by Chris Simms
Brain said he'd better call round to discuss it.
Tom arrived at his house a short while later. Stepping into the dimly lit front room, he saw three student types slouched on beanbags and felt totally incongruous in his suit. He took the armchair in the corner and declined the joint offered to him by the dread-locked white guy to his right.
'Last blasts anyway,' the other man replied, taking the final puffs for himself. He flicked the roach into the upturned metal bin lid that served as a gigantic ashtray in the middle of the room. 'Cheers Brain. See you around.'
All three of them rose to their feet and shuffled from the room. As the smoke haze began to thin, Brain tied his mop of straggly black hair back in a ponytail and turned his attention to the electronic scales and small mound of cannabis resin before him. 'So Tom, what are you after?' His voice sounded even closer to total disintegration.
Deciding it was appropriate to purchase some drugs first, Tom replied, 'Any more of that special powder you blended yourself?'
Brain looked surprised. 'You've nearly got through the last lot already?'
'Well, me and a few friends, 'Tom lied. 'It's such a nice rush.'
Brain nodded in agreement. 'You're not wrong. You mentioned something about self-protection, too.'
Tom sat forward in his seat. 'I've got these bastards trying to get into my house. The price of driving a Porsche, it seems.'
'And you want to get hold of?'
'A gun.' 'What?'
'Just a pistol. Something I could wave at them so they never come near my house again.'
Brain lit a cigarette. 'I'm not a frigging arms dealer. I've got a degree in chemistry and I deal in chemicals.'
'I know,' said Tom. 'But you must know ... people.'
Brain loosed a plume of smoke at the ceiling. 'I'll give your number to this guy I know. If he calls you, he calls you. I'm not getting any more involved than that.'
'Cheers, Brain, I appreciate it.'
Chapter 14
July 2002
As he slowed to a stop in front of the traffic lights, Tom looked anxiously up at the number glowing from the screen on the side of Portland Tower. Nine days to go before the Games started. As if he needed reminding. He sipped latte with an extra shot through the lid of the cup before replacing it in the holder on the Porsche Boxter's dashboard.
Ahead of him the coloured banners billowed out slightly as a gentle summer breeze sighed down the wide street. He thought of the chaos waiting for him in the office and took another long sip, feeling the caffeine surging through the veins in his temples as his heart beat a little faster.
Carrying on towards Piccadilly station, trees now shrouded in a thick layer of leaves, he examined the scaffolding outside the Rossetti hotel, praying the printers had finished the Nastro Azzurro job by now. Erection date was in two days' time.
The traffic thinned out after the junction for the cab rank at the back of Piccadilly station and soon he swept up to Ardwick Green, taking the sharp left-hand turn and pulling up outside his office. He sat for a moment to steel himself then, feeling for the little bag of powder in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he jumped out of the car and walked into reception.
'Morning,' said Sarah brightly.
Tom took the pieces of notepaper she held out and went straight into Ian's old office. First was from Jim Morrell in the IT department down in London. Something about needing access to the system in order to trace some missing files. More of Ian's fucking handiwork no doubt, thought Tom. Next was from Austen Rogers, asking for the exact dates for their promotion of X-treme chewing gum in Piccadilly station. Tom placed the piece of paper on his desk and slid his appointments book over it. Out of sight, out of mind. Next was from a rep from Motorola. He was arriving at lunchtime and wanted to visit the printer where their building wrap was being produced. Tom couldn't remember offhand which printer was handling it. Since Lorzo's went bust, they had jobs scattered all over the place.
Feeling slightly sick at the prospect of the coming day, Tom slipped the sachet from his pocket, opened the airtight seal and dabbed a forefinger inside. Licking the dust from his fingertip, he felt his mood lift with just the anticipation of the drug hitting his bloodstream.
He turned on the computer and typed in 'WINNER'. The drug had just started to kick in and he tried to convince himself that the word applied just as much to him. Opening the file for Motorola, he saw, with relief, that the giant poster was being produced at a printer on the Trafford Park industrial estate. He rang to warn them he would be turning up with the client later that afternoon.
