Due Diligence

by D J Harrison

  ‘I wondered where you’d got to, I presumed you were in a car,’ he smiles easily.

  I try to send a smile of my own back but it feels tight and despairing. ‘You look like you could do with a cup of tea.’

  He leads me through a gate in the fence and we emerge alongside a burger van where three ladies are dispensing greasy food to ravenous football supporters.

  ‘Hi, Gary,’ one of them beams. ‘Can I tempt you with anything tonight?’

  ‘A couple of teas please, Andrea.’ He turns to me. ‘Are you hungry, Mrs Parker? Do you want something to eat?’

  My stomach churns in anxiety, saliva collects underneath my tongue, but I find myself weakly refusing. At last count, unless I have a hole in my purse, there is less than two pounds there. I have half a box of porridge oats at the apartment, unless the insects and rodents have scoffed it. I have to wait for that.

  Two plastic cups are proffered. Gary passes one to me. No money changes hands. I reconsider my refusal, the frying smells are overwhelming my senses, fixating them, robbing my awareness of any sensations that are not hunger. I sip the tea gratefully, remembering the previous weak and sugary brew I enjoyed in his company. It seems that’s how people make tea when Gary is around.

  ‘Tell you what, Andrea,’ Gary says, ‘I’ll have a couple of your bacon baps to keep me going.’

  Andrea obliges, stacking four rashers of bacon in each bun then squashing the tops on with industrial force. She finishes the procedure with an elegant flourish, wrapping a white serviette part way around each sandwich before handing them over.

  Gary, bless him, hands one of the beautiful creations to me and to my intense shame I wolf it down so quickly I am certain it looks like I inhaled it rather than chewed and swallowed. Gary, twice blessed Gary, passes on the second, over which I try to exercise more decorum.

  ‘Let’s go and sit in the car,’ he suggests. ‘It’ll be more comfortable.’

  He installs me in the sumptuous leather passenger seat of a huge black Range Rover, the last three letters of the number plate are GOD. Tim’s ambition was always to own a Range Rover. Any sort, any age. Here I am sitting with Gary in what appears to be a brand new one, complete with personalised number plate. My original impression of Gary as a lowly security guard now seems shamefully inaccurate.

  He waits until I have finished the second bacon sandwich then asks, ‘What did you want to talk about, Mrs Parker?’

  ‘Jenny,’ I insist through a full mouth.

  ‘So how can I help, Jenny?’ he asks.

  Take me home with you, hold me, protect me, feed me more bacon sandwiches. All these answers occur to me at once but I swallow the last crumbs and embark on my story about Jervis & Co, about Usman’s debt, about Alan welshing on our agreement. I feel so much the naive fool as I tell him; the narrative has an inevitable outcome which I feel ashamed I didn’t anticipate myself at the time.

  Gary, surprisingly, looks increasingly excited and impressed, rather than critical and dismissive.

  ‘So you conned this Usman into parting with forty K,’ Gary grins. ‘Brilliant, amazing, you did very well.’

  ‘But I didn’t get paid. I need that money, Gary, I need it very badly. The place where I’m living is so disgusting I can’t bear to spend another night there. Jervis’s money would have got me out of there, put me back on my feet. Can you help me get it off him, beat him up or something?’

  I sound pathetic, weak and desperate. I am all of these, close to abandoning what vestige of self-worth I have left. The exultation and excitement I felt at Usman’s capitulation to my imaginary pressure is only a distant sour residue, buried by piles of frustration and disappointment.

  Gary smiles, ‘I’ll be glad to help.’

  ‘You will go round and bash him up?’

  ‘No way, but I will help you. Do you fancy working with me?’

  The question leaves me stunned. I look around at the burly men collecting money, I imagine the others sitting alone in empty premises waiting for trouble.

  ‘I don’t know what I can do.’

  ‘You’re an accountant, that’ll do for a start. Then there’s this debt collecting talent you’ve demonstrated, that’ll come in handy. We could offer that as part of the business. When all else fails GOD will get your money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you like it, Gary O’Donnell, GOD Security, GOD Debt Recovery, GOD is Watching over You. Get it?’

