Digital Circumstances

by BRM Stewart

  Eventually, after driving up a long valley and past a dam, we turned up a dirt track and climbed to a large, modern wooden building, and parked.

  I got out and looked back, away down the enormous green valley to the mountains in the distance. It was stunning, and felt remote, like nowhere else.

  Aurel took me inside, and the three of us sat at a big polished table by the picture windows, looking down the valley. A platter of cheeses and meats and bread arrived, along with a small carafe of white wine, and a smaller carafe of a pale liquid. ‘Romanian whisky,’ they smiled. It tasted fine, if you drank it fast enough, but it certainly wasn’t whisky.

  We ate and drank.

  ‘We are poor country. We want to do well,’ Tudor explained. Despite this being a day off, he wore his dark suit. Aurel had on a jacket and trousers, I wore casual clothes. ‘We need to educate our cleverest people. We need to learn from other countries. We need ambition. That is why we need you.’

  ‘But what you are doing is criminal,’ I said.

  They shrugged. ‘We need money to invest in new businesses.’

  ‘But you’re stealing it.’

  ‘Like you. But you do not need to steal. We do.’

  I couldn’t explain how I had ended up in this position: I hadn’t set out to steal, to be a criminal. I had just been a kid, having fun with computers, not savvy enough to recognise the evil in other men’s eyes.

  We drove back to the city, and they dropped me at the hotel, back into the heat of the city. ‘Eighty thirty tomorrow morning,’ Aurel said in his gentle voice. Tudor pointed to a building down from the hotel, a black frontage and two silhouettes of naked women: The Pussycat Club. ‘If you want go there, give me call. I know manager.’ He passed me his card, which had only his name and a mobile phone number.

  As I wandered into the hotel, yawning and sleepy with wine from that small carafe that had never run dry, I wondered if I should visit that club. As I passed the reception desk, the men smiled at me. I went upstairs.

  *

  I slept for an hour, then showered. It was now mid afternoon, and I decided to get out for a walk. The place was busy, the day hot. The city dogs which barked all night were spread on their sides on the pavements, flanks rising and falling as they slept. Old men sat at tables in the gardens off the main boulevard, playing chess and backgammon.

  I dodged the traffic – they had a system like the US where cars could turn right through red lights, but here they were much more aggressive, almost nudging bonnets against pedestrians, trying to run over any dog that was up at this hour.

  There was a small shopping centre, but nothing of great interest. With a heavy heart I realised that there was nothing I would have bought as a present for Helen. I’d checked my mobile: nothing from her.

  I found a little café on the corner of a big, old hotel on the main boulevard, and went in.

  ‘Bună ziua,’ I attempted, which earned me a big smile. I ordered a cappuccino.

  ‘Mulţumesc.’ ’You are welcome.’

  I sat in a corner, connecting to their Wi-Fi and surfing emails and the news back home. And I now wanted to get back home, I really did. I felt alone here.

  I was vaguely aware of someone sitting close beside me – despite the fact that the café was almost empty – and then a hint of perfume and the crossing of legs. I looked sideways, catching an impression of a low-cut red T-shirt and a gold necklace reaching to the edge of a lacy red bra. I looked up to a young pretty face with blue eye shadow around impassive blue eyes, a touch of red lipstick, all framed by short blonde hair.

  The context threw me, but then I realised it was Charlene, the girl from Portugal.

  ‘Could you get me a coffee? An Americano. No milk.’

  I took a deep breath, and went and ordered it. The waitress indicated that she would bring it over to me, and gave me a conspiratorial smile, indicating Charlene.

  Charlene, who had caused the death of a Portuguese gangster and what looked increasingly like the break-up of my relationship with Helen.

  I sat back down beside her, and we waited till the coffee came – Charlene checked her phone, not looking at me. Finally it was there, and she took a tentative sip.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ I offered. My mind was trying to work it all out: this wasn’t any coincidence.

  ‘How is it going?’

  ‘None of your business,’ I suggested.

  ‘Yes it is.’

  We had another few moments of silence and thinking and sipping coffee.

  ‘It’s going fine,’ I said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘They’re very nice, polite.’

  ‘They would be. They need your help. When will you be finished?’

  ‘We haven’t said. My return ticket is for Tuesday.’ This was Saturday. ‘We had a day off today, but we’ll be back at it tomorrow. I think we finish when they are ready to go ahead on the basis of what they know.’

  I turned to look at her full on. ‘I seem to be dangerously close to the end of my relationship with my partner,’ I said.

  She gave no reaction.

  ‘Why did you text her an innocent photograph of you and me on a boat in Portimao and make it look like something was going on between us?’

