"You mean someone has been using it for the past eleven days without your knowledge?"
"Not eleven days, no. It can't have been eleven days." He was so anxious to refute the notion that for several seconds he couldn't think how. "No, they only used it for a day or two. They must have been afraid we would have notified the company by then."
"Presumably the company will take the debt upon itself."
"I'm afraid—I'm afraid this one doesn't, apparently."
The manager pursed his lips and shook his head while keeping his gaze fixed on Jack. "Thieves wouldn't be so fond of other people's property if they had their hands chopped off."
"They might still be fond of it, don't you think? They mightn't be fond of the chopping, I grant you," Jack said as Mr. Hardy's face grew blanker. "I won't be long, dear, I'm just off to do the weekend chopping. I expect when the people who do that job get together they talk chop."
"We're all entitled to our views of how the world could be improved, Mr. Orchard," the manager said frostily. "Go on."
"I'd try and make sure that everyone at least had—oh, you mean my other problem. Well, you see, I've just learned that my partner cancelled the insurance on Fine Films."
"I don't see, no."
"He used to look after the insurance, you see. He'd just renewed the cover when I bought him out, but then he lifted it and didn't let me know. At least, he did, but I didn't get the message."
"Am I to infer that the business was uninsured at the time of the fire?"
"Well," Jack said, "yes."
"And you are proposing?"
"Am I?" When a look which pleaded for him to be put out of his misery prompted no reply, Jack said "I mean, I thought you would."
Mr. Hardy paused for so long that Jack found himself counting his own breaths, which seemed to be growing louder. Eight breaths, nine, and he tried to slow them down; for one thing, that might calm him. Ten, eleven, and he held the twelfth until it felt in danger of exploding. It would sound like a snort of impatience. He pinched his nose with one hand to keep the snort in, not immediately realising that the gesture itself might look like a comment. The manager gazed at him. The best I can offer is a short-term loan to enable you to pay your card debt. At least our rate will be lower than theirs."
Jack gasped and sucked in the thirteenth breath. "I wouldn't have expected anything else, any more, I mean."
"However, I'm afraid—"
At once all Jack could hear was his own voice declaring "I'M AFRAID, I'M SO AFRAID." "I'm sorry, what did you say?" he pleaded aloud.
The manager looked ready to indulge himself in another epic pause. "I said that under the circumstances I have no option but to cancel the overdraft we discussed on Monday. In addition I may have to reconsider the amount of any mortgage advance unless you find steady employment."
"But... I mean, you don't mean... I'm sorry if I've seemed at all facetious. I was just nervous. You understand that, don't you?"
"Understanding is part of my job, Mr. Orchard, and there's no need to shout. Contrary to rumour, I'm not deaf."
"I never said that. At least, I did, but not about you. When I said my bank manager..." Jack clenched his fists as if that might help him grasp his thoughts. "You wouldn't let that influence your decision, would you?"
"I assure you that personal feelings have no bearing on the way I conduct business."
"I didn't mean it in any bad way, but can I ask you to have another think? The auction starts at twelve. Those tapes will save my life. I'll never find anything more reasonable."
"I certainly trust you will."
Jack tried to hear encouragement in that, but there was none in Mr. Hardy's tone. "You aren't going to help me?"
"Whenever I can, within reason. You're aware that we offer a range of financial advice."
"What good's that to someone with no money?"
"You're raising your voice, Mr. Orchard."
"I know, and this is how it sounds when it gets louder," Jack informed him while defensively lowering it instead. Mr. Hardy gave him another blank look and stood up. "I hope your family stay well," he said as he opened the door.
His words inflamed Jack with rage. If Mr. Hardy cared about the Orchards, why was he destroying their chance to rebuild the business? Jack stalked out of the bank and strode towards the auction rooms. By the time Mr. Hardy found out what he was about to do, Jack would have what they needed. Just let the bank try to bounce his cheque when the manager discovered he'd bid for the videotapes.
