by David Szalay
‘Nothing.’ The sun is surprisingly strong. Frozen peas of sweat slide down Paul’s sides. With a look of distaste – pulling something nasty from a plughole – Watt produces the envelope. He looks at Paul, and someone laughs. Without putting his jacket down, Watt tears open the envelope, and unfolds the letter. When he looks up, his expression – a sort of suspicious outraged squint – seems to precipitate more widespread laughter. Paul is silent, sweating in the sunlight like a suddenly illuminated herbivore. Seemingly oblivious to the surrounding laughter, Watt feels his jacket for something. A pen – a proper ink pen. Unsteadily, using his left arm as a writing surface, he scribbles something on the letter and holds it out. Paul’s mouth is very dry. Watt has written Call me (underlined) and a mobile number. He is already in his seat, having a sip of sour orange juice and eyeing his wet slices of scrambled egg with a shrunken appetite. Paul takes a step towards the smoking room; then – suddenly remembering who and where he is – performs a U-turn, and heads for the exit as the volume of voices swells.
For a few minutes, he hides in the locker room, pulling himself together. Then, on the lookout for Martin, he slips out into the morning. With shivering hands he lights up. He did not want to involve himself in the situation – that was the whole point of the letter. Now that Watt knows his identity, however, he is terrified that he will take it to Macfarlane – or worse, to Martin himself.
His first plan is to phone him at noon. He does not. Tonight, he tells himself, as he undresses, tonight when I get up. Heather’s presence in the lounge provides all the inhibition he needs to prevent him from following through on this second plan, and he leaves for work with an unpleasant sense of omission. It is mainly to disperse this feeling that, when he finds himself with a few minutes at the bus stop, he tries the scrawled number. With his eyes on the murky point where the bus will appear, he listens to the pulses, hoping for voicemail. If it is voicemail he will not leave a message …
‘Roy Watt.’
For a second or two Paul says nothing. ‘Who is this?’ Watt says.
‘It’s … Paul Rainey.’
‘Who?’
‘You know – the letter …’
‘Oh.’ Watt pauses. ‘Yes. What’s your name?’
‘Paul Rainey.’
‘Well, Mr Rainey,’ Watt says. Paul sees the bus in the twilight, two stops away. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Okay.’
‘Not in the store, of course.’
‘No.’
‘So …’ There is a short silence, then Watt makes an uneasy suggestion: ‘Perhaps if I could buy you a drink?’
The Stadium is a sprawling pub on the Old Shoreham Road. On Friday night the car park out front is full, and a cobwebbed yellow garden spot stares up at the swaying sign. Inside, Paul feels vague and sleepy. He has not had breakfast. The hubbub of the pub sounds muffled to him, and he experiences his own presence there as something strange. He has never been in the Stadium – an unusually large local – until today; having to pass through the foot tunnel under the railway line, and over the mini-motorway of the Old Shoreham Road, makes it seem further from Lennox Road than it is. It is only for this reason that he feels safe meeting so near the houses – his own and Martin’s. He wanted somewhere within walking distance – and both he and Watt wanted somewhere where they were unknown, and unlikely to be seen. He yawns – a huge, hollow, face-twisting yawn.
Watt is standing at the bar. When he turns he is smiling like a maniac, showing the wide spaces between his teeth. He is wearing a concrete-coloured jacket with a brown corduroy collar and shapeless, high-waisted, low-seated jeans. His hands shaking, he sets the drinks – his pint of Guinness and Paul’s Bloody Mary – down on the table.
‘Thanks,’ Paul says.
‘That’s okay.’
Paul is sitting on a padded bench. There are no other seats, and with a sort of desperation, Watt scans the room for a moment, and then – unleashing a strange little laugh – sits down next to him. Paul pretends to move up, but there is nowhere to move to. ‘Well,’ Watt says, still smiling, ‘here we are.’ An ex-ex-smoker, he takes a pack of ten Silk Cut from his pocket, leaning ostentatiously out to the side as he does so. While he lights his cigarette – seemingly out of practice, he puffs at it furiously, as if it might not take, singeing it halfway to the filter in the lighter flame – Paul tastes his Bloody Mary. The vodka and tomato flavours seem separate in his mouth; the vodka very unpleasant, the tomato squash only slightly less so. Watt inspects the Silk Cut now smouldering satisfactorily in his hand. He seems to have mastered the worst of his nerves, and is more like the man Paul sees in the supermarket. ‘So …’ he says, looking up, straight ahead over the small oblong of the table. ‘What makes you think Martin’s been using unlisted suppliers then?’