By twelve thirty he was waiting on the platform at Piccadilly station. When the train finally pulled in forty-five minutes late, he found himself shaking hands with a belligerent-looking middle-aged man called Graham Lock who obviously resented any commercial event that didn't take place in London.
'This is a bloody mess,' he said, looking around the station at the boarded-up shop fronts with their 'Opening Soon' signs.
'All ready in time for the Games, 'Tom assured him as workmen furiously thumped tiles into place with rubber-headed mallets.
Sitting in Tom's Porsche, the man scanned each billboard they passed. 'Lust, envy, jealousy. The dangers ofVolvo,' he read out in a dramatic voice, before continuing with the body copy. 'Beauty, charm and strength of character are enough to drive anyone mad. Prices start at £24,860 on the road, so watch your back and discover more at blah, blah, blah, blah. Bit menacing, don't you think?'
Without waiting for an answer, his attention turned to the council-paid building wraps covering the derelict building at the end of Ancoats Street. 'New East Manchester. The New Town in the City,' he read out, scepticism filling his voice.
Tom felt a pang of irritation. 'Millions have been invested in this part of the city.'
They emerged from the other side of the tunnel, Tom careful to follow the designated route to Sportcity because the carefully arranged screens and building wraps hid the boarded-up houses and empty mill buildings, their windows smashed years ago.
After a few minutes they turned a corner and the futuristic structure of the main stadium loomed into view, angular struts poking up into the clear blue sky.
On the street around them posters and banners hung from every available surface: a yellow and black Boddington's cow standing outside the houses of parliament with a hitchhiking sign saying, 'Manchester', a young female gymnast in a Microsoft leotard midway through a flip, a ninety-six-sheet poster for the BBC reading, 'Commonwealth Games. Bring on the Superhumans. 72 nations, 17 sports.' Below the headline was an image of a sprinter leading a pack of greyhounds, sharp canines bared behind the dogs' wire muzzles.
Tom got onto the A57 and followed it to the Mancunian Way, whipping past various red brick University of Manchester buildings on their right before taking the A56 as it curled alongside the Manchester Ship Canal.
Soon they were on the A5801, Manchester United Football Club's stadium rearing up on their left, heading into Salford's bleak landscape of industrial buildings, depots and docks.
Coming to a halt in front of what looked like a small aircraft hangar, Tom announced,
'Here we are, Vision Printers. Proud owners of one of just a handful of Vutek 5300s in Britain today.'
Tom led the way into a cramped reception area and waved to a thin man with a loosely knotted tie. 'Hi Simon, this is Graham Lock. We were hoping to catch a glimpse of their building wrap as it's rolling off the Vutek.'
Simon and Graham shook hands. 'Follow me.'
They proceeded through to the shop floor, stepping off the beige nylon carpet onto a smooth concrete floor coated in a thick layer of pale blue industrial paint. The air was sharp with the smell of paints and solvent. Covering most of the grey breezeblock walls were a variety of supersize posters. Several printers were dotted around, but they headed straight for the massive one in the corner.
When Simon spoke, his voice echoed slightly. 'Here she is: the Vutek Ultravu 5300.
' Long and thin, the machine stood about eight feet high and thirty feet wide. A huge roll of material was loaded into its top. Below it a printer head the size of a TV ran backwards and forwards along a highly polished rail, a wide ribbon of computer cable trailing along behind it.
'Essentially, it's just an enormous version of a desktop printer. Except it costs tens of thousands of pounds more,' Simon explained, opening a door at its base. Inside was a row of three-litre plastic drums, a pipe leading out of the top of each. 'Four colour - CMYK - printing process. The ink is pumped up from here into a secondary tank in the printer head. The computer takes care of the mixing and the ink is applied by means of a Piezo chamber.' Graham peered at the printer head as it toiled to and fro. 'Meaning?'
