Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad...

by Steven Hayward

  After two more glasses and a large packet of salted peanuts, I took the precaution of ensuring my mobile phone was fully charged. For no discernible reason I also checked the landline was connected. It was barely nine o’clock as I crawled into bed, more in hope than expectation that an early night would give me a better chance of a deep and dreamless sleep. I wasn’t only mentally drained, I was slightly the worse for wear, and at least hoped the booze might help to keep the demons away. Before I drifted off into a comatose state, I was forced to contemplate the two things I was convinced I’d have to do next. One was perhaps obvious if far from straightforward, whilst the other fed my paranoia and filled me with dread.

  First, I was going to have to get the film developed in order to have any idea of what I was up against. Second, if I still hadn’t heard from Herb, I would have to confront the possibility, no matter how remote, that he was locked in one of those terrible chambers and make a return trip to Bleak House.

  Close Up

  Well, if I dreamt at all, my would-be tormentors must have smelled the scotch and decided I was too inebriated to take any notice of them and buggered off to screw up someone else’s night. I slept like a corpse – in fact I’m feeling so focused today I don’t even find that analogy the slightest bit disturbing. I’m also famished and make myself a fried breakfast Mum would be proud of.

  By eight-thirty, I’m outside a photographic shop on The Broadway, holding the brown envelope in my pocket that contains the disposable camera. It all seemed so obvious last night, but here’s the bit that was never going to be straightforward. How do you walk into your local Jessops and hand over a camera with a film for developing when you don’t have a clue what kind of photos are going to come sliding out of the printer? Especially when, at best, they could be bad enough to blackmail someone? But it’s the thought they might also be connected in some unspeakable way to “young people” that’s making me shudder.

  I’m weighing up the worst that can happen. Maybe some dubious if not downright appalling images get mixed up with someone’s baby photos. Even in the best-case scenario, where the pictures are your average run-of-the-mill blackmail shots, the machine operator is bound to have a good look through the prints before putting them into a nice anonymous packet ready for me to collect.

  I try not to dwell on it, and decide the only way to approach this is to ask for the film to be developed while I wait. Of course that might just highlight the fact I’ve got something to hide, in which case they are even more likely to want to have a gander before handing them over, or worse still, calling the police. I’m guessing they have some duty to report certain kinds of images. I really don’t fancy having to explain: Oh no, it’s not my camera… Um, I don’t know whose it is… How did I come by it?

  I’m hoping that going in early on a Saturday morning will give me an advantage. I’ve got here in time to be first through the door when the shop opens, but there’s a young lad waiting and he’s clearly anxious to get ahead of me. He’s looking in the window with his back to me and gradually edging towards the door. I was here before him and I hold my ground. When another spotty youth unlocks the door, I manage to get in first, but he ignores me completely because he obviously knows the other boy and they start chatting across me. I don’t believe it. What am I? Some sad bastard who likes to come in at the crack of dawn just to browse? On any other day I would have blown my top. Of course, today I have to hold it all in. I stand here, at least outwardly relaxed, and casually remove the camera from the envelope.

  They’re talking about some piece of kit the other customer’s produced from his bag and they move to the counter where they huddle over the lens that’s being removed from its box. I look around the shop in frustration, but no one else appears from out the back to serve me. Maybe it’s unusual for them to have a queue at the door first thing on a Saturday. Bollocks! I can’t believe I’m making excuses for them. I’m standing here like a pug with Rottweiler delusions, all suppressed aggression and nervous energy. I’m also feeling very intimidated by these two techno-geeks because, before I know it, they’ve got several other lenses out on the counter and are comparing technical specifications, as if the customer’s from NASA and he’s looking to buy a new telephoto for his next mission to Mars. Bugger this. After ten minutes, I’ve had enough. Then, as I open the door to leave, the shop guy calls across to me.

