Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad...

by Steven Hayward

  ‘It’s the one you like,’ I say with a grin. ‘I even asked for extra peat.’

  She shakes her head with a tired smile.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll get you a Coke.’ I start to get up and she puts her hand on my arm.

  ‘Don’t worry. It looks like more trouble than it is worth.’

  ‘Yeah, but if you really don’t want it...’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ she says. ‘How about if I drive home and you have the whisky?’

  ‘Okay. If you’re sure.’ She nods and I swap the glasses before she can change her mind. ‘Sorry, it’s not Diet.’

  The guy at the bar doesn’t move from his perch and the landlord remains out of sight. The blazing fire seems to be the only thing grateful for our presence.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this Raymond Riggs,’ Grace says and a cold draught bristles my neck as if the pub’s warmth has suddenly been sucked up the chimney.

  ‘Yeah, so have I,’ I say. ‘I’ve been wondering if he’s got a really deep voice.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ she says with a nervous laugh.

  ‘You said you thought Herb might have been saying Riggs when he got all upset with you about his wife,’ I say and she nods. ‘Well, could that make Riggs the guy who’s after him now?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s possible,’ she says with a shrug.

  ‘And that in turn might make him the deep voice that answered Herb’s phone.’

  ‘Oh God, yeah,’ she says.

  ‘And it gets worse. Whoever it is, he rang me yesterday while you were at work.’ She puts down her glass, almost missing the table. ‘He seemed to know a lot about me. He knew about the two of us, my mum, John, everything.’

  ‘What did he want?’ she says, and I notice her rosy glow start to fade.

  ‘It was more of an ultimatum. He told me to choose… between you and Herb.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He said something about you two being different sides of the same coin. It didn’t make sense, except he clearly wants me to abandon Herb.’

  ‘Therefore… putting me on the other side.’

  ‘Apparently. And with the threat of violence if I make the wrong decision.’

  ‘Jesus! No wonder Jim was so keen to warn us.’

  ‘Yeah... what a bloody mess.’

  ‘And,’ she says, ‘that kind of confirms my theory.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry, I interrupted. What were you going to say?’

  ‘I think it does… Oh my God!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, if Terry gave him an alibi, like you said…’

  ‘Right,’ I say, lowering my voice, ‘for murder.’

  ‘And his name’s Raymond…’

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘So… he’s Ray.’ She says it quietly, conspiratorially, like it’s supposed to mean something to me.

  ‘Okay, short for Raymond. Go on.’

  ‘You said the trial was five years ago, right?’

  ‘Yeah… 2004. I think it was July. What about it?’

  ‘That’s the year after that horrible man came to the house.’ She reaches for my hand and squeezes it tightly.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, finally understanding what she’s getting at. ‘You said his name was Ray.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispers.

  ‘Didn’t you say they were talking about someone being better off out of it?’

  ‘And Terry took the money to make the problem go away…’

  ‘Just like he had before.’ I finish her train of thought. ‘But how does that put you on his side?’

  My brain gets there with the question hardly out of my mouth. It’s still a shock when she says: ‘My allowance… That’s where all the money’s been coming from.’

  ‘Shit!’ I mouth back.

  I finish the scotch and down the rest of the Coke that Grace slides across the table as she gets up to leave. We walk towards the door and the man turns around and watches us.

  ‘One last thing,’ he says as we reach the door. ‘Remember I mentioned that main road to Harlow? Well, it can be a bit hairy at times if you take my meaning. Especially at night. Folks around here call it The Mad Mile. So take it steady.’ I thank him again, and this time his empty glass stays on the counter.

  Overtaking Time

  As we walk out into the sharp evening air, my eyes are drawn up to the illuminated sign that creaks on rusty hinges. It’s framed at the top of a high wooden pillar, set into the ground on the opposite side of the road. Beneath a traditional painting of a bushel of straw is the pub’s name: The Wheat Sheaf.

