by D J Harrison
The backgrounds to the pictures are featureless white walls, with the exception of one photograph which reveals part of a window with familiar rounded corners. The glass is criss-crossed with reinforcing wire similar to those in the portacabin I previously occupied as Gary’s office. I was abused at a site using portable offices but there are no distinguishing features and no clue as to its location. There are thousands of these dotted all over Manchester.
There are three different men in the photos. I have a side view of one of them, the bottom half of another face and the full face of the third. I also have a lot of pictures showing abdomens, legs, arms and, of course, penises. These may include distinguishing marks if I look closely but I am loathe to do so. The one full face is my best piece of evidence. As I look into his wide staring eyes, I wonder about him. Does he rape defenceless women as a day job or is he only doing it as a side-line? His hair is black and close-cropped, nothing remarkable. He might be Eastern European, though I wonder if I’m imagining this because of my encounter with Popov and his thuggish entourage. Could Popov be involved, did he organise and orchestrate the whole procedure? That’s a question I know I can’t ask Gary, if he thinks that I’m delving into Popov’s business he’ll drop me like a shot and make himself scarce.
The disgusting display still haunts me even though I’ve stuffed the offending items back into their envelope. The urge to destroy them, to burn them, is almost overwhelming, but I’m determined to keep this evidence and one day use it to get revenge. Perhaps I will use them to show the man with the grimace why his genitals are being hacked away.
Throwing the envelope into a drawer, I strip off and stand in the shower, scrubbing the shame away, weeping quietly. As I wash myself, the cold chill of fear douses the fire of my determination and I suddenly realise I could be contaminated, fatally diseased, terminally infected.
47
Gary is sitting in the office talking to a large man with long white hair that has thinned to an alarming extent. His prominent nose is decorated with a lattice of blue and red veins giving him the look of a bird peering from a gossamer nest. I know this man, he knows me and neither of us is acknowledging the fact. It’s rare for Gary to conduct his meetings indoors and even more unusual for him to do it in my presence. This gives me an uneasy feeling that he is busy making promises for me to keep.
Peter O’Brian is Tim’s employer. Every time he looks at me I feel more uncomfortable. He knows me, knows I am Tim’s ex-wife, knows about my past, my prison sentence, my circumstances. He may even have seen the photographs. Tim is not a reticent kind of man, he tells everyone about everything in my experience. The thought increases my uneasiness, though O’Brian’s calm blue eyes transmit only kindness and good humour. O’Brian is the proprietor of a huge construction group and he is one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the Manchester area. There is plenty of time for me to speculate about why a man like O’Brian needs to visit our office, while the two men talk about various things including a mini-digger that was stolen and the merits of things they refer to as gypsy buns. Carrie brings in three mugs of tea and shakily places them in front of us, managing to dribble brown liquid across my clean white pad of paper that I have readied for note-taking. As the men chat, I take a sip of tea and almost spit it out in disgust. It is so sweet as to be undrinkable. By now Carrie knows I don’t take sugar, she must have mixed me up with O’Brian.
‘This one’s got sugar in it,’ I break into the conversation.
O’Brian looks at me and smiles. He picks up his cup and tastes his tea. ‘This one has none,’ he answers, then exchanges it for mine.
‘Gary tells me you’re doing a great job for him, transformed his business, he says.’ O’Brian looks at me and allows the silence to build until I feel compelled to answer.
‘It’s just a question of getting the books right. Gary is the one doing the business, I only do the accounts.’
‘Peter is considering investing in our business,’ Gary announces excitedly. ‘He’s wanting to inject substantial amounts of capital so we can expand, take on more staff, get involved in other types of work.’
O’Brian smiles benignly at Gary.
‘You’re doing a good job, with my help the business can grow considerably. There’s things you can do for O’Brian’s for a start. I also have in mind some new areas of business for you, good prospects. Things that I don’t have time to do justice.’
