Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad...

by Steven Hayward

  ‘In that order?’

  ‘However it comes.’

  ‘Okay. I think the nicest thing I’ve done recently is to take pity on a poor, lonely old guy in a pub and buy him a drink!’

  ‘Hey! Enough of the old if you don’t mind.’

  She smiles, very sweetly this time, and goes on, ‘Then of course, I was very mean to him the next time I saw him and showed him up in front of his friends.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Very funny. Not exactly telling me anything I don’t already know.’

  ‘Hmm, let me see, something outrageous.’ She pauses and looks up at the ceiling. Each time she seems to have thought of something, her brow knits together in an expression of pained recollection, and then she shakes her head as if to say there must be something else more outrageous than that. Slowly, a very girlie grin starts to stretch her lips and widen her eyes until it spreads and lights up her whole face.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘What?’ I’m now desperate to hear the story.

  The beaming smile has turned into a naughty giggle, which she’s trying to control. That only succeeds in making it worse, until she’s laughing hysterically into her hands. Her laughter is infectious and I’m joining in without even knowing what’s so funny; other than watching her completely losing it.

  ‘You’re going to have to tell me,’ I plead, ‘and it had better be good.’ At that she bursts into another uncontrollable fit, until tears start rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘Sorry,’ she manages to say, wiping her face with a tissue. ‘I won’t be long.’ She walks towards the ladies’ room, when another wave of hysteria grips her and I’m left alone and confused.

  Two middle-aged women are sitting at the closest table and I’m sure they’ve been drawn into the contagion. They are still smiling across at me as if I’ve just told the funniest gag ever and they’ve missed the punchline, but laughed along anyway. And now it’s like they want me to repeat the joke. All I can do is shrug and shake my head as they turn away disappointed.

  Model Student

  Grace is back sitting next to me. After a big swig of her drink she seems to have it all under control.

  ‘If I tell you this,’ she says, and I can tell she’s being serious, ‘you have to promise not to tell anyone else. Especially that lot over there.’ She looks across the pub to where my mates have abandoned all hope of me re-joining them.

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ I say, and cross my heart with my finger. I’m not trying to be funny but her face cracks ever so slightly, and she only just manages to hold back another fit of the giggles.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t quite sixteen at the time,’ she says, finally starting to open up. ‘It was an all girls’ school and I was a bit of a rebel.’

  ‘Now that I find hard to believe,’ I quip.

  She goes on undeterred. ‘My art teacher was probably your age – what’s that, about forty-five?’ She smirks with instant revenge and I almost choke on the Guinness.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I blurt out. ‘Thirty-eight if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, like I said, he was about your age and soo handsome. The other thing he had in common with you was we all fancied him rotten.’ She tilts her head to one side and sighs dramatically. I grin back bashfully as she continues. ‘Art was one of my favourite subjects, and not just because of Mr Johnson. It was the only thing I was any good at.’

  ‘Hence the GCSE.’

  ‘That’s right. Don’t tell me, you’ve got ten.’

  ‘No,’ I said, feeling slightly uneasy.

  ‘I don’t suppose they had GCSEs when you were at school.’

  ‘What, back in Tom Brown’s schooldays? Are you kidding? We were lucky to have books back then.’

  ‘Tom Brown? Who was he, your BFF?’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Never mind,’ she says.

  ‘If you must know, I only got one O-level too. Can we get back to the story?’

