Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  The comment seemed to make Tom wither in his seat. 'I know. I've just had the company lawyers on to me about authorizing a cheque to this firm in the States. We paid them up front to print us two building wraps.'

  'And?'

  'They're worried that's the last we'll see of the money.'

  Chapter 7

  June 2002

  'So you're saying we can't do a single thing?' Tom pinched the bridge of his nose with a forefinger and thumb, eyes shut.

  The company lawyer on the other end of the phone replied, 'From a practical point of view, I'm afraid so. It will cost us far more in legal fees and associated costs. As I said—'

  'OK,OK, 'Tom interrupted. 'No need to go over it all again. If you could put it in writing though, thanks.'

  'You'll have something by tomorrow.'

  Tom replaced the receiver, shaking his head. The news had probably screwed up a chunk of his bonus. Choosing to ignore the piles of paper on the desk in front of him, he got up, walked out of his boss's old office and climbed the circular stairs.

  'You won't believe this,' he announced to the room in general, then looked towards Ges. Heads appeared round the other monitors, all eyes on him.

  'That company over in San Francisco? We're writing the money off.'

  Ges let out a low whistle. 'How come?'

  'Any legal action would have to take place in the States, paid for by us. The costs are just too prohibitive.'

  'But surely it's fraud. Can't the American authorities do anything about it?' asked Ed.

  Suddenly Julie jumped to her feet and everyone looked in her direction. London accent made stronger by the outrage in her voice, she began speaking. 'Same thing happened to a mate of my dad's! He ran a cosmetics company, joined forces with a similar outfit on the West Coast of America to market his product over there. They asked if he could set up a joint bank account to make everything easier. He kept on paying more and more money in to cover what they said were production costs. All the while they were draining every penny, telling him profits would start clocking up soon. But this is the critical bit. If the rip-off is under a certain amount – a million dollars or something – it's not a federal offence. You have to pay to prosecute the case yourself, and do it in their courts over there. There was no way he could afford it. He had to walk away.'

  The room was silent for a few seconds before Ges spoke. 'Well thank God it looks like that printer in Dublin can pick up the pieces.'

  'We hope,' said Tom, sitting down at his desk. Looking around he realized that he'd left the file he needed downstairs – it was becoming ever more unrealistic trying to avoid moving in to his old boss's office. But in his mind he still didn't regard himself as the new managing director, even with the keys to the Porsche Boxter in his jacket.

  'I need to head back downstairs to chase up Manchester Airport for some bridge banners. Anyone fancy hitting the pub at lunch?'

  Julie, Ges and Ed agreed. Gemma made noises about needing to pop out and see a florist about the wedding. Creepy George kept silent behind his screen of monitors.

  Downstairs Tom opened up the cabinet Manchester Airport's file should have been in.

  Like so many of the others, it had been mixed up. Cursing that nothing was going right, Tom started rifling through the stacks of documents on the desk. Rather than find the missing paperwork, he discovered a load of invoices that needed sorting out. With a sigh of frustration, he scooped the lot up and placed them in his briefcase for looking at once he got home.

  Tom called up to Ges's phone. 'You lot ready?'

  'Yeah,' he replied. 'We're coming straight down.'

  As they headed for the stairs, Creepy George stood up. 'Erm, Julie. Could I keep you for a minute?'

  Ges looked at his slightly blushing face and wondered what he was up to.

  'I'll catch you guys up,' said Julie.

  George unlocked the cabinet behind his desk and got out a roll of pale blue material. 'Could I just take your photo for the Manchester staff page of the company website?' The snap he'd got of her a few weeks ago wasn't good enough, the match with the woman's torso making her look like some sort of female Frankenstein's monster.

  'Can't you transfer my photo from the London page?'

  'I'm having trouble accessing it. Dreamweaver is playing up.' He reckoned a reference to something technical would seal his case. 'It will be easier to just take another.'

  'Oh, OK,' she answered, automatically adjusting her hair.

  George pinned the material up on the wall in the corner and wheeled a chair in front of it. Then he took a digital camera and tripod out of the cabinet. 'If you take a seat, I'll be two seconds.'