My heart is sinking. My ex-husband’s boss is about to take over Gary’s business. It could end up with both of us working for O’Brian, a prospect that fills me with alarm. In O’Brian’s organisation I would be one of many accounts staff. I face performing some sort of subservient role. That’s if he keeps me on. All this joviality and positivity is only the courtship phase. Once we are absorbed, reality will set in.
I don’t want to work for O’Brian, even if he does turn out to be telling the truth when he says he values me. Perhaps I should say something now, put my position firmly on the table, tell them how I feel, that I’m intending to be no part of this. Resign, walk out, quit. Fear rises in my throat and stills my voice. I’m in no position to do that. Whatever crumbs might fall from this rich man’s table I need to harvest them with care and gratitude.
‘How exciting, that sounds really good.’ I try not to sound flat and worry that I have over-compensated and my response is much too gushing.
O’Brian reaches beneath the table and produces a black leather holdall. He pushes it towards me then rises from his seat.
‘That’s the first tranche, I’ll bring you the rest as we go along.’ He looks at Gary. ‘There’s no need for our relationship to be formalised.’ He turns to me and smiles. ‘In fact I will be very appreciative if we could keep it to just the three of us.’
O’Brian has not even reached the door before the import of his words hits home and I suddenly realise what he is really up to.
When Gary returns from the car park his grin looks like it’s been painted on.
‘Great that,’ he enthuses, ‘O’Brian and me, business partners, great isn’t it. We’ll do very well you and me, very well.’
‘What’s this?’ I point to the case.
Gary grins even more widely. ‘Investment money, it’s O’Brian’s stake. Plenty more where that came from as well, so he says, plenty more. I said we’d do well.’
I open the bag to reveal the contents. It’s crammed full of fifty pound notes in tight bundles.
‘It’s cash,’ I point out unnecessarily, ‘cash, what are we supposed to do with cash?’
Gary looks puzzled for an instant then the smile returns wide as ever. ‘Ah, you’re joshing me aren’t you? Pay it in, put it in the bank, it’s O’Brian’s investment money.’
‘Is that what he said, is that what he told you to do, Gary?’ I watched the smile fade away.
‘Err, no,’ Gary wrinkles his forehead, ‘not exactly. He said to keep his involvement a secret, just you and me have to know.’
‘So,’ I’m starting to feel like a nagging wife, ‘if I go to the bank and say this is O’Brian’s cash, his investment money, they’ll know as well, won’t they?’
‘Yes.’ Gary’s expression shows he now sees what I’m driving at. It won’t be a secret any more. Slapping the bundles onto the desk I make a large pile, counting as I go. Two hundred bundles, fifty notes in each bundle, half a million pounds exactly. It reminds me of Casagrande’s gift, but makes that pale into insignificance. A hot flush seizes my upper body and suffuses my face. Quickly I shove the money back into hiding and clip the bag shut.
I push it towards Gary. ‘What are you going to do with that?’
Gary pushes the bag back at me. ‘You need to put it through the business, that’s the plan, put it through the business, you’re good at that sort of thing.’
48
The driveway up to the house twists through trees and bushes which part briefly to give views of sweeping lawns and manicured flower beds. The house
itself appears vast and ancient; an enormous door studded with iron at the side of the building provides the obvious main entrance.
Peter O’Brian instructed me to come round to the back door to avoid him having to make the considerable trek from one part of his mansion to another. A narrow passageway between the side of the house and more shrubbery eventually reveals a paved courtyard on which several cars are already parked, including one monster that could easily accommodate my Corsa in its boot.
‘Knock on the back door and I’ll let you in,’ sounded simple, but I can see four candidates from where I’m sitting. As I lug the heavy case towards the nearest and most obvious prospect, a large Rottweiler raises its predatory head and looks unconcernedly at me. Although the dog makes no attempt to intercept me, I’m grateful for the heavy chain that tethers it.
The door is a disappointment, it is solid, black and firmly locked; as I beat weakly on it I’m discouraged by the thick cobwebs that are testament to the infrequency with which it is opened. Ah well, one down, try the next.
