Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad...

by Steven Hayward

  ‘Shit!’ I jump away from the wall as if it’s red hot. I doubt that anyone would have heard my squeal; it was probably audible only to dogs. I wish I could say the same of my pounding heart, which can doubtless be heard in the next street. Oblivious to being totally exposed in the neon glare, my instinctive reaction is to try to rationalise what just made the wall reverberate. From deep in my subconscious I hear power tools and hammer drills, and circular saws start to whir around in my head. I grit my teeth into a hideous smile to suppress the nausea and scramble back into the shadows. That’s when I notice the buzzing coming from inside my pocket. Jesus!

  A moment later I’ve regained my composure and I’m reaching for the phone. If I was worried before that someone might have heard me, now I’ve got a different reason to be glad no one’s seen me. What a prat! By the time I get it out, it’s stopped vibrating and the backlight has gone off. I don’t want to wake the thing up again. It was probably Grace and hopefully she’ll have left a message.

  I’m feeling done in and decide there’s nothing new to learn here so I climb the fence and head back along the gravel track and out onto the pavement. I want to call my mailbox to see what Grace had to say. First I need to walk past the front of the house again to get to the end of the road and catch the night bus back towards home. This time I cross the road before passing the house that remains dark and still; my final sideways glance only confirming the trip has been a strangely reassuring waste of time.

  At the bus stop I get my phone out and look at the missed call. I know it’s pathetic, but I’ve already added Grace to my contact list and so I’m surprised when the phone displays a mobile number and not her name. Maybe she was using her brother’s phone. I dial my mailbox and listen to the greeting that announces I have no new messages. I’m confused but too exhausted to be disappointed.

  Before long the bus arrives and I’m sitting on the top deck with the rear seat to myself. The route takes me back towards Bleak House for one final pass and with the road completely empty of traffic, the bus is able to pick up some speed. When we go by everything is a blur of trees and streetlights. But as I focus on the front garden I get a quick glimpse of the entrance and what I see almost sucks the eyes out of my head. The door is open and someone’s coming out.

  I catch a fleeting glimpse of a tall dark figure in an overcoat before another tree obscures my view. I turn and look through the rear window. The big white Bedford that’s parked outside definitely wasn’t there ten minutes ago. Before it disappears from view, as the bus takes the curve in the road, the man reaches the van, opens the passenger door and gets in.

  At the end of the road the bus is held at traffic lights and I can see headlights rounding the bend towards us. The box van draws to a halt directly below my line of vision. I look down on it and all that’s visible through the windscreen are the driver’s huge hands, like the paws of a panther clawing at the wheel. The lights change and the bus pulls away, slowly turning left. The van is indicating right and I slide across the seat for a better view as it eases forward past the back of the bus. The glass reflects back the bus’s bright lights, but the passenger’s window is halfway down and I get a fleeting look at the side of a stern face with sharp features that stare straight ahead. Before I have any chance of identifying him, the man raises a hand in front of his face and the angle of light shifts with the change in direction, leaving the passenger in darkness as the van picks up speed and pulls away in the opposite direction.

  The missed call on my phone is from a number I don’t recognise. Without hesitating I thumb the call button and hear a phone ring twice before it’s disconnected. I swing my feet up onto the seat and stare back at the empty road.

  Distress Call

  ‘That was easy,’ I say. ‘Maybe he’s not so bad after all.’ I’m back home and on the phone to Grace. She’s told me she managed to catch Simon before he went out and he agreed to take the camera to the darkroom tomorrow.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. It is weird how he’s being so nice to me lately. I don’t know what he’s been up to. He does seem very keen to stay on my good side all of a sudden.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got him where you want him.’

  ‘Maybe, we’ll find out soon enough. He said he’ll get the prints back to me in the afternoon, so I’ll ring you and we can meet up. Talking of which, I rang your landline earlier but you were out. I didn’t have you down as the clubbing type, what’ve you been up to?’ She asks the question I’d been hoping she wouldn’t, at least not tonight.

