Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad...

by Steven Hayward

  As I watch the minutes pass relentlessly in red digits over us, The Banker repeats her other words from earlier. The more I challenge him, the more certain we both are that I didn’t tell her I’d found the camera on the kitchen table.

  ***

  Killing Time

  He hates all this waiting around – unloading in Soho, reloading in China Town. And the bright lights, they don’t deceive him. These are grubby streets. West End. East End. No difference. Home from home. Camouflage.

  Tonight is strictly business. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t blend in. Not in this thing. White van man. No slapper would get in this, not even in King’s Cross.

  He’s about to head back when he sees the boy. An unlikely coincidence he thinks, and his pulse starts to quicken. Leaving the van, he follows him through dingy backstreets and watches where he goes. When he stops. Who he talks to. He’s not surprised when he works it out. Like father like son. Taking backhanders all down the line from the brokers, the late-night traders and the common street hawkers. Many of them the boss’s former customers who no longer place orders. Getting better terms elsewhere they say. And using their gains to buy police protection through the agency of this pig-spawn.

  Another good reason to settle the score.

  9.

  Tuesday, 22nd

  What a difference the early daylight makes. It can cheer you up and help you see more clearly. It can give new hope and lift your spirits. It can also help make a previously sinister, horrifying place seem so much more benign. Sadly, what it can’t do this morning is get us inside Bleak House without breaking a window. Or so I thought.

  Today, rather than sneaking around the back lane and coming in over the fence like common burglars, Grace and I have walked right in off the street and down the side of the house. We’re at the back door and I’m hoping we can get it open and go straight into the kitchen without having to walk through the dungeon suite. I’m still apprehensive about going in there again, but once Grace had enlightened me about the photographs, it seemed a not entirely unreasonable thing to do. It’s not much of a plan; I’m only going along with it because I don’t have a better one. Although I’ve tried telling her what a mess it was in, I suppose it’s easier for her to accept that there’s probably a perfectly innocent explanation, but it’s much harder for me to rationalise how I felt in there. I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt, because that, along with the bright sunshine streaming in through the grimy windows, is the only way I can contemplate going back inside. And the only way I can dismiss the possibility that I’m about to expose Grace to something really gruesome too.

  Assuming we can get inside, she said we’ll be looking for clues; anything that might lead us back to Herb. That’s a huge assumption, considering the heavy wooden door in front of us. I remember contemplating breaking in this way once before and deciding against it because it would be too noisy. That was until my huge stroke of luck in finding the sash window unlatched at the side of the house. We’ve already double-checked and discounted that route, given its robust security upgrade. I shake my head in defeat as I realise that whoever allowed me to get in so easily, is now as keen to keep everyone out.

  ‘Let me see.’ Grace steps past me to inspect the lock and gives the door a gentle shake with her gloved hand.

  ‘No bolts,’ she mutters more to herself. ‘And a single lock.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’ll take a hefty whack to push it through,’ I whisper. ‘I expect I could do it, just not without waking the whole street.’ I lean my shoulder against the door, trying to gauge its strength, and notice Grace removing something from her pocket. She kneels down at the door handle and I’m about to ask what she’s doing when the lock clicks and the door opens inwards.

  ‘Wow! This is a new side to you I wasn’t expecting,’ I say, following her through the door. ‘Don’t tell me, your dad’s a locksmith.’

  ‘He’s not my dad, remember?’ I cringe at my own insensitivity, but before I can apologise she adds, ‘If you must know, he’s a copper!’

  ‘What? And you waited until I’d broken into this house for a second time to tell me that?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about him. We have an understanding. I keep his little secrets and he makes sure I have a comfortable life. We try not to bother each other,’ she says without batting an eyelid.

  ‘The old block,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, like father, like son,’ she says.

  ‘So, he’s not what you might call a pillar of the police community, then?’

  ‘No, not exactly. But he’s got his uses. I borrowed these last week and he doesn’t seem to have missed them.’ She holds up a set of lock picks like it’s the most natural thing to have in her pocket.

  ‘And not for the first time, by the look of it.’

  ‘I’ve had a bit of practice,’ she says, dismissing my look of stunned disbelief as if she just told me she sometimes likes to knit.

  Déjà Vu

  There’s rubbish all over the floor: empty fast food cartons, Styrofoam cups and several free local newspapers, the ones full of adverts, still folded in half, unread. Tucked into one of them is a supermarket special offer sheet with glossy photos of baked bean tins and bargain basement garden tools. And scattered randomly among the rubbish is a collection of junk mail envelopes. Grace starts to gather some of them into a pile and puts them on the table.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to start tidying up,’ I say with a grin.

  ‘I thought it might be worth flicking through them in case anything’s been overlooked,’ she says, and I go round and pick up the rest.

  ‘You know last night, Grace?’ I say from the other side of the table.

  ‘Yes,’ she says without looking up.

