Disengaged

by Mischa Hiller

  ‘Russian cigarettes,’ he said, explaining his laboured breathing. He paused as she stood at the top. ‘Is there a bathroom up here?’

  She nodded and pointed to the door directly opposite the stairs, behind which was a small cloakroom with no window. It was not a huge selling point for the house, although it was nicely tiled in black and white on the floor and all the way up the walls, but there were three other bathrooms in the place so he might as well see the worst first and get it over with. He went in, and, without closing the door, ran some water in the small sink and splashed it on his face. She turned away as he discovered there was no towel and wiped his big hands on the back of his trousers. No need to embarrass the guy, although he did not strike her as the sort to care what people thought. A lot of these got-rich-quick Russians were like that. Their children, who went to expensive private schools and had therefore picked up the nuances of the English class system, were often visibly horrified by their parents’ uncouth behaviour when they accompanied them.

  ‘What is this, please?’ the Russian said. She turned. He was still in the cloakroom and pointing to something above the door inside. They always picked up on some small thing she hadn’t noticed. Was it a tiny speck of mould due to the fact the room was windowless? She put on her smile and at the entrance to the room stood to one side so he could come out and she take his place; no way was she was squeezing in there with him. He understood and came out.

  ‘Have a look,’ he said.

  She stepped inside and turned round just as the heavy door closed gently on her. She heard the key turn before she had time to register what was going on. For some unfathomable reason she looked at the wall above the door where he had been pointing but she could see nothing but shiny black and white tiles.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The sound was inside his head, a loud two-tone bell inside his head. Stirring, finding himself on the sofa in his underwear, he heard the sound again. A doorbell. His doorbell. It couldn’t be Sheila; she had a key. He pulled himself upright, causing a surge of nausea. An empty bottle of wine sat accusingly on the coffee table, an amount he was not used to handling. The laptop was open beside it, having gone to sleep itself some hours ago. The cable that connected it to the circuit board was there but he couldn’t see the board. Had he moved it? Maybe he’d spilled wine on it. The doorbell sounded again and he looked for his trousers. They were crumpled up on the arm of the sofa, along with his shirt. It had been unbearably hot last night, now he remembered. A vibrating noise from the table. His phone. Please let it be Sheila. No, it was bloody Rami. Had he missed a meeting? He hadn’t been at work the last couple of days, supposedly working at home, but the truth was he just couldn’t concentrate. He had, in fact, come up with a theoretical solution to Boris’s little requirement last night, but he’d done nothing about it. He didn’t really care. He picked up the phone, which was sitting on a piece of paper, on which he had drawn his triangle divided into five layers. He’d written dying in the smallest top segment and flying in the bottom. ‘Hey man, I’m outside your front door. Are you in there?’

  Julian pocketed his ‘triangle of fears’, revealing the circuit board underneath. He hopped to the door, pulling up his trousers. Rami, unusually for him, was unshaven and looked as worn as Julian felt.

  ‘May I come in?’

  Julian tilted his head and held the door open by way of answer before following Rami into the living room.

  ‘I see you’ve been busy getting drunk. And that,’ pointing at the circuit board, ‘wasn’t supposed to leave the office.’

  ‘Did I miss a meeting or something, or are you just here to check on me?’

  ‘No, I heard about you and Sheila.’

  Julian wanted to ask how he’d come about this information but his mouth was dry.

  Rami, unusually attuned to his condition, went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. ‘Why don’t I make some coffee while you shower? You look like shit.’ Without waiting for an answer he headed into the kitchen. Julian dragged himself upstairs.

  Twenty minutes and two painkillers later, Julian came down to find Rami sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through something on his Blackberry, probably his Facebook or Twitter feed. With his free hand he pushed a cup of coffee over the counter.

  ‘Have you seen Sheila then?’ Julian asked, inhaling the aroma.

  Rami shook his head vigorously. ‘No, of course not. I saw Cassie last night. She spent the last couple of nights at hers,’ Rami said, looking over his reading glasses at Julian. At least that answered one of Julian’s questions. ‘I take it she didn’t call you last night, given your state this morning.’