  ‘If you give it another minute there’ll be someone else out to serve you. Is it developing you wanted?’ I glance back over my shoulder and he’s looking at me as if I’m being unreasonable for not waiting.

  ‘Yeah, okay. There’s no hurry.’ I look down at the camera in my hand. It’s too late to conceal it. And I’d prefer to avoid a public discussion across the shop about developing my dodgy film.

  At that point the other customer looks up for the first time from studying one of the lenses and I instantly recognise him. With a face at least five years older than his diminutive stature would suggest, it’s the guy who’d arrived at the King’s Head with Grace on Thursday night. I remember she said he was her brother. I’m about to nod to him in recognition but he looks away without any acknowledgement and I turn and walk out of the shop.

  I get no more than ten yards up the road when I hear my name being called and someone running up behind me. I turn to see Grace tottering towards me, immaculate in straight-legged blue jeans and tanned high-heeled ankle boots that match her caramel suede jacket. My spirits are lifted, along with my eyes, as they complete their journey and rest on her beaming smile.

  ‘Hey you. How’re things?’ I say as she reaches me. I step forward to embrace her and she seems to hesitate slightly, and initially offers a gentle hug, before kissing me full on the mouth.

  ‘This is a nice surprise,’ she says, looking down at the envelope I’m carrying. ‘I didn’t know you were into photography.’

  ‘Oh, that. No, it’s not a big part of my life. Not like your brother, it would appear.’ I glance back towards the shop, hoping to divert her as I return the package to my coat pocket.

  ‘Oh yeah, Simon,’ she says rolling her eyes. ‘He cadged a lift from me because he wanted to get a new lens or something. He said he wanted to get in there early ahead of all the morons with their holiday snaps.’

  ‘Aah, how sweet,’ I say in fake admiration of this unlikely display of sibling affection, remembering how she first described him to me.

  ‘Yeah, lovely!’ she sneers, before adding: ‘I really don’t know why I do it. He never does anything for me. And in case you’re starting to think we’re joined at the hip, don’t worry, I don’t need to wait for him.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Looks like he’s going to be in there a while.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘So what brings you into this bustling thoroughfare?’

  ‘Me? God, no. I just parked near the station,’ she says with a playful glare. ‘I’m taking the tube out west for some serious retail therapy. Then I saw you waiting outside the shop when I dropped him off. And since you haven’t called me…’

  ‘But, I…’

  ‘… I decided to walk back and see if you were still in there. I’m in no hurry. Do you have plans? Apart from hanging around outside a photo shop with a brown package in your pocket.’

  ‘I’m going to start thinking you’re stalking me,’ I say. Her smile drops momentarily until I add, ‘Don’t get me wrong; I’ve got nothing against stalkers, especially the really attractive ones.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ she says and the sparkle returns to her eyes. ‘Look, if you don’t have anywhere else you need to be, why don’t you tell me your other favourite characteristics of a stalker over breakfast?’

  I haven’t the heart to tell her I’ve already eaten so instead gesture across the road to a local bakery where a couple of aluminium table and chair sets have been put out on the pavement. We order coffee and croissants at the counter and sit outside. While we wait, I compile a list of my top ten stalker qualities. The first five
are easy – petite, shaggy blonde hair, seductive blue eyes, sexy smile and perfect size-eight figure. Beyond that it gets very silly – occasional single malt connoisseur, full-on character (of course, in an understated way), charitable to unworthy family members, helpful to the aged and, at number one, a propensity to share lewd secrets with strangers. After we’ve finished laughing, Grace leans across to me and we kiss as if the earlier embrace was just a rehearsal. The waitress, who can’t be older than thirteen, interrupts us. She blushes and puts the coffee and plates down and hurries back into the shop.

  The coffee tastes good, but I can only manage a few flakes of pastry. Meanwhile, Grace pulls apart the croissant mercilessly and dips torn pieces into the raspberry lagoon on her plate. The Broadway is starting to get busy, although the outside world fades into the background as if someone’s turned the volume off.

