by Chris Simms
Charlotte's shoulders relaxed a little. 'Our table at The Restaurant Bar and Grill is booked for eight thirty. Doors to Chilli Pete's open at ten, I think.'
Tom glanced at his watch. That gave him forty-five minutes to get ready.
Then Charlotte added in a much sweeter voice, 'Can you give that Brain a ring? See what he's got. I don't fancy any of that skaggy speed again.'
There was the signal: if he rang Brain their tiff would be over. If getting more drugs would put her in a better mood, he was prepared to do it. It might even lead to other stuff later, he thought, trying to remember the last time they'd had sex. 'Sure, we can call by on the way into town. I don't mind driving tonight.'
Argument won, she blew a kiss over her shoulder and disappeared into the bedroom.
Downstairs, he switched on the computer. While it booted up, he gave Brain a ring.
'Hello.' A voice box sounding like it had been rubbed with a cheese grater. 'Brain, it's Tom. Any chance of stopping by in about an hour?'
'Good timing Tom, shopping's just arrived.'
'Excellent. 'Tom smiled. 'See you in a bit.'
He hung up and then went on to the internet. Clicking on the Cornwall Guide, he checked that the cafe on Harbour Road was still for sale. Finding that the little thumbnail photo and description of the property were still posted on the site, he directed a silent thank you to the heavens, then went upstairs to get changed.
Tom found a parking space on the street along from Chilli Pete's. Turning off the engine, he looked across to his wife. Spread across her lap was a selection of pills and powders.
'E?' she said, holding up a pill.
'Don't mind if I do,' he replied, popping it into his mouth and knocking it back with a swig of mineral water.
Charlotte took two and he passed the small plastic bottle to her. 'Right, let's leave the coke for the weekend.' She put the wrap of paper back in the glove compartment. 'What was this stuff again? I can never understand his sandpaper voice.' She held up a plastic sachet with a self-sealing top.
'He said it's something he brewed up himself. Like GBH, but it gives you a much cleaner lift. And a lot stronger, too. He said to just take a tiny dab.'
'Sounds intriguing,' Charlotte replied, slipping it into her push-up bra. 'I might try a bit later.'
Returning the rest of the ecstasy tablets to the glove compartment, they got out of the car and walked to the club's entrance. After a cursory search at the doors, they headed down the stairs and into a dimly lit lounge area. Huge brown leather sofas and armchairs were arranged in pods around low glass tables lit from below by single soft bulbs. Round the corner the dance floor pulsed with intricate laser effects as some sort of trance track slowly built up momentum.
'What are you having?' asked Tom as Charlotte nabbed a corner armchair.
'Just water,' she replied, reaching for her cigarettes.
Tom made his way across the half-full lounge area to the bar and ordered a bottle of mineral water and a bottle of Tiger beer. Back at their seats he slumped down and lit a cigarette. Charlotte was leaning sideways in the seat, legs crossed just above the knee, one elbow on the wide handrest. With a cigarette held just in front of her lips, she surveyed the room, eagerly examining what everyone else was wearing.
After a while Tom began to sense waves of energy emanating from his chest. They spread to his arms and legs, infusing them with urgency. The music suddenly seemed to connect with him on a much deeper level. 'You coming up yet?' he asked Charlotte, realizing that the question wasn't needed when he saw how fast her knees were jiggling.
She turned to him, eyes bright. 'You dancing?' she said in a mock northern accent.
'Why, you asking?' Both of them laughed and jumped to their feet.
They stayed on the dance floor for almost an hour solid, just letting each successive song carry them along, swaying and grinding until a change of tempo or a burst of vocals lifted them up and set off another burst of energetic dancing. Eventually they took a break, breathlessly sharing a bottle of water at the side of the dance floor, Tom holding the cool plastic against his forehead before gulping down his half. Using his body as a shield, Charlotte slipped the plastic pouch from her bra and opened it up. 'Fancy any?' she asked, glancing down at what was subtly cupped in her hand.
'No, cheers – I'll just see this E through,' answered Tom, head nodding away.