Jack jogged uphill, knocking on the boards which had crossed out Fine Films, and arrived panting at the auction rooms. He leaned one hand against the frame of the entrance while he caught his breath and then the breath lodged in his throat like smoke. Down the hill, at the traffic lights, Mr. Hardy was shading his eyes and watching him.
For a moment Jack considered dodging into the auction and making his bid, but if the manager saw him go in or even suspected that he meant to do so it was obvious that he would come up the hill. Jack walked almost blindly across the road and into the nearest side street. Could he lurk there until Mr. Hardy went away? He was standing in the shadow of the signboard outside the first rest home when the door of the house was yanked open and a voice proclaimed "There he is, the shoe thief. Promised to replace my shoe and never did."
TEN
Telling Julia was relatively easy. As soon as she saw his face she said "Never mind, Jack, we'll work it out somehow." At least he didn't need to explain about his shoe. Once he'd reached home he had changed into his other pair and set off to retrieve the missile. He had been planning to tell whoever came to the door of the rest home that he'd been playing football so vigorously that the shoe had flown off, but he'd found it perched on the gate post like a glove someone had found on the pavement. He'd tucked it under his arm and sprinted home, feeling so absurdly guilty that he'd kept muttering "It's my shoe." By the time Julia arrived he'd felt capable of facing her, but they hadn't had a chance to discuss any plans when Laura came home.
She looked exhausted and dishevelled, strands of her pony-tail escaping from her hair band and pleased with herself. She dumped her bulging shoulder-bag next to the television and dropped herself in the nearest armchair, which emitted a faint imitation of her sigh. "You're home early," Julia said.
"We beat the other school at net ball even though their teacher kept giving them penalties. They were wimps."
"Well done." Jack sneaked a glance at Julia to determine what she felt he should say, and when she didn't put a finger to her lips he said "Try and stay happy, Laura. We've got to talk."
Was he being too quick? He could have asked about the rest of her day at school, except that he was sure she would have sensed he was procrastinating. "She's worn out, Jack," Julia said.
"Aren't we all, except for you."
"Is this a good time, do you think?"
"Not one of our best, but at least I don't see how "
"Someone talk to me," Laura interrupted. "It's horrible not knowing what's wrong when nobody will tell you."
"I know, love," Julia said, so sympathetically that Jack felt accused of keeping secrets from her, though what secret did he have that was worth keeping? "Let me try and explain," she said.
"Let me. It's my mess." He sat in the middle of the old sofa and felt it sag like the halves of a trapdoor capable of dropping him into the unknown. "Whoops," he said, and then "Laura, how would you feel if we had to move to somewhere not quite as impressive as we were imagining?"
"I wouldn't have to change schools, would I?"
"Don't even think it, and that's a promise."
She greeted that with half a smile in case he'd intended it to sound witty rather than simply tripping over his words. "Have you and Mummy found a house you like?"
"Not yet," Jack said, feeling as if the wistfulness underlying her query was the trap that was lying in wait for him. "It may be a question of the three of us agreeing on one we can afford."
"I was saving up for Crete."
"We're not asking you to subsidise us, Laura, good Lord," Jack said, wishing someone else would laugh so that he could try to. "But it looks as if the bank manager won't either, not as generously as we were expecting. That's my doing, I'm afraid."
"I thought banks were supposed to lend you money."
"If they trust you. I'm afraid I'm afraid that all Mr. Hardy trusts me to make financially is a fool of myself."
"Can't we go to another bank?"
"I somehow don't think another bank would welcome us. Maybe we'll come up with an answer, the three of us."
"I'm going to listen to Jody's tape," Laura said, and was out of the room before he could think of anything further to say. Julia gave him a sad frown as she made for the kitchen, and he felt as if the hardest part was still ahead.
Almost as soon as they sat down to dinner Laura said, "Won't we be going on holiday either?"
"I don't think we can, love."
"Never mind, Laura," Julia said, taking her hand, and Laura managed to shrug as if she had been preparing herself upstairs for the answer.