  ‘I didn’t send it.’ She put down her cup, and crossed her legs the other way, to match mine. ‘We took the photograph as insurance, just in case you had a crisis of conscience and spoke about that trip to anyone. It should have been deleted. Somebody pressed ‘send’ by accident. Sorry.’ There was no apology in her tone. ‘Weren’t you able to explain?’

  ‘I tried, but she wasn’t happy that I hadn’t told her what the trip was about – she knew I was lying to her, and just assumed that you were part of the lie.’

  ‘She really thought you and I were fucking?’

  I was shocked by her tone and language, and not sure what to make of it, so I just let it pass. ‘Anyway… what was Portimao really all about?’

  ‘That guy was managing and laundering money for various people. We wanted to find out who they were, which we did, and siphon off some of the money that he was sitting on, which we did also. But there was money that was due to pay off somebody’s debt, and its disappearance, with no credible explanation, caused some problems. Somebody got grief, and got really pissed off, so they shot him out of spite. Stupid, but there you go.’

  ‘How did you get that guy’s password for his computer?’ I was genuinely interested.

  ‘We broke in one day and tried all sorts of background data – things like mother’s maiden name, first wife’s name, the usual – it let us keep trying, but we got nowhere. So one evening a girl got herself picked up by him in a hotel bar in Lisbon – he has a house there too. One thing led to another...’

  ‘He told her his password?’ I was incredulous.

  ‘She watched him type it in while she was draped naked round his neck, and then checked she’d got it right. And she got a copy of his house key. Easy.’

  ‘As long as you’re prepared to shag a stranger.’

  ‘People shag strangers for less.’ And she turned her cold blue eyes on me.

  I suppressed the shiver that ran through me – lust? Fear? Had she been ‘the girl’ in Lisbon? Or was she just trying to stir my emotions and confuse me? ‘So, why are you here in Romania?’

  ‘Just keeping an eye on things. These people have gang connections that run deep into Russia, and Gheorghe goes way back to communist times – corruption, fraud: dangerous pastimes in those days. After the collapse of the Eastern Bloc, he got involved with mafia-type groups here and in the former Soviet Union.’

  ‘I didn’t think they were boy scouts,’ I muttered. She had said ‘we’; who else was working with her? The lumpen guy from Alvor? Sandy? Why was he so cagey about her?

  ‘Don’t forget: they’ve grown up in a world where, if you don’t take what you want, you don’t get it. They’ve grown up with a ruthless streak, that makes any Glasgow gangster look
like they have the moral high ground.’

  I absorbed that. ‘Surely they wouldn’t have a problem with me?’

  ‘You know rather a lot about their plans and organisation. Another coffee?’

  I let all of that sink in while I watched Charlene stand at the counter, and found myself staring at her backside, my mind trying to work out what she was trying to say to me, and what I could do about it.

  I became aware that she was talking in French with the woman behind the counter. When she sat down again with the coffees, I said: ‘How did you know she spoke French?’

  Her eyes stared at me. ‘Older Romanians learned French as a second language at school, in communist times. They study English now as well.’

  She held my look. You think I’m stupid, her eyes said: but I’m not, am I?

  I swallowed. ‘OK. What can I do?’

  ‘I have a plane ticket for us both for Monday, to Schiphol, two pm. I’ll be on that plane. See how it goes over the weekend, but it might be sensible if you got out with me before your planned departure on Tuesday. Keep your passport with you at all times, just in case.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it just annoy them if I pissed off?’

  She shrugged. ‘Probably, but you could just say there had been a change of plan. Retrospectively.’

  We finished our coffee and walked outside into the heat. ‘Where are you staying?’

  She indicated the long hotel building we were beside. ‘It’s crap, but it’ll do for a few days. You’d better take my mobile number, text me yours.’

  I keyed in the number as she spoke it to me. ‘Can we meet later, for a meal or a drink, or something?’

  She didn’t respond to that offer. ‘There’s a sex club right beside your hotel – if you’re bored.’ And she turned on her heel and walked away. I watched her go.

  On the way back to the hotel, I tried to work out where my biggest danger lay here – the Romanians, who seemed friendly and helpful, or Charlene, who might have broken up my relationship with Helen, and whom I still knew nothing about: I wondered if that ‘accidentally sending the photo’ was genuine, or had she just done it out of badness. And in what way was she involved with this business? I wanted to go back and ask her more questions.

  But getting back to Glasgow as soon as possible sounded like a good idea. And then I had to just get out from under all of them, and go away with all my money, like Colin Strachan had managed to do. Finish the plan with Andrew, get out with what I could, repair things with Helen, hope nobody came after me.