  She perched stiffly on the chair, hands in her lap, knees pressed tightly together. George examined a light meter in his hand and then looked at her through the viewfinder, zooming in on her face. 'OK, the flash will go off, so just keep your eyes shut for the test shot.'

  Julie raised her chin a fraction and closed her eyes. There was a light click as the photo was taken.

  'That's great,' said George. 'Now one with your eyes open and a nice smile.'

  She did as he asked and he took another photo. 'Perfect,' he said, straightening up. 'I won't keep you any longer.'

  'Cheers,' said Julie, hurrying from the room.

  George watched her nervous exit with some concern: he wanted her to feel relaxed in his company. As soon as she set off down the stairs, he hurried round to the Apple Mac on his desk. He plugged in the digital camera and transferred the two shots to the desktop. He'd put the one with her eyes open on the company website later. Now he clicked on the other image. Her eyes were closed. She looked defenceless, helpless. As he stared at her face, he thought about the two of them alone, lying next to each other. He imagined whispering how beautiful she was, caressing her cheek, sweeping stray strands away from her face. Then, with a thumb, lifting her eyelid to check she was completely unconscious.

  The door to The Church creaked open and they pushed their way into the dimly lit interior. The pool table was free, so Ges flicked Ed a quid coin. 'Rack them up and I'll get the drinks in.' 'Don't worry, Ges, I'll take care of it,' said Tom, holding up his company credit card.

  'You sure?' asked Ges uncertainly. 'We're not exactly clients.'

  Tom shrugged. 'So? What are you having?'

  'I like your management style. Pint of lager, cheers.'

  'Ed?' Tom called over to the younger man as the balls were released into the end of the table with a sound like distant thunder.

  'Same as Ges, thanks.'

  Tom turned to the barman. 'And a large glass of white wine for me.' He was just placing the drinks on the table when Julie walked in. He waved at her. 'Julie? It's on the company.'

  She grinned. 'Vodka and Coke, thanks.'

  'What did Creepy George want?' Ges asked her.

  Involuntarily, she shivered, causing Tom and Ges to laugh. 'My photo for the Manchester staff page of the company web site.'

  'Oh yeah?' said Tom. 'I bet he's in the toilets with it right now.'

  'Oh don't!'she cried. 'I can just imagine him and all ... not that I want to.' She picked up her drink and went over to the pool table.

  'So what can we do about that twat Ian?' asked Ges, elbows on the bar and head slightly bowed so he didn't bang it on the glasses hanging down from the rack above.

  Tom's face soured. 'I suppose we have to hope he hasn't actually removed stuff. If he's just fucked the filing system up we should be able to sort it out again, given time. I imagine that's what he's done; that way we can't prove it was him. If stuff has actually gone missing, I imagine we could look at taking legal action. Jim Morrel, the IT guy down in the London office, is trawling the computer system checking through all the files there. I should think he'll find deleted or sabotaged electronic files quicker than we'll find paper ones up here.'

  'Jesus.' Ges picked up his pint and took a sip. 'It's just one thing after another.'

  'Tell me about it,' s
aid Tom. 'Anyway – let's not talk office; it's doing my head in. I'm taking a leak. You lot can decide on who plays with who.' He pushed through the double set of doors leading into the toilets and walked across to the stainless steel urinal running the length of the far wall. Undoing his fly, he looked down. Nestled among the yellow squares of soap, he saw lump after lump of spat-out chewing gum. The urinal's flush started up and a fine spray of water began hissing down, droplets gathering in the dimpled and creased surfaces of the discarded gum. Staring at their rubbery surfaces, he was reminded of the little droplets of water in the folds and crevices of the regulator in the swimming pool on the Seychelles. Once again, he could taste the rubber and feel the sensation as it entered his mouth, pushing up under his lips.

  Suddenly his stomach churned and he let out a little retch. He turned round, walked across the narrow room to a cubicle and emptied his bladder into a toilet.

  Chapter 8

  June 2002

  'This is asking for trouble,' said Dan uneasily as he turned into

  Moorfield Road.

