Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad...

by Steven Hayward

  Harrow Lodge Park is a haven for ducks and dog-walkers, but this late in the day, both have retreated to the safety of whatever they consider home, to avoid their respective predators that lurk in the shadows here at dusk. I stick to the illuminated paths but only to limit my risk of stepping in crap, not because I’m afraid of the foxes and the muggers. I head in the general direction of a modest tuft of trees in the far corner, growing around a stagnant pond that seemingly sprung from the ground one day, full of relief and hope, only to find nowhere to run. I know how it must have felt.

  The trees bend and sway in the wind and I lose myself in clouds that spread like drops in the water of a blood-stained sky. And as the light fades, I sit on a bench and watch the remnants of colour being reclaimed by the horizon. My subconscious seems to like the darkness. I can sense it shifting a gear as the visual distractions are extinguished. It works better; preferring the low volume hum of the sprawling city at night in its subservience to the sounds of nature. It thrives on the heightened awareness of the damp smell of evening and the cold air on my face. I sit here for an hour, maybe two, maybe longer. I don’t know. But strangely, I do know when it’s okay for my conscious mind to re-take control and I head home, finally knowing whose side I’m on.

  When I get there I’m greeted by the chirp of my mobile. It wants to tell me I’ve missed a call from Grace de M. I can’t remember what the M stands for and wonder how a little English orphan girl got such an exotic name. Without dwelling on it, I dial 121 to check if there’s a message. This time the voice sounds smug when it tells me there isn’t. Perhaps one day they’ll programme these robots with a bit more empathy. My disappointment is short-lived because the door bell rings and when I answer it Grace de M is standing on the step. Her uneasy smile reflects back my own conflicted sense of relief and suspicion, and I invite her in with a silent nod.

  ‘I’ve been worried about you,’ she says as I take her coat. She smells fantastic. And she has the black dress on again.

  ‘I thought we could rewind to Saturday night,’ she says. ‘See if we can run the last few days again... only differently.’

  I try to keep a neutral look on my face, although my mind is bouncing off the walls. I had intended to make her suffer, to show her I was mad. I was going to threaten to send her away and to make her beg for my forgiveness. This was going to be my only chance to come out on top, take charge and put her in her place.

  I just hadn’t reckoned on the black dress.

  She knows I’m crumbling and moves towards me. I step back and try to recover my composure but she’s already won. I draw deep on my reserves and hold up a hand in a half-hearted rebuttal.

  ‘Grace,’ I whisper with a last semblance of willpower. ‘If you think you can breeze back in here and start again where we left off on Saturday night, there’s one thing you should know...’

  Momentarily, the spark has gone from her eyes and her features have dropped. She looks plain, a mere mortal, an extra on life’s stage. And for once, for a fleeting second I’ve got her.

  ‘The cheesecake’s dead!’

  I keep up the poker face until gradually her eyes light up again and she laughs, resuming her rightful place with the gods. I wink down at her and she launches herself at me and we hold each other in a passionate embrace.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘I thought I’d lost you. I can’t do this without you.’

  ‘You’re not getting rid of me that easily,’ I say. ‘But you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.’

  ‘I know. I know. That’s why I’m here. Let’s go and sit down.’ She leads me towards the lounge but I make a quick detour, directing her to the kitchen. We emerge with a bottle of Crianza, a corkscrew and two glasses and she settles onto the sofa.

  ‘Before we start,’ I say, ‘have you got work tomorrow? It’s already getting late and I don’t want you driving home after a couple of these, especially as we’ve been up since dawn.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me; I had my beauty sleep earlier. I only have a couple of appointments in the afternoon,’ she says. ‘So, if that was an invitation to stay the night, I would love to.’

  I think I’m the one in desperate need of beauty sleep, but for the moment I’m feeling wide-awake. I only hope the wine doesn’t knock me out too soon.

  Dedicated Follower

  ‘It was almost a year ago,’ she says, staring deep into the crimson well at the bottom of her glass. ‘I decided to try and find my real father. I didn’t get very far to begin with.’

  ‘I thought they’ve made it a lot easier these days,’ I say, although I don’t know why I think that. To be honest I don’t know anything about it so I decide to shut up and let her talk.

  ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘I don’t think my heart was really in it at first. I suppose I was too afraid of what I might find. I wrote all these crazy emails to people I didn’t even know, not really expecting any replies. When I kept coming back to the same dead end, it was the easy option just to give up. But then, a few months ago, completely out of the blue, I got a letter from a retired care worker. She said she was at the home I first went to as a baby and someone had sent her a copy of my message. She remembered me and said she recalled there being an address on the original paperwork that had arrived with me from the hospital, which was where my parents were living immediately before I was born. The reason it stuck in her memory, she said, was that she’d been so sad for me that it was the only time she ever broke the rules and sent a personal letter. I was still just a baby and she wanted to see if she could change my father’s mind. She said she was sorry but the letter came back marked: return to sender. She also warned me that his surname might be different. It seems they used to let the birth parents change it to make it harder for them to be traced later.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, slightly shocked but also glad of the explanation for her unusual name. ‘That explains a lot.’ Grace flashes me a knowing smile and continues.