  I shrug to myself. There must be hundreds of pubs with that name out in the sticks. Grace hasn’t noticed it, so I dismiss it as a coincidence as we walk to the car. I get out the keys and am about to get in on the driver’s side.

  ‘Aren’t I supposed to be driving?’ she says.

  ‘Oh yeah. Are you still feeling up to it?’

  ‘Definitely.’ She gets in and starts adjusting the seat.

  ‘Remember it’s a bit different to yours. It’ll probably seem huge after driving that little soft top.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says and turns the key. She pulls away smoothly and then slams on the brake just as we get out onto the road.

  ‘What is it?’ I screech as the seat belt throws me back against the headrest.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Must try to remember it’s automatic.’

  ‘Okay… if you want me to drive. I’ve only had the one.’

  ‘No, I’ll be okay,’ she says, and tucks her left foot back out of the way. She quickly gets the hang of it and pretty soon we’re approaching more buildings and looking out for the first turning.

  ‘Where are we exactly?’ she asks as a junction appears up ahead.

  ‘He didn’t say,’ I answer. ‘I think we must have missed the welcome sign already. Maybe there’ll be one on the other side as we leave.’

  ‘Just don’t blink,’ she says. I’m relieved that her mood has lifted since we left the pub, and when she asks me where I think the village might be twinned with, I join in with the joke.

  ‘Timbuktu?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘I was thinking Outer Mongolia.’

  She pulls up at the crossing and we look at the direction signs opposite. The left turning has village names we’ve never heard of and points in the direction of the A414. I look at Grace, but she doesn’t seem to have made the connection and pulls away, this time thankfully without trying to change gears manually. A few hundred yards up on the opposite verge we can see the back of the village welcome sign.

  ‘Quick, look behind,’ she says. ‘What’s it twinned with?’

  I look back just in time to see it doesn’t say a twin. All it says are the words of the village name and a shiver goes up the back of my neck.

  ‘What was it?’ she says. ‘I bet it was somewhere in Belgium? Somewhere no one’s ever heard of.’

  ‘I couldn’t read it. It’s too dark.’

  ‘Never mind, let’s see what the next one is.’

  Her driving gets more confident with each twist and turn. At the tiny hamlet of Toot Hill, she feels the need to honk the horn, and then takes the turning at Greensted Green without even braking. I try to smile – I want her to have fun – but it’s probably more of a nervous grin.

  ‘The Mad Mile!’ She smirks and puts her foot down as we turn left onto the A414, Epping Road. I can’t believe she hasn’t seen the significance; I distinctly remember that was the road identified in the newspaper article we found with the photograph of Herb’s wife. The road where her fatal crash happened. And The Wheat Sheaf was the pub where an eye-witness claimed one of the cars had set out from minutes before with a drunk driver at the wheel. I stare straight ahead as Grace continues her one-sided banter.

  ‘There’s probably some European directive,’ she’s saying, ‘that means we now have to call it The Crazy Kilometre!’

  I know she’s waiting for me to joi
n in and I do think about giving her the politically correct lobby’s alternative. But I’m feeling increasingly uneasy and my proposed suggestion of The Mentally Impaired Carriageway probably wouldn’t be funny anyway.

  ‘Just concentrate on the road ahead,’ I say. She takes my point and starts to steer gingerly around the bends. Ahead we can see taillights and pretty soon we’re right up behind them.

  ‘A tractor at this time of night!’ she says. ‘Hopefully, he’ll pull in.’ But he doesn’t and we crawl along behind it.

  I can sense she’s getting impatient as the road starts to wind around into a broader section. The tractor illuminates cats eyes that trail straight ahead and up into the darkness. Initially Grace hangs back and allows a gap to open up but then, just before we start to climb, she makes her decision and hits the accelerator.