‘It’s what I’ve been told,’ Paul says, with his elbows pressed into his sides.
‘Who told you?’
‘Who told me? Bloke who works with me.’
‘What bloke?’
‘Just … a bloke.’
‘A bloke,’ Watt says. ‘A bloke who works on the night shift?’ A frown of scepticism enters his voice. ‘How does he know?’
‘Um. I’m not sure.’
Watt, it seems, was hoping for something more than this – something more impressively sourced – and Paul says, ‘To be honest … I want to be honest, yeah.’
‘Yes?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know it’s true. What I said.’
Watt sighs. ‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry …’
Watt wrinkles his nose and takes a moody gulp of Guinness.
‘So you have no information? Nothing?’
‘Only what I was told …’
‘I mean proper information!’ His voice is suddenly peevish. ‘Not what your mate might have told you on the night shift.’ Points of irritated sweat shine on his hair-poor pate. ‘I mean, how does he know?’
Paul does not speak for a few moments. ‘Why don’t you have a look at the paperwork?’ he suggests. ‘There must be paperwork …’
‘I have looked at it.’
‘And?’
‘No. There’s nothing. I mean, there are …’
He stops, perhaps feeling unable to speak freely to someone who is a supermarket employee, and of the lowliest kind.
‘There are?’ Paul prompts him.
‘There are things which …’
‘Which?’
‘Which don’t quite add up,’ Watt snaps. With a dozen fierce stabs he stubs out his cigarette. Unsuccessfully – it persists in smoking feebly in the ashtray for a whole minute of sulky silence. Though Watt’s irritation has made him feel unimpressive, Paul is nevertheless pleased that the situation too seems to be smouldering out. His worry, of course, is that Watt will mention it to Martin, and he says, ‘Are you planning to mention –’ Watt interrupts him. ‘On their own they’re not enough.’
‘What aren’t?’
‘The things that don’t quite add up.’
‘Not enough for what?’
‘Not enough to take to the south-east manager.’
‘No.’
And then Watt says, ‘We need evidence.’
We need evidence. The implication – that he and Paul are somehow involved in something together. Paul has a slurp of Bloody Mary, wipes his mouth and says, ‘What do you mean?’ For the first time, Watt turns to look at him with his small eyes. ‘If I’m to go to the regional manager,’ he says, ‘I need some real evidence.’
‘Sure.’
‘Otherwise it’s just hearsay. It’s just gossip.’
‘Yes,’ Paul says. And then, ‘Maybe there is no evidence.’
Watt is having a second stab at putting out his cigarette. ‘What do you mean “no evidence”? There must be.’
‘I mean maybe it’s not true, what I was told.’
‘I think it is true.’
Surprised, Paul says, ‘You think it’s true?’
> ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Watt huffs and waves his hand. ‘Well … Those questionable items, those invoices … You know. It’s not like I didn’t suspect something.’
Paul tips his glass to his mouth, but there is no Bloody Mary left and only the ice cubes slide down and strike his teeth. Seeing this, Watt immediately says, ‘Another?’
‘Um …’
He is already up, and shoving his way to the bar.
To start his day with a Bloody Mary in the Stadium with Roy Watt is making Paul feel weird. In the din of the pub he feels like he is underwater; everything muffled, the sounds shapeless sub marine noise.
Setting the second Bloody Mary down on the table, Watt says, ‘So. We need some proper evidence.’
Paul does not particularly want to be involved in whatever scheme Watt is envisaging – and from his unsophisticated salesman’s smile, it is obvious that he is envisaging some sort of scheme. ‘Like what?’ Paul says, without enthusiasm.
‘Well – what would be the best sort of evidence to have?’