Charlotte licked a finger then dipped it into the bag. It came out coated in a sherbet-like powder and she popped it into her mouth, washing it clean with her tongue. 'Another for luck,' she said with a mischievous smile, licking her finger and dipping it in again.
Back out on the dance floor the music was picking up, people were starting to shout in appreciation, glow sticks had started to appear and the mass of bodies moved with more purpose, the crowd sensing the next phase of music was going to build and build.
As usual Charlotte had quickly manoeuvred her way into the middle of the dance floor. Her hair was tied back in a long ponytail and as her body pulsed back and forth she started sweeping her head from side to side, the blonde mane flicking against those around her, causing several people to turn and watch. Tom was just clicking into his usual routine – hovering slightly to her side, just close enough to let the other men in the vicinity know they were together – when Charlotte lurched against him.
Instinctively he grabbed her waist to steady her, but next thing her legs folded and she crashed to the floor. Those in the immediate vicinity stepped back, but other people, unable to see that someone was down, carried on dancing, bumping into the stationary people. Moving quickly before someone fell over her, Tom hooked his hands under her armpits and hauled her upright. Someone helped him to carry her off the dance floor and place her in a chair at the back of the lounge area.
'She's out of it!' the guy shouted. 'What's she taken?'
'Nothing much, 'Tom yelled back, wanting to get rid of him as soon as possible. 'Just a vodka too many.'
The man glanced at Tom, looking unconvinced. Then he turned back to Charlotte. 'Can you hear me, love?' he asked her.
'I told you,' said Tom impatiently. 'She'll be all right.'
'And who are you?' asked the man. 'How do you know her?'
Tom held up his wedding ring, then grabbed Charlotte's hand and showed him the matching ring on her finger. 'She's my wife, all right?' His voice was tight with irritation.
The man looked at their fingers and seemed reassured. 'Listen mate, I'm not being funny, but you could have been anyone. You know, I was worried. All this stuff about date rape drugs. She's totally out of it, after all.'
Tom could appreciate how dodgy the situation must have looked to a stranger. 'No, you're all right mate, I see your point. But she's my wife. A bit of a headcase, but still my wife.'
'OK. You sure you don't need help?'
'No, thanks anyway.'
For some reason they shook hands and the man disappeared back towards the dance floor.
Tom looked back at his wife. Her whole body was limp, eyes shut. 'Shit,' he said, pulling her upright and having to grab her jaw to stop her head lolling forwards. 'Charlotte, can you hear me?' he shouted into her face. She appeared to be totally unconscious. He placed a hand against the left side of her chest – her heart was pounding, but not ridiculously so. Looking around, he saw a bottle of water on the table in front of them. Leaning her back in the seat, he reached out and grabbed it. Then, holding her head back, he tipped a little into her slightly open lips. She coughed but didn't come round. Beginning to panic now, he poured some into his hand and splashed it against her forehead. The water dripped down her face and neck, running into her raised cleavage. He poured more into the palm of his hand and splashed it into her hair, then raised the bottle and poured some directly on to her head. Her eyes stayed shut. Not caring if the bouncers saw, he got one arm under her legs, one round her back and lifted her out of the seat; they had to get to hospital. As he made his way between the armchairs and sofas s
everal people nodded in his direction. A couple of blokes grinned and one called over, 'She looks up for it!'
Then, as he neared the other side of the room, he felt her head begin to move. Away from the dance floor, the music was fractionally quieter. 'Charlotte, can you hear me?'
She moaned and her eyelids began to move. He sat down in an armchair with her on his lap. Getting his face close to hers, he repeated her name. Bit by bit she came round until, after a few minutes, she half opened her eyes and mumbled, 'Where are we?'
'You collapsed. Out on the dance floor.'
She seemed to think about that for a few seconds, then her eyes slid shut. Just as he started to worry that she'd passed out again, she whispered, 'Take me home.'
After folding the duvet around her, he scraped up her damp dress and underwear. The little plastic sachet of powder fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, he walked downstairs and put the desk lamp on. Two teaspoons' worth of fine white powder formed a triangle in the corner, a couple of lumpy bits where Charlotte's damp fingertip had been.