'There's an electrostatic charge as it goes one way, a vacuum the other. That way the ink is bonded like glue to the substrate we're using. In the case of your job – and most building wraps – we use a PVC mesh. It allows the builders working on the scaffolding behind to see out. Obvious safety benefits.'
Graham looked at the roll. Each time the printer head returned to the far end of the rail, the length of PVC moved round a few centimetres. On the small area of exposed material he could make out a fraction of the mobile phone's image. Each button was the size of his head. The model's unique selling point was a facia that could swivel right round. Graham was convinced it would prove a massive seller. Tom thought it was crap.
As soon as the train door shut behind his client, Tom turned away and started walking quickly towards the station's toilets. His jaw muscles ached from maintaining a smile for so long. Finding his way barred by pristine new turnstiles, he scrabbled around to find a twenty-pence piece, cursing the fact you now had to pay in order to piss.
When he had locked the cubicle door behind him, he lowered the toilet seat lid, sat down and extracted the sachet from his pocket. After taking a dab of the powder, he sat back and shut his eyes, waiting for the drug's reassuring grip. A few minutes later he stepped back out into the real world, feeling charged up once more.
'Sarah? Anything I should know?' he asked, marching back towards his car, mobile phone pressed to his ear. 'A Mr Austen Rogers from X-treme called regarding their...'
'Next,' interrupted Tom.
'Giles Peters and Sarah Palmer from Cussons will be here at six o'clock.'
'For what?'
'Rhodes and Co? Your table is booked for 7.45.'
Shit, thought Tom, only now remembering the dinner date. When, he wondered, would he have any time to spend with Charlotte?
Chapter 15
July 2002
Once Ges reached the bottom of the stairs, Creepy George emerged from behind his bank of computer monitors and walked over to the window. He watched as the large figure emerged on to the street and walked slowly off to his parked car.
Satisfied he wasn't coming back, George relaxed – he had the office to himself at last. Back at his computer, he loaded up the path-shredder programme to destroy the trail of his internet wanderings. Then he keyed in the address for his favourite portal and scrolled down the screen to see which girls had been posting up entries that day. There were a few promising images but nothing that really got him excited. That was the problem with having to rely on other people's images; he could spend hours trawling the internet and still not find anything ideal.
Lifting up the black briefcase on to his desk, he entered the combination for the lock and opened it up. Next to the digital camera with its collection of lenses was a small stack of adult contact magazines. Picking up the top one, he turned to the section he wanted and traced a finger over the small boxed ads, selecting the section for the north-west. There she was; height, build and even hair colour very similar to Julie's.
The phone was answered after the second ring. Female voice, accent a little too strong for his liking – but what she sounded like hardly mattered.
'Are you posing tonight?' he asked in a low voice.
'Yes. For a half an hour, starting at eight o'clock. It'll be forty quid.'
George decided to go for it, but couldn't be bothered to speak with her any more. Instead he just hung up and then closed down his workstation. After doing up the top button of his shirt, he pulled out a tie from the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved his suit jacket from the cabinet. He liked to look smart for any photo session – not like some of the drooling scum that shuffled up to events.
By seven fifty he was parking on a small estate of new houses just outside Leigh. Looking around he saw a basketball hoop mounted above a garage door. A tricycle lying on its side on a tiny patch of front lawn. Curtains drawn, tellies on – just average people completely unaware of what went on just around the corner.
After retrieving the briefcase and his suit jacket from the boot of his car, he walked the short distance to the house, arriving at the same time as another man. Each glanced at the other's briefcase and they didn't need to speak. The door was answered by a tall, thin bloke in his late thirties – perhaps her husband, perhaps not. He showed them through into what was obviously the spare room. A double bed occupied the top part of the room, stripped down to the undersheet, the obligatory little photo album placed on the bed like some sort of menu. Three other men were already there. Cameras mounted on tripods, they fiddled around with lenses and light meters while avoiding each other's eyes.