  ‘Okay. Well you can imagine, there were a lot of hormonal teenagers in the art class who would have liked a piece of Mr Johnson. In almost every lesson he had to contend with one girl or another asking him a completely irrelevant question about the Old Masters in her most seductive voice – about Rubens and his buxom maidens, Raphael’s flighty nymphs, Michelangelo’s cherubs. You get the idea – it was always about nudes. One girl asked him if he thought she would make a good model to recreate a scene, and another looked at the statue of David and asked him if he would be an authentic stand-in. Hardly a lesson went by without him blushing profusely and having to rapidly change the subject. It got so bad…’ She takes a sip of her drink as if she needs a moment to compose herself, before continuing, ‘between classes, girls started daring each other to come up with the worst things to embarrass him with. There was a girl called Paula Harvey, who always sat at the back of the class with Julie Dixon, and whenever Mr Johnson asked either of them a question, they would hold hands suggestively and look into each other’s eyes before answering him. I don’t think they were that way inclined; it just seemed like a funny thing to do. Well, things got out of hand when I foolishly challenged them to take it a step further. I never thought they would do it, but sure enough at the next lesson, as if drawn to them like a bee to a honey pot, Mr Johnson asked Paula what she thought might have been Da Vinci’s motivation for the smile on the face of La Gioconda.’

  ‘The Mona Lisa,’ I chip in, as if to show I’m not completely stupid.

  ‘Correct. Well, the girls even surprised themselves when they turned to each other and locked in a passionate embrace before French kissing for five seconds to complete the dare.’

  ‘Wow!’ My lips form the word but no sound comes out. ‘I thought my challenge tonight was a tough one. What did Mr Johnson say?’

  ‘That was the best bit. When they finished, all he could say was, “Okay, you might be onto something there. Anyone got any other ideas?” And we all collapsed into a riot of laughter and applause.’

  ‘Fantastic! So where did that leave you?’

  ‘What did you say your mates are on the hook for if you win the bet?’

  ‘Twenty quid each.’

  ‘I should’ve been so lucky,’ she says. ‘I was petrified when I caught up with them in the corridor after class. Rather than put me out of my misery, they said they’d come back to me in a couple of days once they’d thought of something appropriate. Well, when they told me later that week what I had to do, I was stunned. I suppose I could’ve refused and told them to come up with something else… but once I got used to the idea I decided to go for it.’

  I’m on tenterhooks, willing her on to say what it was she had to do. She knows she’s got me hooked and takes another long gulp of her drink before continuing in a single breath.

  ‘At least I had until the end of term to achieve it. The bad news was I had to put a portrait of myself onto Mr Johnson’s classroom wall and it had to stay there for at least twenty-four hours and in it I had to be naked.’ She pauses again to enjoy my reaction. I’m sitting here mesmerised, staring back at her, eyes agog like an adolescent in awe.

  ‘I’m starting to feel very pervy,’ I admit, laughing uncomfortably. ‘I’m wondering if you were allowed to keep any of your uniform on.’

  ‘Dirty old man!’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ I say and really feel it. ‘How on earth did you get out of that?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she says with a wicked glint in her eyes. ‘Mr Johnson made no secret that he was a member of a private artists’ club; he was always bringing stuff in he’d done there. So I knew they met fortnightly, and every now and again it seemed they’d sketch or paint a model. One evening, while they were meeting, I wangled my way in to see the club secretary, and with a dark wig, coloured contact lenses and high heels, I was able to convince her I was nineteen and interested in being a model for their next life study.’

  ‘How old did you say you really were?’

  ‘It was about a
month before my sixteenth birthday. But I had all the equipment by then if that’s what you’re thinking about.’

  ‘I’m trying not to. It doesn’t seem right, but go on anyway.’

  ‘She said they didn’t get many younger volunteers and felt sure the club would be delighted to sketch me and booked me there and then for two weeks’ time. As I was about to leave, I noticed Mr Johnson talking with a lot of much older men, and I started to have some doubts about what I was doing. To my horror, the secretary called him over to meet me. I felt sure he would recognise me beneath the wig and heavy make-up, but I suppose the brown eyes must have also helped. He just smiled warmly and shook my hand and thanked me for volunteering.’

  ‘You must have been terrified.’