  'Chill,' answered Sly. 'We're just looking.'

  Outside Tom Benwell's house, Sly clicked his tongue in appreciation. 'Our man is moving up in the world. Porsche Boxter. I'll settle for that.'

  The car pulled over and Sly got out and made his way quietly up to Tom's front door. Once again the letterbox was pushed open and the torch probed the interior of the hall, moving slowly over the small table, searching for the keys. Unable to see them, Sly hoped the bastard hadn't started taking more care where he left them. Before standing back up he whispered through the letterbox, 'You'll leave them out one of these nights.'

  At the roundabout off junction six, Dan looked at Sly. 'Which way, Altrincham or Wilmslow?'

  'Let's do Wilmslow,' announced Sly and the car took the first exit. The road was single lane until it reached the tunnel going under the end of Manchester airport's runway. Dual lanes opened up and Dan increased speed, following a Hackney cab ferrying a passenger from a late-night arrival. As they entered the tunnel they were plunged into a world of orange provided by the continuous bank of bulbs running along both edges of the ceiling. Sly watched the multiple reflections racing along the sides of the taxi like a display on a fruit machine. Then they were out the other side, following the winding road in darkness until the street lights at the edge of Wilmslow began.

  The streets had a village-like feel to them – pretty terraces of houses, erratic and jumbled, roads leading to little triangles of grass or narrow junctions. Clogging the pavements and driveways all around were the latest models of expensive cars.

  Soon they reached a house at the end of a slender street. Beneath a cherry tree in the front garden gleamed a Mercedes. The gates at the end of the short drive were open.

  'Try this one?' asked Dan, parking up.

  'OK. 'Sly jumped out and pushed the door quietly shut. A quick look through the letterbox revealed a table with a set of keys almost within touching distance. He hooked them out in a couple of seconds, then waved Dan off. But when he pressed the key fob, the lights that flashed belonged to a Renault on the road in front of the house.

  'Bollocks,' said Sly, eyes on the silver Mercedes. He examined the other keys, saw the one for the front door and let himself in. Fresh flowers in the hallway, a red umbrella standing in a pot by the front door. He shone the torch at the coat rack – no man's jacket in sight. A good search of the lady's coat hanging there revealed no keys so, taking his Stanley knife out, he climbed the stairs. First bedroom had breathing, the other two were silent. He stepped into the occupied room and turned the torch on to her face. She blinked a couple of times, then raised herself up on one elbow, letting out a low moan of fear.

  He stood over her, relishing the sense of power, wondering whether to yank the duvet off. 'The keys to the Mercedes. Now.'

  She started shaking violently, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. No reply.

  He took the Stanley knife out of his pocket and held it in front of her face. The triangular blade eased out of the stubby handle with a series of clicks.

  Still no reply.

  Sly leaned forward and realized her eyes were tightly shut. She was trying to pretend it was all a bad dream. He slapped her hard across the face, sent her banging against the headboard. 'The Mercedes, bitch.'

  She heard that and pointed to the bedside cabinet.

  He crouched down, opened the door and pulled out her handbag. Purse with a wodge of tenners. Mobile phone. Mercedes keys. He pocketed the lot and looked at her again. If she wasn't such an ugly munter he would have considered it. Instead he picked up the phone on the bedside cabinet and cut the wire with his knife. 'Stay in your bed for the next half hour. My mates are parked outside to make sure you do.'

  He walked out of the room, trying not to laugh.

  Chapter 9

  June 2002

  As Tom walked towards his front door, he held a hand up to shoulder height and pressed the key fob. Behind him the Porsche replied with three pips, the hazard lights flashing with each one.

  As he pushed open the front door, it caught on something just inside the hallway and he had to step through a narrow gap to get in. Looking down, he saw piles of Habitat bags strewn across the floor, a couple of Diesel ones hung over the banisters. A musty smell of cigarettes hung in the air and then he noticed a trail of dusty footprints running up the stairs. 'Charlotte!'he called out.

  'In here!' she answered from the front room.

