’re ahead. She was going to jack in her job and enjoy her freedom, certainly for a year or two. At some point she would think about what to do next. Her plans for the future were somewhat vague, but who cared? Sometimes they included Colin, sometimes she couldn’t quite picture him in the same scenario. But nothing had happened yet, so why bother worrying about it?

  It was still raining. Natalie parked the car and sprinted for the door. She wore new shoes. She didn’t count her money but she did count her shoes – she adored shoes – thirteen pairs she had bought in the past months. Colin had made a special rack for them. By the time she reached the lobby this pair, pale suede, were soaking wet. She remembered this, later, for the shoes never recovered and she never wore them again.

  She remembered thinking another thing. Leafing through the brochures, she had found several holidays in Thailand. Not once had the thought of her father crossed her mind. It was as if he had never existed.

  She was considering this, with a mild sort of surprise, when Mrs Coles, the new supervisor, walked over. She seemed to have been waiting for Natalie. There was an odd expression on her face. In fact, there was an odd atmosphere in the room. The new girl, Maxine, hadn’t said hello; she had stayed still, a blur through the frosted glass. And nobody seemed to be doing any work.

  Mrs Coles came close to Natalie and said, in a low voice: ‘Natalie, could you come with me? You’re wanted in the MD’s office.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘I DIDN’T DO it,’ said Natalie.

  She was sitting in a police station, somewhere in Leeds. It was a small, windowless room and stank of the cigarettes smoked by all the people who had said the same thing. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  On the other side of the table sat a detective, in plain clothes, and a female police officer built like a trucker. ‘You know that’s not true, Natalie,’ said the detective. ‘We have your statements here, from the account you opened at the Bradford and Bingley. That’s the building society that sent back Mr and Mrs Cox’s cheque. Since January this year you’ve paid in a hundred and seventy-six cheques, to the total value of fifteen thousand, seven hundred and twenty-five pounds . . .’