  ‘I was shaking all the way home. But, it was weird, at the same time I felt really excited to think I might get away with it. Two weeks later, without a word to anyone, least of all Paula and Julie, I donned my disguise again and went back to the village hall. I had to pee when I got there and nearly freaked out in front of the secretary when I saw myself as a stranger in the mirror. I managed to hold it all together and took up my position behind a screen. I could hear them all coming into the room and taking their places; it sounded all very professional. The secretary asked if I was ready and before I could answer she pulled the screen away and I was left sprawling across an old sofa wearing nothing but a wig and a nervous smile.’

  My jaw drops. I don’t think she’s noticed. She’s lost in the moment. I can imagine her there in one respect, totally vulnerable, and at the same time, even back then, relishing the spotlight.

  ‘I have to say, it was the most tedious hour I’ve ever spent with my clothes off,’ she says, snapping the moment like a twig. ‘Before long I was freezing. It was December and I’m sure they left the heating off on purpose. Not only that but everything started to ache and I got pins and needles in my arms and legs. In the end my bum went completely numb and I was glad when it was over.’

  ‘Well they do say you have to suffer for your art.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she smirks. ‘Anyway, just as I was leaving I noticed most of the other artists gathering around Mr J’s easel and I started worrying he’d twigged and drawn me with imaginary clothes on.’

  ‘In your school uniform, like I said.’

  ‘Right. But instead, they seemed to be genuinely impressed with his portrait.’

  ‘So he didn’t recognise you?’

  ‘No, he must have sat there for an hour, studying every inch of me, without ever thinking I looked familiar.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he would have spent much time looking at your face.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but when I eventually got to see it, the likeness was really good. Not that I hung around to see any of the sketches on the night. I got out of there as quickly as I could. I remember walking up the road with a huge grin on my face. I actually enjoyed it. It was really quite liberating.’ She pauses again, reflecting on this early realisation of something I’m beginning to get a good sense of: this girl will do just about anything for attention.

  ‘So, there were loads of artists’ impressions of your underage skin on canvas,’ I say. ‘Surely you were still a long way from completing the challenge.’

  ‘Well that’s the bit I couldn’t have anticipated,’ she says with a grin and a shake of her head. ‘My biggest concern was that he wouldn’t even bring his portrait of me in.’

  ‘I’m guessing you got lucky,’ I say.

  ‘Well… yes and no,’ she says and drains her glass. ‘Back at school I didn’t dare breathe a word. All I had was a flimsy plan to find it and put it on the classroom wall one evening after school. As far as Paula and Julie were concerned, I still had two weeks of term left to complete the mission. Thankfully, I didn’t see Mr Johnson before the next art class came around and it must have been nerves, because that morning I felt really ill with a terrible stomach upset and had to go home so I missed it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I say. ‘Having to face him in the classroom again.’

  ‘Well I was going to have to eventually. Anyway, the next day I went in and who’s the first person I see running towards me? It’s Paula and she’s shouting across the crowded assembly hall. “Oi! You devil. You did it! Eat your heart out, Mona Lisa!” Everyone else looked at us totally confused. Yeah… just like that.’

  ‘So how did she know?’ I say, smiling to un-crease my brow.

  ‘It turned out Mr Johnson was so proud of his new portrait, he’d only gone and put it on the wall himself. He labelled it: “Example of a true-life likeness. Model in repose.” Not only that, he also used it in the previous day’s lesson to illustrate the perfect model who, according to Paula, he’d said…’ Grace tilted her head and sharpened her voice in fake condescension, ‘“had exhibited an elegance and professionalism every girl in this class who has previously mocked the great works of art could only ever dream to aspire to.”’

  ‘Priceless!’

  ‘That picture stayed on the wall for the rest of my time at school. And only Paula, Julie and I ever knew it was me. As far as I know, they never told a soul. It might even still be there. To think, after all those years, poor old Mr Johnson still has no idea.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I say. ‘One false move and he could have ended up on the sex offenders’ register!’

  ‘God, I’ve never thought of that!’ she says and we both collapse into fits of laughter.

  This time I’m the one who needs to head to the loo. I wink at the two women who, stone-faced, watch me with eyes that now roll more in disapproval than disappointment.