He lifted the phone, knowing Brain rarely slept at night. 'What the fuck was that powder?'
'Who's this?'
'Tom. I called in earlier tonight to pick up some shopping. You had a new... spice.'
'Oh that,' answered Brain and Tom could hear his grin. 'Knockout, isn't it, my friend?'
'Knockout? You could fucking say. My missus is completely asleep upstairs.' 'I told you – it's something new. I put it together using a recipe from the States.' He put on a Mexican accent. 'You only need a leetle beet, amigo. Es claro?'
'Yeah, you said,' Tom felt slightly sheepish, realizing Brain had warned him. He thought about the two large dabs his wife had taken. 'What is it?'
'I told you earlier. It's very popular with men who like their ladies a little more compliant, shall we say.'
'You're talking about date rape?'
'Watch what you say over the phone. Those were your words, not mine.'
Tom just had time to apologise before the line went dead. Hanging up, he looked at the little bag again, shook his head and tossed it on to the uppermost shelf above the computer, safely out of anyone's reach.
In the kitchen he opened up a beer and stepped through the French windows out on to the back patio. Hoping to try and spot The Plough once again, he looked up at the night sky. But all he could see was a greyish orange smear created by the massed lights of Manchester.
Chapter 10
June 2002
The sleek nose of the Virgin train eased slowly along before coming to a halt just in front of the buffer at the end of the platform.
As one, the train's doors fell outwards before sliding to the side. Watching from the barriers, Tom was returned for an instant to the Seychelles, disembarking from the plane into a holiday that never happened. Taking one last glance at the photos from his client's company web site, he started scanning faces. Soon he spotted them, briefcases and bags in hands.
Folding the printout into his jacket, Tom walked over. 'James. Will. I'm Tom Benwell.'
The taller, slightly balding man smiled and held out a hand. 'Hello Tom, nice to put a face to your voice at last.'
Tom shook hands and turned to the dark-haired man whose stare was a little too intense. Noticing his hands were still at his sides, Tom held out his own, wondering if it would be shaken. 'Good to meet you, Will.'
He grasped Tom's hand for an instant in a featherlike grip, then dropped his arm. 'Likewise,' he said with a guarded smile.
Tom nodded. 'How was the trip up? You're actually a few minutes early.'
'There you go – miracles happen. I must say, this station is immaculate.' They all looked up at the gleaming new canopy of girders and plate glass arching over their heads.
'Yes,' Tom replied. 'The roof was replaced and the platforms revamped last year, I think. They're still working on the inner part of the station, but we're assured by countless notices it will be ready for the Games. Shall we?'
He held out a hand towards the doors leading into the main part of the station. Inside, a corridor of blue hoardings led them towards the exit. From behind them came the sounds of drilling and hammering as dozens of workmen fought to beat the fast-approaching deadline.
Taking it all in, James said, 'They'll really have this done in less than six weeks?'
In reply, Tom just raised his eyebrows as they made their way over the bare concrete floor. Out on the concourse the pedestrian walkway had been altered again to allow paving stones to be laid down.
'I'm parked just round the corner.' Tom led them towards the main road.
'What's that going to be?' asked James, pointing up at a tall aluminium structure being erected at the end of the concourse.
'It's going to support the second largest LED screen in the UK. They'll use it for electronic advertisements and flashing up info on the Games.'
The two visitors swapped a look that seemed to say, Why haven't we been offered space on it?
Tom spotted the exchange. 'The contractors have run into funding problems – there's been no word on its completion date yet. My guess is it will still be half-built well after the Games have finished.' He pointed to the line of trees stretching away up the middle of the road ahead, young leaves already covering their thin branches. 'This road leads up to Piccadilly Gardens, kind of Manchester's equivalent to Trafalgar Square. Like the station, it's also been given a complete overhaul, along with much of the city centre in fact. I thought we could go back to the office for our meeting then head into town for lunch and I'll give you a guided tour.'
Back at It's a Wrap they headed through the double doors and sat down at the long table. Laid out in the middle were the small folders he'd been preparing until 11.30 the night before.