  ‘You said about the camera being in here… in the kitchen… when I found it.’ I’m tapping the table as I say it and she stops and slowly looks up. Without making eye contact, she shifts her gaze over my left shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You said you saw it from outside. Presumably you meant from that window.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ I turn around to look. ‘It was that one.’

  ‘Okay. Well I thought you said you saw it through the kitchen window. Didn’t you?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t think I said exactly where though.’ I look down at the table but she doesn’t seem to react.

  ‘So…’ she says looking at me like I’m the one playing games. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh it’s nothing. I couldn’t remember saying where it was, that’s all.’

  ‘Maybe I just got the impression it was the kitchen.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, wishing I hadn’t brought it up. ‘Forget I asked.’

  ‘Your description was so vivid; it feels almost like I’ve been here before.’ She smirks and returns to her envelopes.

  ‘It must be this place. It keeps messing with my head,’ I say and start looking through my handful. ‘What are we looking for again?’

  ‘Anything with a name on it would be a start.’

  Although we’re not planning on spending a lot of time sorting the mail, it’s a welcome distraction from opening the inside door and stepping back into the Twilight Zone.

  ‘It’s Long isn’t it?’ Grace asks, sounding perplexed. ‘His surname?’

  I look across at what she’s holding. I’ve already been through my bundle twice. They’re either addressed anonymously to The Homeowner or not marked at all.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply hesitantly, wondering when I’d told her Herb’s surname, and then feeling guilty for all my sudden doubts. ‘Why, what have you found?’

  ‘I think it’s only marketing stuff but it’s the only one here with a person’s name.’ She hands me the envelope.

  ‘L. Anglich,’ I pronounce aloud as if Grace hadn’t been able to. ‘It sounds German.’

  ‘Hmm, could be anyone… Previous owner or tenant,’ she says dismissively, and I shrug and drop the envelope back onto the floor where we’ve re-sc
attered the rest.

  I open the doors at the base of the dresser and find it empty except for a large spider that disappears in a panic through a gap in the back quicker than I can close them again. The three narrow shelves above are covered in a thick layer of dust. The top two display a variety of old plates, like they were once part of a proud collection. On the bottom shelf is an assortment of crazed cups. There are circles and other disturbed areas of the surface where the dust has been smudged, suggesting recent activity. At one end is an old transistor radio and I notice the on button and volume knob have a slight shine compared to the other controls. Careful not to disturb more dust with my gloved fingers, I twist the volume control down a quarter turn and push the button. Classical music briefly lights up the room as I return the volume to its previous level and turn it off again. I’m struck by the contrast that someone who occasionally uses this grimy little room for whatever dubious purpose does so to the gentle strains of concertos and sonatas.

  At the other end of the shelf is a framed photograph of a young woman. It looks like it was taken in the seventies judging by the orange circles on the wallpaper behind her. As I reach for it, Grace touches my arm.

  ‘Have you noticed how clean it is?’ she says. ‘It’s the only thing that’s been dusted.’

  ‘Or maybe it’s only recently been put in here,’ I add, picking it up carefully and holding it so we can both look at it.

  I would guess the woman is in her twenties. She’s attractive with a fresh complexion. Her blonde hair is set into big ringlets and she’s wearing a pale blue blouse with puffy shoulders and a ruffled neckline. Her warm smile balances out the gaudy background, and her big blue eyes seem to look through the photo at me.

  Grace takes it from me and continues looking at it. I wonder if she’s thinking what I am: such a lovely picture doesn’t belong in this hideous place. She puts it back onto the shelf and looks away.

  ‘I should probably warn you about this next bit,’ I say, changing the mood.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, the last time I was in there, I thought...’ I want to say I heard someone cry out, but I’m not ready to own up to that embarrassment yet.

  ‘House of Horrors, you said.’

  ‘Yeah… and it smelled pretty grim too. I hope your stomach is stronger than mine.’

  She braces herself as I pull the door open and we step into the next room. The first thing I notice is there’s no bad smell. If anything there’s a slightly pleasant odour. I look across to the door that was sealed last time and its bolts are still secured by two combination locks. On the other door, I expect to see the bolts drawn back, but they’re also locked with the same heavy duty hardware. I walk towards the second chamber and the bitter-sweet scent of disinfectant seems stronger.

  ‘What do you think these rooms are used for?’ Grace is right by my side.

  ‘I don’t know. I was able to go inside this one before. It felt like a torture chamber and smelled like something had died in there.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she says.

  ‘I didn’t tell you before, it seemed too gruesome.’ My mind tries to replay the moment I was standing alone in the dark, but here in the daylight I can’t recreate the feeling. ‘Now it just sounds pathetic.’

  ‘No, Mickey,’ she says, gently rubbing the back of my arm. ‘It would have been really scary in here on your own at night. I remember the state you were in at The Feathers. Whatever that smell was, it really freaked you out didn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, it wasn’t only the stench,’ I say, hesitating again, only this time unable to hold it back. ‘When I went to close that metal door, it was so heavy that it slammed shut and I think someone heard me.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘As I was about to get the hell out of here, I heard something. A woman’s scream; crying out in despair. It sounded quite close but muffled like it came from that other room. I thought there was someone locked in there.’