  I get it but I have no comprehension of what he is saying.

  ‘This job,’ I ask, ‘where is it, when would you want me to start, how much is the pay?’

  Gary is resting his arms gently on the steering wheel and is still smiling.

  ‘So you are interested?’

  ‘Gary,’ I reply, ‘I’m out of work, broke and desperate. Of course I’m interested, even if you wanted me to clean toilets I’d be interested.’

  ‘Good.’ He reaches down and opens the glove compartment above my knees. ‘Here.’ He passes me a white envelope, unsealed and stuffed with ten pound notes. ‘Take this, advance payment of wages. We’re going to be business partners. Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty more like this.’

  He glances down at his ornate watch.

  ‘Got to go now.’ He fires up the engine. As if on cue a hand passes wads of notes through his window and he stuffs them inside his jacket.

  ‘I’ll drop you off at the Campanile, you’ll be best in there for tonight.’

  29

  Lying back in the soft warmth of the scented bath water I begin to feel human again. Small beginnings of positive thoughts are released by my return to a safe and clean environment. There is no hole in the sturdy door, only a strong lock. This bathroom is spotless and fragrant and mine alone. It’s been a long time since I last felt secure in my vulnerable nakedness.

  The familiar way that Gary negotiated the room rate down to thirty-five pounds including breakfast makes me doubt that I’m the first woman he’s brought here. The thought crossed my mind that he might expect some sexual compensation for the money he was paying out, but when this didn’t materialise I felt relieved rather than disappointed. This bath is more comforting, more pleasurable and more nourishing than anything Gary might have offered.

  When it cools I replenish the warmth with the endless supply of searing water, each time pushing the threshold of my heat resistance. The only thing in the world that might tempt me to get out of this bath is the crisp coolness of the pristine bed and the prospect of undisturbed sleep for the first time since before prison, before Toby even. So long ago that the possibility makes me excited.

  *

  An urgent need to pee tips me reluctantly out of bed, the air in the room is chilly compared with the soft warmth I am leaving. I close the bathroom door and lock it before sitting on the toilet, then smile grimly at the reflex that makes me do that. Shivering I crawl back into bed, wrapping the still warm duvet around my naked body. The red numbers below the television screen tell me I’ve managed an unbroken nine hours’ sleep. Although I feel I could do with dozing for a few hours more, I know it’s breakfast time. That it’s available, paid for and close by. My reluctance to leave the bed is overwhelmed in turn by hunger.

  It’s a revolting thing to have to take yesterday’s discarded clothes from a heap on the floor and put them on again, all that bathing I did loses its edge and I feel disgusting and filthy once again. Once dressed I begin to feel regret at leaving this room and dread at having to return to my own apartment. The thought of the crawling things there makes me nauseous.

  Gary finds me half way through my breakfast, having already eaten enough for two large men; I am intent in getting him full value for his all-inclusive room rate. As I splutter my thanks through a mouthful of toast he puts an envelope and a mobile phone on the table.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘something’s turned up and I can’t spend any time with you today.’

  My heart sinks. I begin to wonder how I’ll get home.
I feel desperate that I won’t be warm and safe.

  ‘I’ve booked you in here again tonight, hope you don’t mind.’

  Relief spreads like warmth through my body, I find myself grinning so wide that crumbs and pieces of egg are dropping out of my mouth.

  ‘Here’s a phone, so I can call you to make arrangements for tomorrow. My number’s in it already, so you can get me any time.’ He points to the envelope. ‘I have a mate with some empty flats in Salford, his number’s in there, take a look and let me know what you think.’

  I don’t care what it’s like, I know I will want it but be unable to afford it, so what’s the point of all this. I realise too late that my thoughts have escaped and Gary can hear them.

  ‘Don’t worry, as I said, he’s a mate, and they’re empty. He’ll do you a good deal. Call it part of your remuneration package.’

  ‘What will I be doing,’ I ask, ‘what’s the job you want me for?’