  ‘I wouldn’t call you a stranger, but I do believe you owe me a secret in return,’ she says and I flinch uncomfortably. ‘So, tell me, Mickey Field, what’s the most outrageous thing you’ve ever done?’

  ‘If I told you that right now, you wouldn’t believe me,’ I reply without hesitating.

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll find me very open-minded,’ she says. ‘And besides, I thought you said you’ve been a man on a leash for most of your adult life. What can you possibly have done that could shock me?’

  Until a few days ago, she’d have had a point, and I would have bored her to death trying to impress her with my lifetime’s most shocking revelations, excluding of course the one small incident about which I’ve never told a living soul and won’t dwell on here. That was in a different life.

  She already knows about my recent and uncharacteristic acts of impulse, throwing Sam out and then walking away from the only other stable thing in my world, a well-paid job. In this lifetime, these would have rated pretty highly on my list of outrageous deeds, but how do I even begin to tell her how the camera in my pocket came to be there? And do I even want to? Although I desperately need to share all this crap with someone, right now, in Herb’s mysterious absence, I’m not convinced telling Grace is going to help. I not only risk scaring her off, but also compromising Herb’s safety, the more people I tell. I’ve already said too much in my drunken stupor to a complete stranger on the end of a phone, for which The Banker is still not speaking to me. For once I agree with him; the fewer people that know about this, the better.

  Grace is looking at me with a fixed smile on her face and, as much as I try, I can’t think of anything else to tell her.

  ‘Oh, come on Mickey, it can’t be that difficult,’ she says.

  ‘No. I can’t think of anything,’ I say. ‘Like you said, I’ve lived a very sheltered life.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says, letting me off the hook. ‘But I won’t let you get away with it that easily. And I’ll want to know all the juicy details… just like I’ve shared with you.’

  ‘I’ll think of something. I promise.’

  As I ease back in my seat, the camera shifts in my pocket and bounces against the chair leg. It catches Grace’s eye and her face lights up.

  ‘While you’re thinking, why don’t you just tell me what’s in that brown envelope,’ she says and I flinch.

  Reluctantly, I take it from my pocket.

  ‘What, this?’ I say, removing the camera and setting it down on the table.

  ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Long time since I’ve seen one of those.’

  ‘Me too. It belongs to a mate. I said I’d… you know, get it developed.’

  ‘What’s on it?’ she says, clearly intrigued.

  ‘Ah… I, er. Well that’s kind of the problem. I don’t really know.’

  She looks at me with concern, acknowledging my obvious discomfort, but clearly intent on maintaining the playful mood. She then snorts loudly. ‘And… without knowing what’s on it,’ she says, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle the laughter. ‘You seriously took that into Jessops to get it developed?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ I join in the laughing, but only nervously.

  ‘So why can’t this mate of yours do it himself?’

  ‘It’s silly really. It’s like a… dare.’

  ‘A dare? At your age?’ she says. I just smirk and shift awkwardly in the chair. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,’ she adds, ‘having met your mates.’

  ‘It’s not one of…’

  ‘So what’s the consequence,’ she says and I frown back at her. ‘There has to be a consequence… when you fail a dare.’

  ‘But I haven’t failed yet.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve decided against Jessops. What’s your next move… Boots the Chemist?’

  By now I’m cringing inwardly and trying to laugh along with her at the same time.

  ‘No, I’ll think of something,’ I say. For the second time in as many minutes the same words lack any conviction.

  ‘Maybe I can help,’ she says suddenly serious.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she repeats. ‘But first, you’ll have to come up with something about you that’s a bit more outrageous than that.’

  I nod in resigned agreement and she puts a gentle hand on top of mine. For a second I think she means I still have to come up with something here until she raises her index finger.