  As she starts to pull out, two things happen simultaneously. First, glaring headlights crown the top of the hill. And second, the tractor indicates right and moves across to block our path. As the lights ahead sweep down the hill towards us, Grace eases off the gas. But as she does, the driver of the tractor realises we were overtaking. He slows down and pulls back into the left, leaving her only one option. Now she’s committed and floors the pedal again. The engine roars its objection. Its response is slow but sure. We begin to pull alongside the tractor. The oncoming vehicle speeds towards us, with gravity on its side. We’re accelerating too. The gearbox kicks down. Headlights flash manically. Blinding as we speed towards them. A catastrophic impact seems inevitable. Lights flash larger and brighter. Time slows. Silence. I look to my left. The tractor’s no longer beside me. Then to my right. Grace is already turning the wheel. Pulling back, hard left. I’m drawn towards her, against the momentum of the car. Black hedgerows beckon. The choice is stark. Into the light or into the dark. We twist back. I’m pushed hard against the door. Tyres screech and slide. Then bite firm and we straighten with a jolt. The blurred outline of the approaching car whistles past as the sound of a receding horn fades away behind us.

  ‘Wow!’ she says, sinking back into the seat. ‘This thing’s not got the oomph I’m used to.’

  I just nod and exhale deeply.

  Now I’m definitely not going to tell her the village we went through was Stapleford Tawney.

  17.

  Monday, 28th

  There are three things I hate about visiting my brother in Wandsworth. The first one is getting here – three tubes and a bus. The second is the waiting. The third is the smell –a cloying combination of boiled vegetables, cold sweat and barely-suppressed testosterone that perspires through the cinderblock pores of the Visit Room. But worse still is how it makes me feel, seeing him the way he’s become. I usually have to have a few pints on the way home to help me get over it. But today’s going to be different. Today I’ve driven here. I’m on a mission.

  I go to see him two or three times a year, even though the visiting orders still arrive in the post every couple of months. They’re issued at John’s request, which is the only reason I still go at all. I assume Mum’s still getting them too. Being a convicted murderer puts him pretty high up the pecking order in prison but even so, John’s virtually had to grow up, from being a naïve teenager to a hardened criminal, in an environment of constant threats and intimidation. I find it increasingly difficult to recognise the person I grew up with; the older brother I once looked up to. He’s become resentful of my life because his was buggered, as he puts it, so long ago. I’ve started to believe we’re poles apart. In recent visits we’ve found less and less to talk about. All he ever wants to know is whether Mum’s okay. Usually, once I’ve given him her news, he’ll go back into his shell. If I ask him how it’s going, he’ll get angry with me. And if I try to tell him what I’ve been up to, he’ll shut down. My monologue soon dries up and I just sit there, waiting for him to call the guard to take him back. We rarely take up more than a fraction of the hour. Then I’ll watch him walk away and thank my lucky stars.

  You have to book a visit at least twenty-four hours in advance. I tend to leave it to the last minute to make sure he still wants to see me; it wouldn’t be the first time he’s changed his mind, making me turn around to go back home. Hence the call I was making when Grace got back on Saturday evening. When you arrive, half an hour before your allotted time, you have to present the VO and a driving licence or passport. I’ve still got the old green paper licence, but they want something with a photo on it so I have to take my passport. Thanks to John – or should that be Dad – I never get the same buzz most people do when they dig it out of the drawer every summer. Without taking off your shoes, you walk through the metal detectors before being frisked. You’re not allowed to wear hoodies or scarves, or take through any bags or personal possessions. You used to be able to hand in cash to be added to a prisoner’s account, but now all you can do is take in loose change to spend on them in the cafeteria.

  There are lockers in the Visitors’ Centre where you can leave your stuff and, once through the double airlock doors, you get to stand in a room while the most un-spaniel-like Cocker has a good old sniff around. I always thought they were after drugs, but I made the mistake of taking in my mobile once and the dog went ape. So did I, when they accused me of trying to smuggle it in. They only let me off because it was in my coat pocket and not a body cavity. That was the last time I saw John show any sign of empathy. It was no more than a shake of his head as he said it could have been worse; if I was on the inside and they suspected me of concealing something like that, the screws would have subjected me to a technique they like to call spooning. It sounded like a real pain in the arse. From there it’s into the waiting room, or Chavs-R-Us as I like to call it.