  ‘Accountant, finance director, business partner, whatever you like, call it what you like.’

  ‘How do you know I can do it, this job? I don’t know anything about your business, I don’t really know much about you.’

  ‘Listen,’ Gary’s eyes are soft and comforting, ‘things don’t just happen, everything happens for a reason. I’ve been needing someone like you for a long time, someone I can trust, someone who is strong and capable, then you just turn up – no job, no money, nowhere proper to live. Don’t you see, this is an opportunity for both of us, one that is meant to be.’

  I can’t possibly agree with what he’s saying but I can at least understand where he’s coming from.

  ‘Fair enough.’ I don’t exactly have any other options at present. ‘Thanks,’ is all I can manage before he leaves me to continue my quest for cholesterol poisoning.

  30

  Gary’s office consists of one room and a portacabin in a yard filled mainly by untidy heaps of broken concrete. The only occupant is a twenty-year-old with a shock of pink hair whose name is Carrie, she acts as the telephonist, receptionist and office clerk; her job consists mainly of explaining to people who ring in that Gary is not available and she will give him a message. The other part of her job seems to involve searching in vain for documents she knows were received but can’t quite remember where she put them. The easy, over-familiar way she treats Gary leads me to suspect that she might be the reason he is so familiar with the Campanile Hotel, now that my first guess that she must be his daughter proves to be mistaken.

  Gary has no desk, not even a seat in the office. It seems he just isn’t the office type. The remainder of the portacabin houses a ladies’ toilet, clean and fragrant, a gents’ toilet, not clean, not fragrant, a kitchen and a large room apparently used for discarding old clothing and dirty overalls. My desk is next to Carrie’s, an arrangement made compulsory by the geometric restrictions of the space. At least it’s warm and dry and not far at all from my new flat.

  There is a theory put forward by Gary and adopted by myself that Carrie now works for me. After four weeks I’m still waiting for her to grasp this new arrangement. I swear she gives a visible start of surprise to see me every morning, then treats me like a visitor, even to the extent of showing me the way to the ladies’ toilet in case I forget it’s next door and start peeing in the untidy room at the end of the corridor.

  Today Gary, unusually, is in the office, sitting on the corner of Carrie’s desk while she rummages uncomfortably for something she knows in her heart will never be seen again. He is telling me his life story, this in response to my casual enquiry as to how his business has ended up in this state. I have a feeling he’s taking my question as a compliment.

  ‘I came over from Ireland when I was sixteen and stayed with a mate of me Dad’s in Salford. I got a job as a lorry driver, tipper lorries they were for shifting muck – earth and soil and stones and such like.’ He pauses proudly and admires the concrete piles that threaten to engulf the office.

  ‘Isn’t sixteen a bit young to be a lorry driver?’ I ask. My understanding of the haulage industry is by no means complete, but I’m feeling certain that someone would have to be at least twenty-one to drive a big lorry.

  ‘No, I’m a good driver. I already drove big things in Ireland so there was no problem, at least not for a year or so. Then they started to get a bit fussy about it all.’

  ‘Fussy?’

  ‘Yes, like they wanted to see my licence and such, red tape, that’s what it was.’

  ‘And did you have a licence?’ I ask, knowing the answer already.

  ‘No, of course not. How would I be getting a licence at sixteen? You have to be twenty-one at least.’

  ‘So was that the end of your lorry-driving career?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. I bought my own truck. It was a bit of a scrap heap of a lorry, always breaking down.’ Gary grinned. ‘That’s how I got into the security job. I was driving for a mate of mine and he asked me to keep an eye on his machines and stuff – ended up driving during the day and mending my wagon while I was security-guarding. After they confiscated my lorry I gave up the driving.’

  He pauses to drink his tea, giving me a chance to ask for more details, things like ‘Who confiscated your wagon?’ and ‘Didn’t you get into trouble for driving without any form of licence and presumably insurance?’ I’m sure that these details will emerge at some stage, but I have caught his drift, I understand his casual attitude towards rules and regulations.