  ‘But… not right now.’ She yanks me back into the noisy world of early morning shoppers and slow-moving traffic before finishing her coffee and waving into the shop for the bill. ‘I’m losing valuable shopping time. You’re welcome to join me and help choose a new outfit if you like. Later on we could grab some food and I’ll make you dinner, but if you’ve got things to do, we could just meet up tonight.’

  ‘No, I’ve definitely got nothing better to do. I feel I should warn you though,’ I say, grinning like a happy fool. ‘I’m a lousy fashion consultant. Unless we’re choosing lingerie.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she shrugs enticingly, and hands a tenner to the waitress before I’ve even taken out my wallet.

  Retail Rewards

  I have to admit, I’ve never enjoyed shopping so much. At one point she even manages to smuggle me into the changing room, where I sit mesmerised as she tries on a rail full of dresses, jeans and tops. I can’t keep my eyes off her, and struggle to keep my hands to myself as she parades around in her powder blue underwear, her body every bit as awesome as I’ve already started to imagine.

  By early afternoon, we’re both carrying three bags each. Most of what she’s bought is at the quality end of West End couture, with prices to match, and her credit card has taken a serious hammering. I suggest lunch at a little French cafe I know off the beaten track and soon we’re slumped into comfy chairs and sharing bread and olives, Caesar salad and a half bottle of Petit Chablis.

  When we finish eating, I tell Grace how the guys reacted when I returned triumphantly with her number the other night.

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to keep up the pretence when you introduce me to them properly,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, definitely. Remember they coughed up eighty quid for our little performance so we can’t let them down.’

  ‘I can’t believe you took their money. I thought you were their friend!’

  ‘What? I bought the burgers,’ I protest.

  ‘You wait until I meet them. That’ll make you squirm,’ she says, stabbing the last olive with her fork. ‘Besides, I reckon forty pounds of that is mine.’

  ‘Talking of making me squirm,’ I say. ‘What if I told you there’s someone else who wants to meet you?’

  ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘Don’t laugh, okay? It’s just that I told my mum about you.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ she says with a hand over her mouth. ‘You really don’t hang around.’

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have. It was stupid. I just couldn’t help myself.’ I feel like twice the pillock: once for telling Mum and now for telling her.

  ‘I’m only joking,’ she says. ‘Really, I’m flattered. It’s very sweet and I’d
love to meet your mum. I bet she’s really lovely. So, when are we going?’

  ‘Uh… well,’ I say, backtracking sharply. ‘There’s no real hurry.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be ready when you are,’ she says with a whatever kind of shrug. ‘Talking of which, we’ve got more shopping to do. And what do you fancy for dinner?’

  I make sure I’ve got my wallet ready, but this time she seems happy for me to get to the waiter first.

  Back at my house, I open a bottle of Sancerre that’s been chilling alone in the fridge for weeks. It’s been replaced with scallops, steak and mascarpone cheesecake, and the kitchen counter is stacked with fruit and vegetables. The house hasn’t seen fresh produce like this for over a month. In fact, the house hasn’t been cleaned for over a month; something I’m acutely aware of as Grace returns from the bathroom.

  ‘Sorry, you’ve caught me a bit lax on the domestic front,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t worry. Compared to living with my brother, I’d have to describe you as house-proud. Nice place, have you been here long?’

  ‘Yeah, a good few years…’ I stop short of adding that Sam and I moved in the day we returned from our honeymoon.

  I pour two glasses and hand her one before carrying the other along with the bottle through to the lounge where the sound of Alicia Keys’ rippling piano intro builds to a crescendo. The street lamp is already glowing through the window, even though there’s another hour of grey daylight ahead, and I decide to leave the curtains open and the light off. That’s where the similarity with last night’s vibe ends. We sit down together on the sofa and clink glasses. The wine tastes surprisingly good, given how long it’s been in the fridge.

  ‘Do you want to see the last outfit I bought?’ Grace says, getting up and heading to the mountain of shopping bags covering the dining table.