In the morning she wasn't quite able to conceal that her eyes were red, and Jack couldn't bear it. He'd let the family down, Laura worst of all, and she wasn't even blaming him. He would expect Mr. Hardy to make allowances for him, but he had no right to expect it of her. Once he was alone in the house, Laura having cycled to the library not long after Julia had gone to work, he felt as if he was being given one more chance as if he must improve their luck somehow before they came back.
Perhaps he could. Suppose only he had shown interest in the videotapes at the auction? If they hadn't been sold, mightn't the auctioneers accept an offer even Mr. Hardy would have to admit was reasonable? Jack was tempted to wait until eleven o'clock, but of course that was silly. He stuffed a piece of buttered toast into his mouth and sprinted out of the house.
By the time he'd finished munching he was at the traffic lights. A faint taste of charring lingered in his mouth while he jogged uphill, and a sooty smell troubled his nostrils as he reached the burned-out shop. At the top of the hill he strode into the huge cluttered room. The auctioneer's assistant who had shown him the cartons of videocassettes was tagging a dining-suite which would scarcely have fitted into the ground floor of the Orchards' house. "Remember me?" Jack said. "Fine Films."
"I remember," the assistant said, marking his forehead with ink as he flicked a lock of hair away from his eyes. "We were looking for you yesterday. Matter of fact, we phoned you, but there must have been nobody home."
"Here I am."
"Too late, I'm afraid. Pity."
"I'm afraid, I'm so afraid..." Jack struggled not to outshout himself. "Why were you after me?" he said aloud.
"Wanted to give you a chance at the lot you came to view."
"Can't you still?"
"Wish we could. Gone."
Jack felt as if they were competing to discover who could do without the most words. "Where?"
"Some young geezer. Private collector. Only wanted the horrors but didn't mind buying the whole lot to get them. Said he'd tape over the rest."
Something like fever was crawling hotly over Jack's skin. "He paid all that just to use the tapes for blanks?"
"Didn't pay that much. We let him have them 'cos he put in the only bid. He paid less than a fifth of what I told you we expected."
Jack clutched at the nearest support, a set of antique fire-irons which clanged like a broken bell. "Are they still in the building, by any chance?"
"Took them as soon as he'd counted out his wad."
The assistant was turning away, looking embarrassed by Jack, who restrained himself from grabbing his arm. "Do you have his address?"
"We never give out addresses. Would you mind putting that poker back? We charge for any damage."
Jack hadn't been aware of holding the poker. He hung it carefully on the hooked stand and went after the inky man, who was several padded chairs distant by now. "If I give you my address," he pleaded, "could you pass it on to him?"
"Afraid we can't. A sale is a sale. Better luck next time," the assistant said, probably sincerely. "Maybe you should look for libraries that aren't doing so well and make them an offer."
He wasn't poking fun at Jack. He wasn't trying to imply that there could be libraries in a worse state than Fine Films. Jack opened his mouth and his clenched hands, but none of those seemed to be any use. His brain felt clogged with a substance that was spreading through his blood and weighing down his limbs as he trudged out of the auction rooms, feeling as though he was walking automatically and yet having to employ all his concentration to move his legs. The smell of Fine Films caught in his throat, and he swallowed and swallowed as the slope rose behind him. Then a bus came straight at him it seemed as if a house was falling on him. The brakes screeched, the bus swerved, and for a moment Jack was certain it was toppling over. "Where do you think you're going, you clown?" the driver yelled as the passengers gaped.
Jack was in the middle of the crossroads with no memory of having got there. "We don't know," he said.
He stumbled to the pavement and held onto the pole of a traffic light and watched the lights count up and down. He felt as though he couldn't move until he solved the problem they were posing. How much were the colours worth? They seemed to be brightening spasmodically, like three kinds of fire. At last he shoved himself away from the pole, and for a moment no, longer he couldn't remember which way led home. As soon as he managed to remember he reeled in that direction, afraid of forgetting again before he reached the house.