  ‘She offered to help me submit a formal request,’ she says, ‘and shortly afterwards the address was sent to me. It was in Gravesend.’

  ‘My home town,’ I say, surprised at the coincidence, but Grace doesn’t seem to hear me.

  ‘I thought it would be a red herring,’ she says. ‘It seemed so unlikely my father would still be living in the same house. But I decided to go there anyway. If nothing else I would get to see where my parents lived when I was conceived.’

  The bottle’s standing unfinished on the coffee table and Grace picks it up to refill our glasses. Mine’s still half full. I’m trying to keep a clear head so I can take in what she’s telling me and weigh it up against the conversation I had with Herb earlier.

  ‘I drove down there twice to watch the house but each time it seemed to be deserted. The third time I decided I’d go and knock on the door, but as I approached I saw a big van backed up to the garage and lost my nerve. An hour later it was still there, but as I walked past, a young guy got into the front and drove away.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, the garage door closed before you had a chance to see inside?’ I say and she nods back unfazed by my clairvoyance.

  ‘I wondered what was going on, so I drove around and parked along the street. I sat there for half an hour, pretending to read the paper, and finally a car pulled up outside and a man, probably in his sixties, and very dapper with it, came out of the house and got into the car and it was driven away. It all happened so fast; all I could do was watch. Anyway I sat there a while longer and when nothing else happened I came home.’

  ‘You know that was Herb, don’t you?’ I say, and again she doesn’t answer.

  ‘Back home, the more I thought about him, the more he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.’ She stops and drinks more of her wine. I notice she’s had half the bottle already. I’ve hardly touched mine. ‘I couldn’t get him out of my head so I decided to make one last trip. It was early morning a couple of weeks ago. This time I wouldn’t hesitate. I was going to park rig
ht outside and go straight up and bang the door. As I drove towards the house, I saw another younger man walking up the front path. This time there wasn’t a van at the garage door and it looked like this guy had walked there. Before I’d driven past, the front door had opened and the older man had welcomed him inside like they were good friends.’

  Now I’m the one grabbing the wine glass and taking a big mouthful. I’m sure Grace realises I’ve guessed the punch-line but she continues telling it straight.

  ‘I decided to park along the street and wait,’ she says. ‘About twenty minutes later the younger man came back out of the house and walked right past me. He looked all twisted out of shape, like he’d found a penny and lost a pound. I watched him turn the corner opposite where I was parked and he walked halfway up the side street and got in his car. It was weird he’d parked so far from the house. Mid-morning and the roads were deserted; I remember thinking he could have saved himself the walk.’

  I shift uncomfortably in the seat and put my drink back down. Is she dragging this out on purpose to make me squirm?

  ‘I had to make a snap decision to follow him,’ she says. ‘I needn’t have panicked because he only drove a few hundred yards to the next turning and a little way along that road before pulling up and walking to another house. The old woman who opened the door gave him a warm smile and a motherly hug, and he went inside with her.’

  I wince at the realisation she’s already seen my mum, but she doesn’t bat an eyelid. Is there nothing about me she doesn’t already know?

  ‘An hour later,’ she continues, ‘he left the woman’s house and drove back the way he came. This time he parked right outside the house and when the front door opened, the old man patted the younger one on the shoulder as he welcomed him back into the house.’

  By the time she tells me how she followed me back to the M25, through the tunnel and all the way to Elm Park, she’s finally looking sheepish.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it,’ she says, ‘when you pulled up here, a mile from where I live.’

  ‘That was convenient,’ I say, no longer with any animosity. I’m starting to get it.

  ‘All I’d planned to do,’ she says, her eyes heavy with guilt, ‘was see what you did next, just to get some idea of what the old man was up to. I still don’t know for sure if he’s my father but if it turns out he is, I need to understand what I’m getting myself into.’

  ‘And that ultimately brought you to Bleak House?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she whispers and her porcelain cheeks blush. ‘That was the biggest stroke of luck; seeing you leave here dressed like a commando that Wednesday night.’

  ‘And then there was The Feathers.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she whispers again.

  ‘Nice legs, shame about the shoes!’

  ‘Oh my God. I hoped you hadn’t noticed. Those strappy heels cost a fortune.’

  ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘I’d pulled out all the stops!’ she says, defensively before exhaling deeply. ‘I’d imagined making my move in a nice restaurant or a wine bar.’

  ‘Instead you got a route march across town.’

  ‘And back again!’

  ‘Well I suppose the rest,’ I say, pausing for dramatic effect, ‘is history.’

  ‘I really didn’t mean to hurt you, Mickey. I never thought I’d get so close.’

  ‘The middle-aged guy in the raincoat supping whisky on his own in a crowded bar must have been easy prey. And I thought you found me irresistible from the start.’

  ‘I’m sor...’ Thankfully she stops herself apologising yet again. ‘I admit it wasn’t love at first sight, but once I got to know you...’

  It was for me. I don’t say it. I don’t have to; the schoolboy grin does it for me.

  ‘It was definitely him in the pub on New Year’s Eve, 2000,’ she says, changing the subject and relaxing back into the seat. ‘Can you believe he had that camera all these years?’