  Today, I’m sitting in the corner chair and feeling very conspicuous. First, because I’m not wearing a velour tracksuit in a choice of pastel shades, and second because I’m not a woman. You might even say, thirdly I’m over the age of twenty-five – and mentally over the age of twelve, but that would just be nasty. It’s not their fault. Unless they knew what their man was like before they got too drawn in, of course. They say you can choose your friends, and I’m sure that applies as much to husbands and boyfriends. Family you’re stuck with.

  Another half an hour goes by and I’m starting to get hungry. I don’t know why they bother giving a set time; they always make you wait longer. The entertainment value of trying to imagine the bad luck stories that each of these women represents is wearing thin. Fortunately, my name is read out in the next batch, and I’m the first to reach the door and head up the queue. It’s like I’m at the departure gate and want to be the first onto the plane. Usually, I’d be one of those that stay seated, thinking that unless you’re at the front, you’ll just get held back by the fat ones in the middle. Today I want to get my full timeslot and, before long, I’m walking into the Visit Room and anxiously looking from table to table.

  I needn’t have rushed because when I eventually see John, he’s sitting at a table in the far corner away from everyone else, and so I’m one of the last to sit down anyway. Most of the prisoners are in their own gear, jeans and T-shirts, but the green mesh bibs they all have to wear make them look like some unruly Sunday league team, meeting in the pub before going off to kick seven bells out of their opponents in the name of amateur football. Under John’s team vest I can see he’s still got on a prison-issue blue boiler suit. The wide yellow sash down the front tells me he’s been playing up again. Twenty years in and he’s still rarely off the Category A blacklist.

  I used to offer to shake his hand but he stopped taking it.

  ‘Hi,’ I say and he barely nods as I sit down. ‘How have you been?’ It’s a stupid question, considering the cut above his right eye and the heavy dressing on the side of his neck.

  ‘Fuckin’ marvellous,’ he says, rubbing the back of his head with his left hand. My eyes are drawn to the diagonal scars down the inside of his forearm; some of them look new. I don’t understand why but I know he doe
s it to himself. He once told me it relieved the boredom. I think that was just his way of saying it gives him a few minutes relief from the stress and gets him some attention. He sees the look on my face and quickly drops his arm to the table. ‘How’s the old dear?’

  ‘She’s fine. I’ve seen quite a lot of her lately.’ I want to get his attention quickly so he’s more likely to open up, but my first attempt falls flat.

  ‘Well, lucky you,’ is all he says.

  ‘She asked after you and sends her love,’ I lie.

  ‘Piss off. Tell her I can still read and I’m guessing she can still write.’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop you writing first,’ I say and he just glares at me. This hasn’t started well. ‘Look, the reason I’ve been down there a lot is to see Herb Long. Remember him?’ I’m hoping that might pique his curiosity.

  ‘He’s still alive? I heard Riggs had taken him out.’

  ‘Riggs? What have you heard?’ I must sound a bit too eager. I’m the little squirt again, in awe of my big brother, hoping he might let me in on something only the big boys know.

  ‘Ah, you don’t want to hear about all that shit. The stuff that goes on in here. Half of what you hear is bollocks anyway. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. Best to keep it that way. Especially for a big pussy like you.’ He didn’t used to be so spiteful. I hate him for it but I have to try again.

  ‘Herb did say there was a gang of thugs looking to blackmail him. And they had some shit on him that could bring him down.’ I’ve told him something he hasn’t already heard and I swear if he was a dog his ears would have pricked up.

  ‘What kind of shit?’

  ‘Photographs.’

  ‘Really. What did he want you to do?’

  ‘Get them back.’

  ‘So... did you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He does something I haven’t seen in twenty years. He smiles. Suddenly, my older brother is back, sitting in front of me and looking at me like he used to. I smile back and he moves in closer.