'OK. 'Tom opened the folder before him. Below the first page's headline of 'The Games Sponsors' was a mass of company logos including Manchester Airport, Microsoft, Cadbury's, Cussons, Asda, and Guardian Media Group plc. Tom began his presentation by reading out the caption at the bottom of the page. '“The Commonwealth Games about to take place in Manchester has already attracted more sponsorship than any other individual sporting championship in the UK.” That, gentlemen, is a quote from Niels de Vos, commercial director of the Games, just last week. The event has been the catalyst for an unprecedented level of development, one that has sparked a chain reaction across the city, resulting in an awe-inspiring collection of new buildings.'
He turned the page, revealing a series of photographs and accompanying lines of text. 'Manchester Art Gallery. Opened last month after a thirty-five-million-pound extension. Urbis, The Museum of the City, just opened at a cost of some thirty million. The Lowry Centre, opened April 2000 at a cost of sixty-five million. Chorlton Street Bus Station opened last month after a three million pound face lift. Piccadilly Gardens, opened last month after a ten million pound revamp. Piccadilly station, fully open next month after a fifty-five-million redevelopment. Imperial War Museum North, opening next month after thirty million pounds of investment. Essentially, Manchester has enjoyed two decades' worth of development in a twentieth of the time, and that list doesn't even touch on commercial ventures.'
He turned to the next page.
'We have some of the most modern, exciting shopping developments in Europe. Aside from the mighty Trafford Centre, this city boasts a Selfridges, Europe's largest Marks & Spencer, The Great Northern Movie Megaplex, The Printworks and The Triangle, home to shops and restaurants such as Quicksilver, Muji, Jerry's Home Store, Zinc Bar and Grill, Wagamama...'
'Wagamama?' Will piped up. 'I didn't know you had one of those up here. That's my favourite place to eat.'
'Well,' replied Tom, anxious to keep the momentum going, 'let's eat there this lunchtime. Gentlemen, come the opening ceremony on the twenty-fifth of July, we expect more than one million visitors to be enjoying this city's unique atmosphere. And in the middle of all this celebration will be your building wrap.'
'Would anyone l
ike another Kirin?' asked Tom, as his clients picked out the last of their noodles from the giant bowls. Both men declined, so Tom discreetly asked for the bill. After everything was settled they climbed back up the stairs, emerging from Wagamama's subterranean floor on to the wide pavement.
'Right, if we wander past the new Marks and Spencer building, we'll get to the site of your building wrap in about ten minutes,' Tom said.
They crossed the plaza, walking past the giant windmill-like structures with their slowly revolving sails outside the front of the store.
'All this seems new as well,' remarked James, waving a hand at the plate glass and textured concrete surrounding them.
'It is – well, relatively at least,' answered Tom. 'This whole area had to be rebuilt after the IRA bomb went off in June '96.' He pointed to an old-fashioned red postbox that stood somewhat inconspicuously in the modern city-centre street. 'That was the only thing that remained standing in the immediate vicinity, so it was left as a sort of monument. We're actually standing at the bomb's epicentre, or what you'd call Ground Zero these days I suppose.'
A short walk later, Tom pointed across the road at an old building that, like many others along the stretch of road, was clad in scaffolding. 'There you go – Crossley House. Soon to be luxury flats but, for the next two months, the frame for Arturo Aftershave. Directly behind us, as you may already have smelled, is Chinatown itself – a magnet for diners each lunchtime and weekend. And of course Princess Street itself is one of the main roads shoppers and commuters take in and out of the city.'
'Seems like a great site,' answered James. 'So where are we in relation to Piccadilly Gardens? I understand that will be quite a centre of activity during the Games.'
'Absolutely,' answered Tom. 'If we turn left on to Portland Street, it's at the top of that.'
Once on the main road the two visitors immediately looked up at the bright yellow side of Portland Tower. Will read out the lettering above the digital screen. 'Counting down to Manchester 2002 Commonwealth Games.' The screen now glowed with the number forty-one. 'There's quite an atmosphere building up,' he conceded.