Paul pouts, tastes the Bloody Mary – a double this time. ‘Dunno,’ he says.
‘Well, the best evidence would be this, wouldn’t it.’ Watt is still smiling, his straight lip drawn up from his yellow, horse’s teeth – and what he says is so surprising that Paul wonders whether it is a joke. He inspects Watt’s eyes for a moment. Watt laughs – he has a solid, percussive, forced-sounding laugh. ‘That would be evidence,’ he says. ‘If I could go to the regional manager with that …’
‘I don’t understand,’ Paul says. ‘How would we –’
‘Look.’ Watt has turned on the padded bench so that he is facing him. ‘We get someone to pretend to be an unlisted fresh-produce supplier …’
Paul shakes his head. ‘Who?’
‘Whoever. It doesn’t matter. We get them to fix up a meeting with Short, offering to sell him something, some produce. We fix them up with a hidden camera, and get the whole thing on tape.’
That’s insane, Paul thinks. However, he says, ‘What if Martin doesn’t go for it?’
‘Let’s see, shall we?’
For a few moments, Paul says nothing. Then, trying to sound as if he is enquiring only out of politeness, he says, ‘Who are you going to get to be …’
‘The supplier?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You have to do that,’ Watt says. He starts to light another Silk Cut. ‘You have to find someone.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
Paul shakes his head. ‘No, you see … I don’t know if I want to …’
‘You don’t want to what?’
‘I don’t know if I want to get involved in something like this …’
‘Then why did you send me the letter?’
Paul shrugs. Watt offers him a Silk Cut, and after a moment’s pause he takes it. ‘I’ve been wondering about that,’ Watt says, as Paul lights it. ‘What have you got against Martin?’
Paul pretends to be immersed in lighting the cigarette. Then he says, ‘What have you got against him?’
‘I think that’s well known, isn’t it? Even on the night shift.’
‘Is it?’
‘Do your wife, did he?’ Watt says, with a smutty laugh. ‘Something like that?’ He is joking – isn’t he? – and Paul tries to smile. ‘Nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
Paul takes an unhappy swig of Bloody Mary.
‘The fact is,’ Watt says, ‘if you don’t help me get some evidence, I’ll just have to put the whole thing to Jock, and that means telling him who told me. Martin too, of course. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you about it. You can’t just go around making accusations like that. Not if you can’t back them up …’
‘I don’t understand,’ Paul says. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to find someone to pretend to be a fresh-produce supplier.’
‘Who?’
‘Whoever! Doesn’t matter. Look,’ Watt says, his tone softening, ‘it’s important I don’t know the person. That’s all. In case something goes wrong. My name can’t get mixed up in this. You must be able to understand that …’
‘What about my name?’
‘It’s the hardly the same. You just need to find someone.’
‘Yeah, find someone, find someone. And how am I going to persuade them to do something like this?’
For a moment, Watt looks shocked. Paul’s tone was insolent, mutinous – he seemed to have forgotten that he is a night-shift warehouseman speaking to a senior member of the store management. It is, however, a highly unusual situation, and Watt lets it pass. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, swallowing a mouthful of Guinness. ‘I’ll pay them …’ He pauses, looking very earnest. ‘Two hundred quid. If you can find someone,’ he says, ‘I’ll pay them two hundred quid. All right?’
‘You’ll pay them two hundred quid?’
‘I will. So … That should make it easier to find someone, shouldn’t it?’
Paul sighs. ‘I don’t know about suppliers … I don’t know how these things work …’
‘You don’t need to. I’ll explain everything. You find someone, and I’ll explain exactly what they have to do. All right?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘What don’t you know?’
‘If I can find someone.’
‘Well, you just try,’ Watt says, more menacingly. ‘See how you get on. I’m sure you’ll be able to – two hundred quid for a few hours’ work’s not bad. And I’ll sort out the equipment as well.’
‘What equipment?’
‘The hidden camera and all that. I’ll sort that out. You can leave that to me …’
He notices that Paul is staring at something on the other side of the room, and following his eyes, sees a young woman sitting with some other people.
Paul says, ‘Doesn’t she …?’