  I look back at Grace. She’s pulled away from me and has her hand to her mouth and seems to be spluttering. I think she’s going to be sick and I grab her arm. And then I see a glint in her eyes and a tear starting to run down her cheek and realise she’s actually trying to stifle a laugh. She senses my hurt feelings and turns away, before losing it completely and letting out a loud, high-pitched squeal. A sound that’s strangely familiar.

  ‘It wasn’t funny, believe me,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll be okay.’ At that she rushes back out into the kitchen in fits of laughter.

  I leave her to it and slope out into the hallway to nurse my fragile ego. The door to my left is closed. I remember it was the bathroom and I try to open it but it won’t budge. The adjacent door, which must be to the front room, is also locked. Turning around I see the small side room where I’d made my exit. It looks the same in there, except the wardrobe doors are closed and the broken mirror is no longer scattered on the floor. I step across the sticky carpet towards the window and look at the nails, driven randomly through its frame and into the sill.

  Grace is back behind me and the hand over her mouth is now just to fend off the damp mustiness that lingers in this part of the house.

  ‘What was that all about?’ I try to be the adult to her child, to hide my humiliation.

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you, honestly,’ she says, but I’m not convinced. ‘It was something else, really. I’ll tell you about it later.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever!’ I revert back to a sulking teenager.

  ‘Oh, don’t be like that. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

  ‘Okay, you can start by seeing if you can unlock either of those doors.’ I point back in the direction of the hallway.

  Paper Cuts

  We’re sitting in a fancy café, a short walk from Bleak House. Grace has a skinny latte with a reduced-fat blueberry muffin on the side. I’m nursing the gravelly dregs of a double espresso. From the window I can see the end of the road with the tube station to one side. The road abruptly turns right at a low wall, above which a robust metal fence marks the perimeter of the over-ground railway line that cuts across, arrogantly claiming right of way. Through a similar fence on the other side of the track, I can see another diverted road, like a mirror image of this one. It’s as if someone was meant to build a level crossing but forgot. Pedestrians can cross through the station underpass, whereas cars have to find a convoluted way around. I feel a bit like one of those cars right now.

  ‘Another complete waste of time,’ I say, fiddling idly with the empty sugar tube.

  ‘At least we know someone’s been in there cleaning things up a bit.’

  ‘What? Like a nice Polish lady doing three hours a week?’

  ‘No,’ she says with a smirk, ‘but that bathroom was spotless.’

  ‘Yeah, as in clinically.’

  ‘True,’ she says. ‘But I’m not sure men clean like that.’ I’m about to protest, until I remember she’s seen the state of my place.

  ‘Maybe not. Either way, there certainly wasn’t any sign of the gunge I saw last week,’ I say, and keep the thought to myself of what it looked like in the dark.

  ‘What about that front room?’ she says, her voice slipping seamlessly into pretentious estate agent mode. ‘Apart from its original period features, you’d have to say it had an air of understated decadence and a contemporary minimalist attitude.’

  ‘Thank you Lloyd Grossman,’ I chirp back. ‘But yeah… one chair, a lamp and a pair of curtains. You certainly couldn’t say the place had a lived-in quality.’

  ‘And every room upstairs, completely empty.’ She nods sagely. ‘Not a carpet between them and all the windows whitewashed.’

  ‘So all we’ve gained is the recent odour of bleach and a name that’s almost certainly a red herring.’ I’m feeling despondent again. I suppose I’d hoped we might find something of Herb’s there, but there was absolutely no sign of him having been ther
e, of his own accord or otherwise. Having seen those people breeze out of there a couple of days ago is starting to feel like a dream, or perhaps just a brief moment of respite in the middle of a nightmare.

  ‘Yeah, but don’t forget about the photograph,’ Grace pulls me back with a jolt. I’d completely forgotten.

  ‘You’re right; it’s got to have been the most significant thing in there. I wish we’d taken a closer look. There might have been something written on the back.’

  ‘Do people even do that anymore?’ she says and I shrug.

  ‘Unlikely,’ I say. ‘Given my recent luck.’

  ‘That must make me your lucky charm!’ She reaches into her coat lining and, with a proud grin, hands me a photo frame, wrapped loosely in a glossy supermarket broadsheet.

  ‘Hey! Welcome to my world of grand larceny.’ I perk up instantly as if the coffee just kicked in. ‘That’ll set the cat amongst the pigeons.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Well, someone’s going to be really pissed off about it going missing, that’s for sure.’ I’m already unclipping the back of the frame. I assume the clips must originally have been too loose because someone’s used a folded sheet of newspaper to pad out the gap between the photo and the backing. I let the paper fall onto the table and turn the print over, but my hopes are dashed because the back is blank.

  ‘Oh my God.’ I hear Grace’s voice and look up. Her face has turned white. She’s unfolded the newspaper clipping and is still reading it.