  ‘I went back to that house, where I got the camera,’ I say. ‘I was worried about Herb and I thought it was worth another look.’

  ‘Why would he be there? I thought you said he asked you to get the camera because he couldn’t bring himself to go in person.’

  ‘I thought he might have been… held there against his will.’

  ‘You think he’s been taken by the people who were blackmailing him?’

  ‘I know it sounds crazy and paranoid,’ I say, trying not to sound crazy and paranoid. ‘Since he went missing I’ve been imagining all sorts of gruesome scenarios. I thought he might have been in serious trouble, especially in that house of horrors.’

  ‘What do you mean, house of horrors?’ Grace’s voice has gone up several octaves.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, I didn’t want to tell you before. When I was in there the other night I noticed there were two rooms that seemed to have been added recently, with metal doors and heavy locks.’ I pause hoping to gauge her reaction. The line remains silent so I continue. ‘Anyway, one of them was unlocked and I looked inside. I couldn’t see much but I just knew something nasty had been going on in there. It felt like a prison cell or… something.’

  I spare her the graphic details of how bad it smelled and decide she definitely doesn’t need to know about the cash I found.

  ‘Grace? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah, still here.’ She’s almost whispering.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, that’s a lot to take in. It sounds awful. What did you find when you got there tonight?’

  ‘Nothing. Well at least nothing I could see from the outside. I couldn’t get in because the window I used before has been nailed shut. Otherwise everything looked like it did last time.’

  ‘So you don’t think he was there?’ She sounds very apprehensive and I find her concern for my old friend endearing.

  ‘I can’t really be sure,’ I say, hoping to reassure her and lift the mood a little. ‘There was definitely someone there.’ Instead of any obvious signs of relief I hear a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line.

  ‘So it could have been him.’

  ‘No,’ I say, still trying to get my own thoughts straight. ‘I mean I don’t know. At first I didn’t think anyone was there. But it’s possible someone was inside the whole time I was snooping around.’

  ‘You said you didn’t go inside. You said everything looked the same. Do you think he’s okay?’

  ‘Grace, calm down,’ I say, trying to hide my surprise at her unexpected interest in Herb’s wellbeing. ‘I didn’t get a good look at his face but whoever it was, he was a picture of health when he left the house and got in a big white van.’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ she says and I think I hear a slight crack in her voice.

  ‘Grace?’ I’m feeling slightly embarrassed at her emotional reaction, particularly as it’s in stark contrast to my own feelings of confusion, but at the same time I want to comfort her. I really wish I could hold her.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she says, with more composure. ‘Mickey, it’s getting late. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  Before heading to bed, in the hope her lingering perfume on my pillow will incite sweet dreams, I pull the scrap of paper from my pocket and read the registration number aloud. It occurs to me that apart from any clues that might be revealed tomorrow in the photographs, it may be the only other link I have back to Herb.


  7.

  Sunday, 20th

  Today doesn’t start for me until the early afternoon; sleep has been so graceful, I don’t want to wake up. When my mobile rings at ten past twelve, I almost don’t get to it in time. After I’ve dragged myself clear of the duvet and staggered around the room searching, only to find it cupped in silk and lace at the bottom of the bed, it’s displaying a number I don’t even recognise. I stand there looking at it for a while. Either I’m getting a ton of wrong numbers or I’m becoming totally paranoid about people calling me who aren’t on my contacts list.

  ‘Yes?’ is all I say, half expecting the rude bastard to hang up on me without so much as a sorry.

  ‘Is that Michael Field?’ It’s a voice that sounds strangely familiar.

  ‘What if it is?’ I try to sound aloof without being aggressive.

  ‘It’s about this camera.’ The voice comes straight to the point and I almost drop the phone.

  ‘Who is this?’ I bark back.

  ‘You don’t know me but I’ve got some prints I’m told you’re very interested in. Before you can have them I want to know what you’re up to.’

  I finally recognise the voice of the camera geek in Jessops yesterday and say: ‘Hold on, you’re Grace’s brother, right?’