  Julian shook his head. He’d tried to ring Sheila again last night, a few hours after leaving her the earlier message and exactly twenty-four hours after her leaving home, but it had gone straight to voicemail again. By then he hadn’t been capable of leaving a sober-sounding message or one where he didn’t sound sorry for himself. Also, he wasn’t sure what he would have said; he’d decided, after much alcohol, that he didn’t really feel he had anything to apologise for, except for being untrue to her ever since he’d known her, and that wasn’t something he was going to do over the phone. This misunderstanding, of course, was merely a symptom of his withholding, he knew that. Like the stomach aches and the panic attacks. And yet he was still thinking about how he could fix it without going back to the original lie of omission.

  ‘So did Cassie tell you what happened?’ he asked Rami, who’d put his phone away.

  ‘She just said you’d been seeing someone else. Is that true?’ He sipped his coffee and looked at Julian expectantly but when Julian didn’t answer said, ‘If you want to talk about it …’

  Julian sat down. ‘There’s no one else.’ Julian decided against telling Rami about Naomi and her depression, even though he may already have heard the details through Cassie, who liked to gossip. Or maybe Sheila had kept the details to herself. ‘Have you been to the office today?’

  ‘No, I came straight here. Why?’

  ‘That woman, who filled in for Naomi, what was her name …’

  ‘Salma.’

  ‘Yes, Salma. Was she in yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, she was. Why do you ask? Oh my God, she’s not the other woman, is she? She hasn’t even been there long.’

  Julian put up his hand. ‘Stop right there, Rami, before your imagination gets the better of you.’

  Rami held up his hands in surrender. ‘OK, but if you were going to choose someone to—’

  ‘There wasn’t anybody, can we establish that, for fuck’s sake. This whole thing has got out of hand and to be honest I think Sheila’s being a little childish.’

  ‘OK, man, calm down.’

  Julian remembered to breathe and studied Rami. He looked tired. He’d known him for a long time but how much did he really know him? OK, best not go down that path. He shook his head in an effort to clear it. ‘You told me that Naomi had arranged her as a replacement.’

  Rami shrugged. ‘I probably assumed she had – I mean, she’s super efficient like that.’ That was true enough.

  ‘So you weren’t involved in hiring her? The company we subcontracted this bloody job from didn’t tell you to hire her?’

  ‘OK, Jules, you’re starting to worry me. I’m sure she came from the agency. Like I said, Naomi must have sorted it out.’

  Julian shook his head. ‘The agency knows nothing about her, I checked. That’s why I’m asking you. It’s a reasonable question if you think about it. You were keen, indeed very keen, for me to take the job. You have been very cagey about the details. In fact, I still don’t know the name of the company that approached you. Maybe this woman was sent in to keep an eye on things, make sure the job was being done?’

  Rami sat there staring at him, as if he were mad.

  ‘Maybe, because this is stuff that is eventually going to end up in government hands, a government agency has an interest in it.’

  �
�Listen, man, you’ve been working too hard. You—’

  ‘Don’t fucking bullshit me, Rami. This whole thing stank from the start.’

  Rami stood up and put his hands on the counter. His nails were bitten down; usually they were perfectly filed.

  ‘Listen to yourself, Julian. Your woman, your partner of almost thirty years has left you and you’re ranting about some conspiracy theory. You’ve got your fucking priorities wrong. Don’t you even care about getting Sheila back?’

  ‘Don’t ask stupid questions, Rami. Anyway, it’s a personal thing.’

  ‘It stopped being personal when she became friends with Cassie and went to stay with her.’

  Julian snorted. ‘So it impacts on your sex life and you get concerned? And Cassie and Sheila are friends? Really? I mean, it’s not like they have a lot in common, is it?’

  Rami stood up straight. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Julian shrugged. Maybe he’d gone too far. ‘Nothing. I mean there’s an age difference, that’s all …’ But Rami was already walking to the door. He stopped when he got there and turned.