I turn to see the Rottweiler at the full extent of its chain sitting malevolently in my path. As long as I stay in the alcove by this door I’m perfectly safe. Unfortunately, in order to get back to my car or knock on another door I have to negotiate the dog. Brandishing the case I try to exude confidence and casual disdain as I approach it. As a child my mother told me that dogs can smell your fear and when they do they attack.
Whatever this one can smell, it greets me by showing its yellow teeth and emitting a snarl that could have been the prelude to a major earthquake. It’s quite clear that getting within biting distance will result in being bitten, probably to death. It starts to rain hard, my coat is in the car, my phone is in its pocket. I am dressed for sitting inside. My blouse is getting wet. My hair is losing its shape. At the risk of becoming entangled in cobwebs and devoured by spiders, I shelter in the disused doorway while the dog sits untroubled by the water streaming off its head.
The intensity of the downpour increases and I become more concerned at the cash becoming water-logged. Returning a runny mess of paper pulp where there once was half a million pounds is not a good start to the difficult conversation I’m anticipating with O’Brian. ‘Sorry your money is ruined, I was scared of your dog’ sounds a feeble excuse but the massive jaws, slightly open in readiness, provide plenty of justification from where I’m cowering. Whether this will stand up later remains to be seen.
The wet is seeping through my clothes, my skirt is sodden and little droplets shower from it if I swing my hips suddenly. The cold is beginning to bite, particularly in my lower back and the tops of my thighs. My situation has gone beyond a joke, it’s become a nightmare, a disaster, an embarrassment and now it’s becoming funny again. No part of me has escaped the drenching, I might as well have laid down in a pond or jumped in a river. Moving about within the confines set out by the dog’s reach does nothing to dispel the cold and I’m beginning to make the dog nervous. It keeps giving a little pull on its chain as if checking to make completely sure that it’s still firmly tethered. The low growl comes and goes like a passing motorcycle.
Banging on the door and shouting brings no response, but I keep it up, gradually releasing any idea of dignity and allowing the full force of desperation to give vent. Enough time and rain has passed for me to seriously worry about dying from exposure and hypothermia and that sort of thing, though I suspect I’d have to be trapped here at least overnight for that to happen. Even so, I’m suddenly excited by the appearance of the man in a voluminous green coat and wide brimmed hat who is walking slowly towards me carrying a duck. As he draws nearer, the prominent nose and wisps of grey hair identify him as the man I’m supposed to be meeting, Peter O’Brian.
The dog acknowledges his presence by ambling back to the shelter of its stable-proportioned kennel.
O’Brian greets me with a smile and says, ‘You’d better come inside.’ He gently places the duck on the ground and walks towards the kennel.
‘You come on now,’ he says, ‘I’ll hold the dog.’ As I make to follow, the Rottweiler senses my movement and intention and re-emerges from its lair. Immediately O’Brian grabs its metal studded collar and is carried towards me, clinging on, lying across the dog’s back to try to slow its progress.
‘It’s okay,’ he pants, ‘I’ve got hold of it.’
Despite the doubts I harbour about the outcome of the contest, I make faltering progress in the direction indicated, all the time fearing for both our lives. This door is unlocked and I pass gratefully inside to stand in the relative warmth. A small puddle forms on the tiled floor.
O’Brian joins me, panting with effort. ‘He’s really quite soft when you get to know him.’
All I can think is that I don’t know him at all and more importantly he doesn’t know me.
We travel through a series of rooms stacked with old furniture. Desks and tables are interleaved, alternately inverted, forming piles that reach into the high ceilings. In one room there are marble slabs, placed like playing cards, in the next the contents of a church complete with a wooden pulpit. Eventually, we turn right down a carpeted corridor, passing open doors which reveal more utilitarian items, sinks and washing machines among them, until we emerge into a large kitchen. Steps lead down from here to a glass roofed conservatory which commands a spectacular view of rolling lawns, majestic trees and flower beds in riotous colour.