  ‘Millennium Pervert,’ I say and then wish I hadn’t. I can’t even begin to tell her what the policewoman insinuated about Herb, photographs and young people.

  ‘I’m just relieved he didn’t develop the film,’ she says, the smile draining from her face when she adds: ‘Especially if he turns out to be my dad.’

  ‘Herb Long,’ I say. ‘Your father. I can’t get my head around that.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘Well, he’s so cunning and secretive… manipulative… ruthless and predatory,’ I say and her face lowers with each word. ‘Come to think of it, maybe it’s not such a stretch.’

  ‘Oh, Mickey! I’m sorry!’ she says for the umpteenth time, and I smile back at her with the same awkward look on my face.

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘What happens with us?’ she asks and I nod. ‘I suppose that depends on you. I’ll understand if you hate me. I’m really hoping you don’t.’

  ‘I don’t hate you, Grace. If anything I feel sorry for you.’ I reach across to take her hand and she pulls it back.

  ‘No, don’t say that. Anything but that,’ she says. ‘If you don’t hate me and you don’t want me to go away and never come back, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Anything,’ I say.

  ‘Will you help me find my dad?’

  ‘Well, if it is Herb, I can do better than that,’ I say. ‘He wants me to take you to him.’

  ‘Oh my God! You’ve heard from him?’ Her eyes light up.

  I empty the bottle into her glass and tell her what happened after she left me alone in the pub. By the time I’ve finished telling her about Herb’s personal country club and his sinister request to see her, it’s Grace’s turn to feel hurt and confused.

  ‘It didn’t sound like he thought I might be his daughter then,’ she says.

  ‘No. He didn’t come across as a long-lost father trying to orchestrate a family reunion. Apart from being some bizarre test of my resolve, all of this does seem to have been an elaborate plan to find you. What I don’t understand is what other reason he could have for wanting me to bring you to him.’

  ‘There’s only one way we’re going to find out,’ she says. ‘When are we supposed to go?’

  ‘He said he’ll call when he’s ready.’

  Grace goes quiet. I can’t blame her for being anxious about meeting Herb, although I am still struggling to understand why she was so cautious in the first place. I get up and put some music on. Back on the sofa I lift my arm and she accepts the offer of a hug as Sinead O’Connor’s lyrics seep like graveyard mist out of the speakers. She doesn’t move from my embrace until the song comes to its emotional climax and then she reaches up and kisses me.

  ***

  Disturbing Sleep

  It’s his birthday. Uncle Malcolm just slipped into his room. He’s not really an uncle. Tonight he’s not even drunk. Even at eight, the boy knows the difference. When he’s drunk, he soon falls asleep… afterwards. At least the longer he’s here; he’s not knocking Ma about. Suddenly she’s there. Though she hasn’t come to save him. Her face is gaunt and lifeless; his last memory of her in Gartloch…

  … his sleeping eyes flicker.

  Uncle Malcolm is long gone; he died. Father O’Connell’s telling him he’ll be okay. At the age of ten, he no longer has to beg on the streets. Father O’Connell is kind. He’s also gentle. More gentle than Uncle Malcolm. By the time he’s thirteen, he knows it isn’t right. The policeman seems concerned. At first. Still it goes on for another two years.

  Father O’Connell is long gone; he died. Now he tells himself it’ll be okay. The priest took his last confessional with a knife to his gut; his cock fed to a stray dog out at Seven Lochs. He’s in a garden, looking in through a window. The same copper wants to talk to him. But he’s not at home. There’s a cat coming out the opening in the door. It purrs and wraps its tail around his leg.

  The cat is long gone; it died. He’s not fooled by a show of affection any more. He hung it by the tail; the rotary airer stil
l spinning after he’d left. The stench of dead animals is overwhelming…

  … his head shakes involuntarily.

  His home in Glasgow is long gone; it died. He tells himself he’ll get used to the smell as he learns to use the tools of his new trade and to cleave meat from bone. After work, he’s in a dark alley not far from London. The lad has a passing resemblance to Father O’Connell. But it’s the girlfriend who laughs at him. She’s no longer laughing. The boy’s blood paints a broad stroke across her face.

  She’s long gone; she died. He didn’t give her the chance to scream. Teeth and fingers need to be scattered in case the pigs at work leave them behind. Pigs… now they’re up ahead, with their blue lights flashing. He sees the carnage…

  … his flaccid penis awakens.

  The woman in the car is long gone; she died. He’s at the inquest, watching the grieving husband. And there’s a man in a wheelchair with a gash across his head and Meccano around his legs. A younger man wheels him past as they leave and he tries to move aside. He stumbles and kicks the metal frame. The cripple yelps and the kid shouts out: ‘Clumsy fucking idiot!’ He’s used to being yelled at.

  The kid is long gone. He died. Guts in a bucket but no blood. Teeth and fingers set aside. The small triangle of steel punctures cold flesh beneath the pale buttock, tracing an arc below the hip bone. Switching hands, he completes the incision in a perfect radius at the crease in the groin and reaches for the hacksaw…

  … his ejaculation feels like part of the dream but he wakes mid-way through, moaning loudly.

  11.