  ‘I never thought I’d say this, right, but have you considered that it’s you and Sheila that don’t have a lot in common? You don’t know how lucky you are to have someone like her, she’s a lovely and … vibrant woman. Maybe you should pay her more attention.’

  He stood in a challenging stance and Julian was unable to say anything, such was his surprise. Had he just said Sheila was vibrant? What did he know about maintaing a long-term relationship? But Rami visibly relaxed, softened his stance and attempted a familiar conciliatory grin. Julian’s desire to tell him to mind his own fucking business dissipated.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Rami said gently. ‘We’re all under pressure here.’

  Julian nodded, failing to see how Rami was under pressure.

  ‘But maybe the best thing would be for you to concentrate on the work. Use it as a distraction. She’ll be back, trust me.’

  ‘I just want to know that she’s all right, that’s all,’ Julian said, hating the break in his voice.

  Rami stepped up to him and put his hands on Julian’s upper arms. ‘I’m sure she’s fine. Why don’t I get Cassie to call her, then at least you’ll know she’s OK? She’ll speak to Cassie.’

  Julian nodded.

  ‘Good. I’ll call you as soon as I hear something. Just focus on the work, right? We need to get it done. Then you can concentrate on sorting things out with Sheila.’

  ‘Don’t you get it? I don’t really care about the job. Until I sort things out with Sheila I can’t concentrate.’

  Rami dug his fingers into Julian’s arms. ‘Listen to me, Julian. You’ve got to finish it. It’s important,’ Rami said with new urgency. ‘Please tell me you’ll try to focus.’

  Julian shook himself from Rami’s grip. ‘Stop it. As soon as I’ve sorted things with Sheila, I’ll finish it,’ he said.

  He heard Rami leave and found himself covered in sweat. He was struggling to take in air. His heart pounded and something was pressing down on his chest. He was in no doubt that he was about to die, and what terrified him was that he was going to be alone when it happened.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Boris had decided that once it was dark he would move his things, not that there were many of them, from his taxi into the house on Onslow Square. It would be ideal as his new base. Sheila had been considerate enough to remove her jacket and leave it with her handbag on a small suitcase in the hall. He had assumed that any keys or mobile phone would be in them, since anything in her skirt pockets would have been obvious; he could make out the high cut of her underwear as he’d climbed the stairs behind her. He had her jacket and bags with him now, and, finding a new model mobile phone, switched off in a jacket pocket, he emptied her handbag on to the floor. A wallet, with some money, cards and a faded picture of Julian in which he had more hair. He’d been handsome back then, if a bit of a loner, which is why Boris, observing him at those dreary Socialist Workers Party meetings, had known he was suitable material, not to mention the attraction of his technical training. Boris looked at the other items on the floor. Two sets of keys: one with the current address on them, the other he assumed were her house keys. Lipstick, moisturizer, a hair brush containing some of Sheila’s hair, a packet of half-consumed painkillers, a battered tampon in its paper wrapper which had gathered lint, perhaps kept for emergencies, an old shopping list with wine, butter and milk crossed out, a leaflet giving guidance on setting up a charity, an identity badge for the Chelsea and Westminster Foundation Trust NHS Hospital labelled ‘Volunteer’ with a photo that didn’t do her justice, and finally, a bottle of water, a third empty. He put all these items, apart from the water, back in the handbag and opened her suitcase. He could hear nothing from upstairs; the doors and walls here were solid, and the bathroom did not adjoin the house next door, so there was no risk of being heard by the neighbours even if she did kick up a fuss. She would be fine for now, although he needed to go shopping. He opened her overnight case. Just some jeans, T-shirt, used underwear and a nightgown. There was also a washbag that included more make-up, an electric toothbrush and toothpaste. He removed some nail scissors and a nail file.

  He went upstairs with his rucksack, which he put down outside the bathroom door, and spoke into where the door met the frame. ‘Please stand back from the door.’ He heard movement and unlocked the door. He then opened it and looked in. She looked wary rather than terrified. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked, trying to appear firm. If she was scared, and she ought to be, she was hiding it well.