There is a lady standing in the kitchen, she is thin and elegant with flowing curly, golden hair and blue eyes. Her face is fully made up as if she was about to attend a formal event, her cheeks rouge red in contrast to the almost white pallor of her foundation which ends in a line at the base of her chin. O’Brian hands me over to her without any introduction.
‘She’s been standing in the rain,’ he says simply. ‘She’s got a bit wet.’
‘Come with me.’
She leads me into a hallway with the heads of dead animals protruding from the wooden panelling. In the centre of the hall is an ebony grand piano with a scarily lifelike dummy of O’Brian sitting at it. Mrs O’Brian, I am happy to make the assumption, points to a door.
‘There’s a shower in there. Let me have your wet things and I’ll see what I can do about drying them.’
She has a soft voice with the accent of a newsreader. My reaction to the thought of stripping naked in this house and handing my clothes to a stranger must be written all over my face. Mrs O’Brian smiles gently and hands me a white towel that would double as a bed sheet.
When I emerge from the grateful warmth of the shower, protected by my massive towel, I find a small pile of clothes outside the bathroom door. I put these on and a check in the steamy mirror reveals that I look better in Mrs O’Brian’s clothes than I did in my own.
White jeans, green blouse and pink sweater are not items I would normally consider wearing, but I have to admit that they do lift the drabness I’ve been carrying around for many a long year. The old Jenny might have strutted out looking like this.
Mrs O’Brian, presumably hovering close by in case I needed assistance, appears immediately I open the bathroom door for the second time and whisks away my wet clothes. Downstairs, O’Brian is watching two small dogs chasing each other across his garden. The briefcase is on the floor by his feet, its presence triggers feelings of anxiety as I remember why I’m here. The glossy wooden floor is stained slightly darker by the run-off from the sodden case.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he smiles. ‘How do you like your tea?’
‘A little milk, no sugar please.’ He pours a lot of milk into a cup and follows this up with a pale yellow trickle from the porcelain teapot. I’m glad I didn’t mention that I like it strong as I peer into the still almost white drink.
‘Help yourself to sugar.’ He pushes a sugar bowl towards me and I feel obliged to put a spoonful into my tea. As I stir I feel diminished. If I can’t muster the strength to insist on a decent cup of tea, it’s no wonder I’m in the state I am. My o
nly excuse is that I need O’Brian to remain calm and happy, to accept the return of his money and forget all about investing in Gary’s business. Antagonising him over something trivial like a cup of tea is not the start I wish to make.
‘I’ve brought your money back,’ I begin, feeling nervous and glad of the tea despite its sweet pallor. ‘I’m sorry we can’t do anything with it without involving you in some way. The regulations and procedures are very tight nowadays, we can’t bank a large amount of cash without being able to account for it and that means being prepared to tell the authorities where we got it.’
O’Brian smiled sadly. ‘I’m well aware of the problems, Jenny, my own accountants are well versed in all these things. It’s just that Gary told me he needed some cash, some investment money and that you were able to sort it without any comeback to myself.’
‘Why don’t you put it in your own business?’ After what seems an age of silence I find myself answering my own question. ‘I suppose that wouldn’t make any difference, the source of the cash would still have to be identified.’
A phone rings distantly for a while then stops. Mrs O’Brian materialises at the top of the steps and speaks softly.
‘It’s Irene.’
O’Brian clambers out of his chair and sets off in search of the telephone. Mrs O’Brian dematerialises as quickly as she appeared and leaves me alone. I try to pour more tea from the pot but only get a sludgy trickle of tea leaves. A peacock wanders into view, dragging its tail as if intent on sweeping the grass. The vision of a many-eyed semi-circle that impressed my childhood self brings back longings for the time I felt safe and cared for. It seems so long ago and gives such a false impression. My father mocked me even then, saying the bird had taken a fancy to me and that’s why he was aroused. The significance of that word has been lost until now. The deep anxiety returns, pressing me into the chair. The brief excitement at seeing the magnificent bird is gone.