'Forty pounds please, gents,' the man said. George and the other man produced the cash. 'I'll give you a few minutes to set up. She's keen to get going at eight on the dot. Now she's got a few uniforms. Photos are on the bed over there,' he said, pointing towards the booklet. 'If you want her in anything, just shout.'
The other newcomer stepped over to the bed and picked up the album, eagerly flicking through the images. George stayed where he was, knowing the chances of his particular tastes being met were unlikely in the extreme.
The room stayed completely silent until the door opened again five minutes later and a woman in her early twenties stepped inside. Five pairs of eyes greedily appraised her. 'Anyone want me to dress up?' she asked.
The men remained as silent as an audience being addressed from the stage. She shrugged, then without hesitation strode over to the bed and threw off her dressing gown. Announcing to no one in particular, she said, 'If you want any particular pose, just say. Otherwise I'll do my own selection.'
She lay down and the men's faces were sucked towards their viewfinders. As the half hour went by, marked by the steady click of cameras, the odd request came from the men around him. But George was hardly interested in the performance. He took a few snaps for appearance's sake, but quickly decided to save the memory in his digital camera for a more promising scenario.
At 8.30 exactly the man who had answered the front door said, 'Time!'
The woman climbed from the bed and put her dressing gown back on. As the others packed up their equipment, George approached the man. He coughed lightly to get his attention. 'Would the lady be interested in posing for a few more pictures?'
'Private session?' the man asked matter of factly.
George nodded.
'What sort of stuff?'
'Nothing other than she's just done, really,' answered George. 'It's just that I'd like to use my own background cloth. She would merely have to recline with her eyes shut.'
The man shrugged. 'I shouldn't think she'll mind. Hang on.'
He went over and spoke quietly in her ear. Adopting a bowed and shy posture, George pretended to fiddle with his camera, aware of her eyes glancing over him. Her harlot's eyes, assessing and judging. He wanted them shut, wanted their crawling appraisal to stop. He clamped his face in a neutral expression, afraid his features would betray the loathing he felt at her power.
The man came back over. 'Forty quid for ten minutes.'
'That's fine,' George replied, handing over the cash, keeping his eyes down.
As the man showed the other photographers out, she spoke to him. 'So how do you want me?' Her hands were stra
ying to the waistband of her dressing gown.
'No, no. Please stay robed. If you could simply recline on the bed and close your eyes.'
She looked at him for a moment longer, then uncertainly lay back and lowered her eyelids. 'Like this?'
Her posture was far too rigid, but George whispered, 'Yes,' and the camera began to click. After a couple of minutes shooting from various angles he said, 'That's good. And just let your head fall to the side.' More photographs. 'Lovely. Now, um...'
Her eyes opened.
From his briefcase he got the background drape for Julie's staff shot. He spread it out on the floor by the side of the bed. 'Would
you lie on the blue cloth, please?'
'The floor?'
'Yes. Perhaps you've got a bad back and the floor is a natural resting place. You see?'
A little warily she lay down on the square of cloth, arms crossed defensively over her chest, ankles tight together. Her eyes shut once more.
'You need to relax,' George cooed, standing over her. 'Arms lying outwards to the side. Good.' He began taking more shots. 'Perhaps your head back a bit, legs slightly akimbo?' The camera began clicking again, his heart now racing. 'And could you open your mouth a tiny bit?'
Barely moving her lips so her pose didn't change, she whispered in a toneless voice, 'What, like I'm dead?'
Lost in the moment and unable to hear the sarcasm in her voice, George said, 'Yes.'
'Barry!'
The door flew open and the man almost leaped into the room. George shied backwards as the girl stood up.
'What happened? Did he touch you?' The man looked from her to George and back again.
'No, he just ...'
'Why were you on the floor?'
'He wanted me to stretch my arms out and pretend I was...' She sounded scared, but when she glanced at George her eyes were full of contempt. 'He's just weird. I want him out.'