Work in the supermarket. A junior manager. Paul does not know her name – he sees her sometimes on the margins of his shift. She is in her late twenties, and her face, throat, arms and hands are entirely covered with fawn freckles – slightly strange-looking but not ugly, and Paul often wonders, with a tingle of excitement, whether they extend over the whole surface of her skin. ‘Who is she?’ he asks, in a quieter voice. Watt has turned on the bench so that he is almost facing the beige wall. ‘She’s … Her name’s Hazel,’ he says.
‘Do you think she’s seen us?’
‘How should I know? Look, I’ve got to leave.’
‘All right …’
‘Is she looking at us?’
‘No. If you’re leaving, I’ll come with you –’
‘No! We’ve got to leave separately.’
‘Why?’
‘What if we’re seen? Wait here for a few minutes. Just five minutes. Please. We mustn’t be seen together.’ He stands up – keeping his back to the part of the room where Hazel is sitting – and says, ‘I’ll call you next week.’ And then, pointedly, ‘I expect you’ll have found someone by then.’ Paul drains the last of the Bloody Mary – watery with melted ice – and stares obtusely at the tabletop.
When he looks up, Watt is no longer there.
Walking home through Amhurst Crescent, he thinks, What the fuck have I got myself mixed up in? He sighs, entering the smelly foot tunnel under the train tracks. And he is mixed up in it. Mixed up in something with someone who does not seem entirely sane. He emerges from the tunnel. Payne Avenue – not in fact an avenue, merely a quiet street – is empty and silent, except for some muffled music from the Kendal Arms. It seems extraordinary that Watt is prepared to shell out two hundred quid – more, with the equipment – on something so speculative, so shadowy, so impetuous, so wild. Of course, his whole professional life is on the line. Perhaps, Paul thinks, it is not surprising that he should be in such a state, that he should be so willing to use methods outside his normal pen-pushing modus operandi – twenty-five years of patient work and supermar
ket politics, store manager the prize, and just when it seems his, Martin Short sweeps past, and he is left with a modest pension, and years of senescence in which to savour the poisons of his failure.
On Saturday night Paul is still wondering who to sound out for the part of the produce supplier. His first thought was of the snooker hall. There would, however, be a possibility of Heather finding out somehow – and none of those lot would be able to persuade Martin that they were bona fide fruit wholesalers. What’s more, he might have seen them in town. A stranger then? Someone from a transients’ pub in Brighton? Paul imagines sidling up to a travelling salesman in the saloon of a two-star hotel and saying, ‘Hello, mate. I’m looking for someone to …’
And then his mind fastens onto the word ‘salesman’. A salesman. He knows a few of them. They would surely be well qualified for this sort of thing. They are all from out of town – from London and other parts of the south-east. And the subject of the impersonation is himself a sort of salesman. It is obviously the solution, and Paul immediately starts to think of the salesmen he knows, and wonder which of them to speak to. The first two he thinks of are Murray and the Pig, and there is no question, of course, of using them. Nor the likes of Wolé and Marlon. So who else? He looks through the numbers in his phone and finds others there. Some of them he has not seen or spoken to for years – their numbers probably obsolete – such as Mundjip from the Northwood days, and Nick and Paddy from Archway. Pax Murdoch is in prison in Thailand … In fact, for multifarious reasons, the options are more limited than he had hoped. In the end there is only one who properly fits what he is looking for, and that is Neil Mellor, one of his fellow managers at Park Lane Publications. Fortyish, worldly, quite well spoken, Neil would make a plausible fruit wholesaler. And he might like the look of a quick two hundred quid, too – PLP has surely folded, and who knows where he has washed up. Moreover, he did not know Eddy or Murray, and is unlikely to have stayed in touch with the Pig.
Paul phones him on Monday morning.
The first surprise – it seems utterly extraordinary – is that Park Lane Publications has not folded. It is still struggling on. Neil is on the sales floor there when he and Paul speak. He sounds slightly prickly – and this prickliness, obviously linked to what happened in December, is the second surprise. ‘Well, well, well,’ Neil says. ‘Rainey, you fucker.’