  If I’m to do the things he has hired me for, I’ll have to somehow legitimise what he does. This process will take time, lots of time. It’s no use my complaining that things are not as they should be; if they were I wouldn’t be needed. I wouldn’t have the nice flat where I can bring Toby to sleep.

  31

  Toby is trying to climb over the balcony railings; his little feet are scrabbling for grip on the decorative glass panel. I realise that if these had been unprotected he would have been over them in a flash and plunging eight storeys down to the street. My heart leaps in painful fear and I call him inside. When he fails to respond I pick him off the parapet and deposit him on my lounge carpet, firmly closing the door behind me. He runs past me straight to the window, and tries to prise it open with his little fingers. He then complains loudly at his confinement.

  ‘Come on, Toby,’ I cajole, ‘we’ll play inside. It’s cold and dangerous out there on the balcony.’

  His face puckers in displeasure, then he demands to watch television, pointing and yelling ‘CBeebies, CBeebies,’ at me. The bitter truth is that I’m glad of the television, grateful for its absorptive capacity. What I imagined to be a reunion of sweet loving pleasure is turning out to be a sad disappointment.

  I have spent countless nights enduring tortured visions of Toby’s anguish over our separation. Now I see the strength and resilience in him, I recognise his capacity to cope is greater than my own. This should warm my heart, ease my suffering, but it fails. Instead I feel empty and cold inside. A panic wells up that tells me that I’ve lost him, that he’s no longer connected to me in the way that I’ll always be tied to him.

  Internally this apartment is smart, clean and comfortable, apart from the balcony Toby is safe here, but outside the streets are grimy and dangerous. I can only guess about the schools close to here, but can’t imagine they compare favourably with the one he’s due to attend next year. Bringing him here permanently would be folly. I need to make a proper home near a decent school, a place with grass and trees and room for him to bounce around. I have to face facts; it will be hard to prise my son away from his father and even more difficult once he’s settled down at school. This place is a big step out of the gutter but I have to keep climbing quickly.

  At least my arrival wiped the usual smirk of that bitch’s face. I shrivel up with horror at how she must treat my precious son. Alison, the woman I have been replaced by, is a thin-lipped, miserable looking female with long slender legs and disproportionately large breasts. The sight of
me pulling up in the black Audi A8 limousine kindly lent to me by Gary for the weekend did nothing to improve her normal sour expression. There’s even a car seat in the back, the perfect size for Toby, courtesy of one of Gary’s sizeable brood. Whatever awkwardness exists between my child and me, however unfamiliar our feelings might be, this weekend is a wonderful improvement over the couple of awkward hours I’ve occasionally spent in Tim’s front room with my Toby. Now he is here with me, only me, I have his full attention and he has mine. There will be no heads around the door constantly interrupting, asking if he’s okay, reminding me I have to leave.

  As he munches through his pizza fingers and alpha-bites, generously garnished with tomato ketchup, I detect his increasing ease with me and the situation. He is calmer now, less demanding, willing to connect with a look and even a smile. We sit together, close, touching, watching the multi-coloured brightness of impossible creatures that strangle their speech. I have less than twenty-four hours, then he has to be delivered back to Tim and his unfeeling female. Make the most of it, that’s all I can do for the time being. When I have a suitable home for him I can get custody, all legal and straightforward, then his father can ask me for permission to see him. He can turn up and play for a couple of hours. By then, maybe, my new partner will scowl and grimace at him, show Tim how it feels to me now. In the meantime, I keep an unblemished record of punctuality, co-operate to the full and betray none of my feelings or intentions to Tim.

  As Toby sleeps, vulnerable and trusting in the corner of my bed, I am overwhelmed by tearful emotions. My heart is filled to bursting point with love for my beautiful child. My body aches with the sadness of our separation and my whole being wallows in the darkness of the guilty knowledge that it’s all my fault.

  32

  Gary keeps repeating his mantra, ‘I’m not so good with the paperwork.’ He uses it as his stock excuse for just about everything. I tell him in return that Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs will have no problem in filling in the appropriate paperwork which will confiscate all his possessions and send him to jail.