  Kitten Heels

  On my way back I’m aware it’s getting late, and I can tell the guys are getting a bit agitated. I’ve missed several rounds, including at least one I should have paid for, and their usual banter seems to have run out of steam without me. Grace senses my concern as I look back across the pub.

  ‘It’s okay. I need to head off soon,’ she says, ‘and, before you ask, no I don’t have a better offer. I’ve already taken you away from your friends for too long and you didn’t come out tonight to spend it with me.’

  ‘Surely that’s their fault for taunting me,’ I protest, whining like a brat when the biscuit tin’s about to be taken away. ‘Seriously, you don’t have to go because of them. I thought we were just getting to know each other. If I’m honest I could do with a different kind of friend right now.’

  ‘I know Mickey,’ she says, touching my arm. ‘It must have been tough for you losing your wife and your job like that.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not the half of it,’ I blurt out, unable to stop myself, despite my earlier conviction not to discuss recent sinister activities this evening. She’s been very open with me and I feel a sense of shared empathy with her that I haven’t felt with anyone else for a long time. Forgive me for excluding Sam from that comparison, having discounted all the emotional ties we once shared, and that I once foolishly believed were unbreakable. As I feared earlier, The Rebel is oblivious to my impaired inhibitions, and wants to tell her everything.

  ‘There’s some other weird stuff going on I wish I hadn’t got myself mixed up in. I’ll spare you the gruesome details… I’m just feeling a bit out of my depth.’ Fortunately, The Banker is still in there somewhere and stops me going any further except to say, ‘And talking to you has made me feel like it’s all gone away, at least for a while.’

  I’m rambling, and, I realise, in danger of scaring her off. Who’s the bunny boiler now? I needn’t worry because she seems totally unfazed.

  ‘Look Mickey.’ Her piercing blue eyes lock onto mine. ‘You’re a really nice guy and I’d like to see you again – ideally without a side bet next time.’ I flush with embarrassment. ‘So let’s just say goodnight nicely for the benefit of the boys and you can go and put them out of their misery and enjoy the rest of your evening as planned.’

  ‘Okay. You’re probably right.’

  ‘An
d whenever you need to talk again, give me a call.’ She hands me a small page torn from a diary with her mobile number written on it. ‘Maybe you can tell me one of your secrets next time.’

  With that she gathers up her coat and bag and walks away from the alcove. I grab my jacket and follow her until she stops and turns. We’re facing each other in full view of the guys and, despite her fancy heels, she has to reach up to give me a respectable peck on the cheek. At the same time she reaches behind me out of view and firmly squeezes my arse before cat-walking confidently past my mates and out of the pub.

  ***

  Eye Shine

  Dying leaves rattle like ribbons in the early autumn breeze. And the moon casts their shape-shifting shadows onto a dirt track, imprinted with hooves, crescent and cloven.

  The car rolls unlit and silent to a halt behind a barbed screen of holly. From the open boot, he hauls its black-shrouded cargo and, cursing the brightness of the clearing, lurches off into the dark heart of Epping Forest.

  He’s been here many times. Knows the man-made pathways laid out in daylight by hordes of strollers, and avoids them in favour of the night-time trails. He prefers the lines and furrows that plants instinctively avoid, where animals navigate their nocturnal terrain. In the moon’s full glare, inquisitive eyes flash, luminous. He discards the contents of the polythene sack. Without seeing the waiting foxes drool, he knows their instinct to flee will be abandoned under the intoxicating scent.

  Leaving another country road onto a gravel path, he lets the engine run. The headlights sweep rose-scented borders until the tyres crunch to a halt. Entering the house through a side door, he empties the holdall he’s carried from the car and places it in a vacant slot on a shelf amongst identical others. After fiddling with surveillance controls in a room full of monitors, he opens an inner door. With the contents of the bag still in his hands, he descends stone steps into a pitch-dark vault.