  ‘Is that what she said?’

  ‘It’s Simon, yeah? She said you were her...’

  ‘Look, whatever… we’re not doing this over the phone.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Somewhere discreet… I mean, what the fuck do you think?’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, trying to stay calm and buy some time. ‘Do I need to… bring anything?’

  ‘Well, as you’ve mentioned it first, I have gone to a lot of trouble and risk to develop your bizarre set of photos. I wouldn’t object if you wanted to make it worth my while.’

  ‘Look, mate, this was just supposed to be a favour.’ I try to keep it friendly. ‘Maybe you should be having this conversation with Grace.’

  ‘Believe me, matey,’ he says, ‘I am doing you a favour. You wouldn’t want her to see these first and, yeah, I think you would put some value on me delivering them directly to you.’

  I have no idea what I’m dealing with here. It’s already obvious that Grace and Simon aren’t the fondest of siblings, but she at least told me I could trust her to deal with him. Instead, she seems to have told him everything, including my phone number. Although I weighed up the risk of handing her the camera, I certainly wasn’t expecting this. And without any knowledge of what Simon has already seen, I’ve lost any control I thought I had.

  ‘Okay, how much?’ I say with resignation.

  ‘Two hundred.’ The reply is instant and it’s obvious a counter-offer is pointless. This isn’t a negotiation; I’ve been totally shafted. He says a time and place and the line goes dead.

  Sister Act

  A few hours later I’m sitting alone at the back of a greasy cafe about a mile from home. I’ve been waiting twenty minutes and this is starting to feel like yet another wind-up. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Grace come breezing in with a cheeky smile and a pack of photos in her hand. But it’s Simon who eventually walks in, empty-handed, and straight over to my table.

  ‘It’s you,’ he says, a sardonic smile forming momentarily on his lips. The grin morphs into a suspicious scowl when he adds: ‘What are you up to with Grace?’

  ‘Look Simon, I’m not taking advantage if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m sure she can take care of herself. Besides, I didn’t think there was much brother-sister love lost between you two.’

  ‘She’s no sister of mine and, believe me, I couldn’t give a monkey’s about her feelings. I just want to know what she finds so fascinating about you.’ He leans forward, his chicken-wristed hands grip the back of the chair, forfeiting any attempt at intimidation and height advantage he had standing up straight. Undiminished, he leers at me, eye to eye, before adding, ‘Given what you’re into, you sick fucker!’

  I squirm in disgust and frustration at an accusation I can’t even contemplate, let alone defend.

  ‘Look, we’ve only known each other a few days,’ I say, sticking to the only facts I have. ‘We seem to be hitting it off and she offered to help with that film. It’s really not that compli...’ Irony sucks the word back into my mouth. Truth be told, this is getting very complicated. I’m starting to wish I’d waited five more minutes in Jessops.

  ‘So if you’ve only just met her, what were you doing with that camera?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I can tell you what I know if you’re really interested.’ Of course, I have no intention of telling him anything and it feels like a pointless offer anyway, given that he’s seen the photos and therefore already knows more than I do. ‘But for the moment, Simon, you’ve got me by the balls because I really don’t have a clue what was on that film. Whatever it is you’ve seen, I can’t explain without looking at those prints.’

  ‘You’re telling me you didn’t know?’

  ‘I honestly don’t.’ He glares back at me unconvinced and I continue anyway. ‘Ask yourself, on the basis of what you’ve seen; do you seriously think I would have taken it into Jessops to be developed if I did?’

  ‘And Grace didn’t know either?’

  ‘How could she?’ I yell before dropping my voice back to a spitting whisper. ‘Look, if you’ve just developed the prints and no one else has seen them, then you’re the only person I know who has a clue what’s on them.’

  He’s still standing in front of me, but no longer leaning across the top of the chair. He steps back and rubs his spotty chin, whilst keeping his eyes locked on mine. Momentarily, he looks away and starts raking his lower lip with his front teeth. I follow his gaze around at the empty tables. At least no one’s been listening; even the woman behind the counter is still flicking through the same magazine she barely managed to pull herself away from to serve me. Finally he sits down opposite me.