  Wearily, he pushed the door shut with one heel and dropped his briefcase next to the shopping bags. In the front room he found her standing in a little vest top and shorts, ironing the collar of a white shirt.

  'What's all that mess in the hallway?'

  'If you're talking about the Habitat bags, it's stuff for the bathroom.'

  'And all those footprints?'

  She draped the shirt on the end of the ironing board and grabbed his hand. 'Come on, I'll show you.'

  Following the trail of plaster dust, they went up the stairs and along to the door leading into the bathroom. 'Where's the fucking bath?' he asked, surveying a room stripped of all its appliances, workmen's tools littering the floor. The smell of cigarettes was much stronger.

  His wife sat down on a stack of floor tiles, lifting up a Fired Earth brochure. 'I told you – we're having this room redone. Ensuite? Knocking through in to our bedroom?'

  Tom leaned against the door frame. 'I don't remember you mentioning it.' Charlotte shook her head and turned back to the brochure. 'It's been on the calendar ever since we got back from the Seychelles. You just never listen to me.'

  Deciding whether to escalate things into another argument, Tom said, 'What are those tiles you're sitting on?'

  Charlotte ran a hand over them, as if she could feel their quality through the layers of plastic wrapping. 'Italian marble. They're absolutely gorgeous.' She stood up. 'We're having an oyster shell bath here.' She made a lavish circular motion with both hands in the far corner. Swivelling on her heel she pointed to the wall where their sink used to be. A shorn-off pipe jutting through the floorboards was all that remained. 'New sink here. 'She pointed to Tom's side. 'Walk-in shower there; you know, those ones with the jets that nearly knock you over. And,' she flicked her hand to the other corner, 'toilet and bidet there.'

  'Bidet?' said Tom. 'I don't think I've ever used one in my life. Except to clean that dog turd off my shoes that time in Paris.'

  'Very romantic,' answered Charlotte, before raising a hand upwards. 'Recessed halogen lights in the ceiling. That wall will be taken out so we can walk straight in from our room, and the door you're standing in will be closed up. We'll have one of those vertical radiators in its place.'

  'So how long are we going to be confined to the spare toilet and shower in the attic conversion?'

  'They'll be about another eight days. I reckon less – you should have seen how fast they ripped everything out.'

  I bet, thought Tom. Probably so
ld it on to a reclaimer's yard already. Wrinkling his nose, Tom looked critically round the room, spotting the big ashtray from the dining room by a paint-splattered radio. It was brimming with the crumpled ends of roll-ups. Regarding the evidence of unfamiliar men in his house, Tom felt somehow that his territory had been violated. 'Jesus, how many of them are on the job?'

  'Four or five. I think another one joined them this afternoon.'

  Tom didn't want to know how much it was costing him. He stepped towards the ashtray. 'Did you have to let them smoke in the house? The whole place stinks of those rancid roll-ups.' He knew he was goading her.

  'Oh stop bloody moaning, for God's sake,' Charlotte replied, voice midway to anger. He had a bit of leeway yet.

  Then he noticed the lumps of chewing gum amongst the butts. His attempt at winding her up was suddenly forgotten as he turned away in disgust. He waved a hand towards it. 'For fuck's sake, that's a crystal ashtray. They've stuck their bloody chewing gum in it.' He clamped a hand over his mouth.

  That did it. Charlotte stepped up to him, one finger angrily jabbing the air. 'Can't you be happy that I'm trying to improve our house? God, if it was left to you we'd still have exactly the same hallway carpets as when we moved in. And what is it with this aversion you've developed? Ever since the Seychelles, the slightest thing makes you start retching. You should see a bloody doctor,' she snapped, striding angrily out of the room.

  He walked after her. 'Actually, it's just... just stuff that's been chewed, that's been in other people's mouths. I think...' He stopped speaking, realizing this revelation only opened him up further.

  Sure enough, Charlotte paused in the doorway to their bedroom.' Do you realize how much of a freak that makes you sound?'

  Tom knew he wasn't going to win this one. It was time to retreat. 'Where are we going out?'