  ‘Nothing. Well, not from you, anyway,’ he said by way of reassurance. ‘I’m going out for an hour or two. When I return I’ll explain. You shouldn’t be here more than twenty-four hours.’

  ‘You can’t keep me here. It’s kidnapping.’

  ‘We’ll talk when I get back.’

  She hung her head and put her hands to her face, making a sobbing noise. ‘Please,’ she said softly, her voice now whiny.

  The seriousness of what was happening was perhaps beginning to dawn on her, he thought. He was stepping back in order to close the door with his right hand when she sprang. One second she was looking like she was about to cry, the next she was screaming and rushing at him, using her nails like claws at his face. He instinctively stepped back and stumbled, which gave her some space on his weaker left side, but she couldn’t move fast in that skirt. As she rushed past him, heading for the top of the stairs, he managed to get his left fist to her shoulder which made her veer into the wall, slowing her up. Swivelling, he got to her as she reached the stairs, grabbing her left elbow as her arm stretched behind her mid-stride. His grip and her forward momentum caused her to swing ungracefully in an arc to her left, her face meeting the egg-shaped wooden ornament on the newel at the top of the stairs. She groaned and fell to her knees. Keeping hold of her left arm, Boris twisted it behind her.

  ‘Bastard,’ she said, muffled with pain.

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘I’m hurt.’

  He checked her face. Her nose was bleeding as well as a cut above her left eye. She had the kind of skin that would bruise colourfully but she hadn’t been knocked unconscious and the cut wasn’t bleeding badly.

  ‘You’ll live. Get up.’ He motivated her with a twist of her arm and she stood, wobbling. He propelled her into the cloakroom, picking up his rucksack. This time he locked them both in and found the duct tape, which he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to use, in his rucksack. Stupid woman. He was angry that this had happened. But maybe he’d be able to turn the event to his advantage.

  THIRTY-SIX

  ‘What’s with the beard?’ Mojgan heard Rami Haddad ask the Syrian boy, Nizar, who had stopped Rami as he was passing to ask whether Julian would be in today, saving her the trouble of trying to find out herself. Rami had told him Julian was working at home. So much for getting network access to t
he circuit board – she had downloaded the requisite software last night on to her netbook ready to have a crack at it today. It was now going to have to be a hands-on job. That’s when Rami started quizzing Nizar.

  ‘Are you religious?’ Rami was asking, too loud, obviously wanting everyone to hear him.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything? I’m just growing a beard. It’s not against company policy, is it?’

  ‘Not if it’s not for religious purposes, no. Religious beards are not allowed.’

  Nizar looked uncomfortable, as if he wasn’t sure whether the boss was joking or not. Mojgan couldn’t tell either, until Rami threw her a wink. Unfortunately this was for her benefit – he actually thought she would be impressed with a display of bullying.

  ‘And the ponytail, is that a religious ponytail? Because if so it will need to come off too.’

  Nizar was trying to edge round Rami but he stopped him and unbuttoned his shirt. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, pulling out a gold cross. ‘I have a symbol of my religion too, but I keep it hidden. It’s not on display for everyone to see.’ He laughed and Nizar grinned stupidly before moving back to his workstation. Rami came over to Mojgan’s desk, his shirt still half undone, the hair on his chest poking out.

  ‘I like to have some banter with the staff,’ he said, taking his time to do up his shirt. She didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘banter’, but his breath smelled of alcohol even though it was only lunchtime. ‘So, have you been with the agency long?’ he asked her.

  Mojgan shook her head, thinking, What agency? Surely he didn’t mean the intelligence agency. She could feel the sweat pricking at the back of her neck, under her hair.

  ‘What, three months, a year?’

  ‘I’m not with an agency.’

  ‘So how did you get this job?’

  It dawned on her what he was talking about; he meant an employment agency. Naomi had mentioned something about that.

  ‘Naomi contacted me directly for this job,’ she said.