He sat in the front room, one hand over his eyes, waiting for the family. Eventually Laura arrived, then Julia, but he'd forgotten why he was waiting. Whatever was clogging his brain seemed to have spread into the air, isolating him from them. He found himself counting the number of times each of them spoke.
At least now he knew what was lodged in his brain: numbers. Later, when Julia was asleep, he lay beside her and counted the values of letters in words, desperately hoping that if doing so didn't suggest a solution it would at least put him to sleep. Whenever he ran out of words the amounts of his debts started chasing one another inside his skull, or he heard his voice in there, growing louder and more urgent: "I'M AFRAID, I'M SO AFRAID..." He began to work out the values of phrases, which at least used up more time than single words did. "Traffic accident' didn't add up to eleven, nor did 'suicide'; he wasn't insured for nearly enough for that to be a help. He dozed and jerked awake at once, as though the clamour of numbers had roused him. He ransacked his mind for another phrase to count, and found one: Turn ill luck into good."
He totted up the values of the letters, and his eyes widened at the dark. He did a recount to be certain, and as he did so he heard a distant clock strike twelve. It was Friday—Good Friday, the thirteenth. A light seemed to flame into his eyes. "We're saved," he whispered.
ELEVEN
TURN ILL LUCK INTO GOOD
DO NOT DESTROY THIS LETTER
DO NOT BREAK THE CHAIN
This letter is part of a chain of good fortune.
Mrs. Marsha Indick of Iowa sent thirteen copies to her friends and was cured of a twenty-year-old cancer.
Mr. D. Vincume of London, England found a picture in his mother's attic which fetched 100,000 at auction.
Mr. A. Plumb of Scunthorpe, Lincolnshire won the first dividend of the football pools 24 hours after mailing thirteen copies of this letter.
Mrs. Maria Carbone of New York threw her letter in the trash and was knifed to death in the street less than a week later.
Mrs. Amy Dallas of Nevada left her letter in her purse, and her husband was diagnosed as having a brain tumour. However, when she mailed thirteen copies of this letter the doctors were able to successfully operate on Mr. Dallas.
You need send no money. Just make thirteen exact copies of this letter and mail them to thirteen different people, then wait for your luck to improve. Don't deny the w
orld good fortune. The more there is, the better it will be for all.
This letter can change your life. What are you waiting for?
It explained so much. It explained why the Orchards' luck had been growing worse ever since April Fool's Day, when Jack had first dismissed the letter. No wonder he seemed to recall having felt blameworthy ever since. Everything had been his fault, whatever the family said. The idea was surprisingly comforting: at least he knew why he felt responsible, and more important he knew what to do.
As he sat on the edge of the bed, rereading the letter, the sunlight on his face and chest made him feel he was reading by the light of an enormous benevolent fire. When he heard Julia coming upstairs he folded the page quickly but carefully and slipped it into a pocket of his trousers which were sprawling broken-legged on the bedside chair. "Aren't you dressed yet?" Julia said. "We thought we could all go for a walk by the river."
"You go. I need to write some letters while there's room to work on the computer."
"Applying for jobs?"
He didn't want to lie to her. "It's time I took control of my life."
"We'll muddle through somehow. We always have."
Soon he heard the front door closing. He went downstairs at once and lifting the computer onto the table, typed an exact copy of the letter and set the printer chattering. Once the first of thirteen copies had risen from the printer, Jack hefted the Merseyside telephone directory and found the names and addresses of the lucky recipients of the letter.
He started at the first page of the listings and having counted ten pages for J, addressed an envelope to the last name on the page. One page further for A, then three for C, and eleven for K... He broke off in the middle of his surname, thinking he'd heard Julia's key in the lock, but it was next door. The distraction made him careless, so that he wrote his address on the back of the envelope. He would have torn it up except that he had just thirteen envelopes. He crossed out the address until he couldn't read it, and counted onwards.
The Count of Eleven Page 8