  ‘Okay man. I don’t need this shit,’ he says. ‘Here’s the deal. Give me the cash now and they’re yours. Not a word to Grace. As far as I’m concerned we didn’t meet. The film was ruined. That’s what I’ve told her and you’d better act like you believe her when she tells you.’

  After the exchange, one thin brown envelope for another, from one inside pocket to another, he stays for coffee but, call me unsociable, I don’t feel like getting to know him better. For one thing, I’ve just handed over 200 quid of someone else’s money to a guy I don’t know. I was assured he could be trusted by someone who said he was her brother. He’s disowned and double-crossed her. What’s bugging me most is the fact she lied to me.

  I only hope the package in my pocket does actually contain a set of negatives and matching photographs originating from that camera. I couldn’t bring myself to look at them in front of him and now I just want to get home. So, naturally, my greatest anxiety as I step onto the bus is the possibility I’ve been duped again. I’m starting to lose count. It’s a short ride back and I try to stay positive; Simon just wanted some money for his trouble. Job done. Hopefully I never have to see him again. Lurking mischievously behind that thought is a spark of excitement. I’ll soon be able to see what was on the camera. And finally begin to understand what all this is about.

  Long Shot

  If only life was so simple.

  Just five prints slide out of the envelope when I empty it onto the coffee table, along with the negatives cut into strips. I’m not sure what I’ve been expecting, but five photos? And it’s even worse than that. I flick through, purely to count them, with a cursory glance, and quickly turn to the negatives to check they tally. Sure enough, there are only five frames exposed. The rest are all completely blank. Okay, now I’m wondering why I didn’t look closely at the camera, because I would have seen a number somewhere to indicate how many exposures had been taken. But it’s only a fleeting thought because looking back through the photographs only confirms my next biggest fear. I can’t see
a single thing in them that seems to relate back to Herb, and certainly nothing for him to get blackmailed over. And to make matters worse, I can’t see any reason why Simon had to make me feel like such a slime-ball.

  Set in a pub against the backdrop of a Happy New Millennium banner are five shots of a group of young friends in various combinations and poses; all very salubrious and innocent I should add. I can’t say I’m really studying each of the pictures with any great scrutiny at this point, apart from noticing there are five or six kids, boys and girls, probably in their mid-teens. They’re totally unremarkable. They look like any other kids mucking about in a pub on New Year’s Eve. I sit on the sofa and stare out of the window in disbelief. This is what Herb sent me into Bleak House to get?

  I grab the scotch and empty the first glass without ceremony and start to pour another. Looking down at the table where I’ve left the prints lined up like solitaire, I notice something vaguely different about one of them. It’s the only shot that isn’t staged and the only one with a single subject. The other thing that strikes me is that the angle and distance are different to the others. It’s as if it was taken from some way across the pub, while all the others are much closer and more candid. Instead of looking directly at the camera, the girl in the centre of the photo is facing off to the side as if she’s talking to another member of the group. So I can only see her profile. She’s holding something in her hand at the bottom of the shot, but it’s blurred as if it’s overexposed, so I can’t make out what it is.

  I’ve not really taken much notice of any of the faces in the group shots; they’re just anonymous kids having a laugh. This picture stands out though and I pick it up for a closer look. Compared to the others I get the distinct impression this one was taken discreetly, probably without the girl’s knowledge. I suppose it could have been taken by one of the others when they went to the bar or were coming back from the toilet. I don’t know, maybe I’m looking too deeply, trying to find something significant. Close up, the blurred area looks like a lighter or a match, although that doesn’t make a lot of sense. The pub doesn’t look very full and the people in the background don’t seem overly animated, so it’s unlikely it was approaching the big countdown when they might well have lit sparklers or started waving glow-sticks around. I give up. At the end of the day it’s still just another party photo. No big deal. I put it back on the table.