  Back at the hotel, I had a drink in the bar. Later I had my dinner, and another few drinks. I looked around, but the place was now full of families here for the weekend, and what looked like a few small groups of men in the city for a weekend’s hard drinking; the place was full of cigarette smoke.

  Regretfully, and lonely, and a bit scared, I went up to bed and had a fitful night of drunken footsteps in the corridor, doors slamming, dogs barking outside and the crowds spilling out from the sex club.

  I really wanted to get home, where the loneliness might not be quite so stark.

  *

  Charlene sat with Gheorghe and Bianca around the table in the bar in her hotel. Around them, the décor was faded and shabby, communist austerity overlaid with someone’s idea of sixties trendy, all badly done.

  The women sipped their gins and tonic. Gheorghe sat slumped with a large whisky, his eyes half-closed, a cigarette between his fingers – a waitress had come over to tell him he was in the non-smoking area of the bar, but he’d looked at her coldly and she’d apologised for disturbing them and backed away.

  Bianca smiled at Charlene. ‘All is going well,’ she said.

  Charlene nodded. She was tense, and conscious that Gheorghe was staring at her chest. ‘So, Martin has been helpful.’

  ‘Very helpful. We will be able to start next week, after some tidying up. Some people we do not need any more.’

  ‘You still need me,’ Charlene said, as gently as she dared.

  ‘Oh yes. We still need contacts with England. We still need access to your English companies.’

  ‘And you still need Martin.’ Anyone listening would not have been sure whether that was a question or a statement.

  ‘Perhaps. But not some of the others. We need insurance also.’ Bianca’s smile was still wide.

  Charlene nodded, understanding what she meant.

  Chapter 18

  York and Glasgow – the early 2000s

  Elizabeth had been texting every ten minutes to say that she was delayed. When she finally arrived in the little pub, I was on my third pint. ‘Sorry, darling.’ There was the exhausted slump into her chair and the cheek held for me to kiss. ‘Get me a wine, would you?’

  When I got back with it, she drank most of it down. ‘God, what a day. Some guy is trying to buy us over – bastard.’

  This had happened regularly, and she’d always ridden out the storm. But Amazon was hurting sales, and the big boys – Waterstones, Borders and Ottakar – were trying to beat Amazon by going large. Elizabeth’s big shop suddenly looked either too big or not big enough. And her city centre location was attracting interest.

  ‘I don’t want to be a niche market selling odd little titles like ‘Trainspotting in Romania for left-handed vampires’. I want to have a business that people know about, I want my grandfather’s name to stay on the big sign in the Shambles.’

  ‘What about dinner?’ I asked.

  ‘Shit, I forgot to get anything. How does the pub sound?’

  ‘Good.’ The pub in her village sold good beer and good food, and we always went there on a Friday, because she always forgot to get something in.

  We finished our drinks, and caught the train out to the village, and walked up the lane to her bungalow. Inside the door, we embraced and kissed, but as I responded a bit too much she intercepted my hand: ‘Sorry darling, I am bushed. I’ll get changed and we can go to the pub.’

  We chatted about her week, and her business hassles over wine and food, and talked with the regular Friday night professionals-on-the-weekend crowd, most of whom I was getting to know.

  It was late when we got back to the house and fell into bed. She was suddenly demanding, and I did my stuff, and then she held me tight. ‘I love you, Martin,’ she said. ‘You’re the best.’ And her breathing became a regular, soft snore.

  I listened to the peaceful village. I could never sleep here the first night – too quiet; I was used to traffic going past in the street below, and the occasional car horn, police siren, and shouts of drunken neds. English country life took some getting used to.

  The travelling was getting me down, and we had discussed it. But there were too many big uncertainties in her life to make plans. Could I live here? No. Could she live in Argyle Street? She gave a grimace.

  But was there something almost half way?

  In the morning, after breakfast, she drove us over to Harrogate and we went for a walk around the town to clear our heads of too much wine and beer the night before. We talked of things, in amongst relaxed silences.

  We had lunch in Betty’s, and then drove out to another village where we stopped for a drink. ‘You really must learn to drive, darling. I can’t believe you never learned.’

  I explained again that my dad had died before I got to that age, and that mum and I had simply got rid of his car – we didn’t need it. Now I had plenty of cash, but still no need for a car: the thought of driving round Glasgow terrified me. Davey was learning, now they had the baby, and was dragged out to admire every new car Charlie appeared in. It seemed Charlie owned a car dealership somewhere in Paisley, and had told us that Davey and I were partners.

  I yawned over my lunchtime pint, and Elizabeth reached for my hand. ‘Is this travelling getting to you?’

  ‘It is a bit,’ I confessed. ‘But it’s worth it.’ We grinned at each other, and she reached under the table to stroke by thigh.

  ‘Sorry about last night – I was really tire
d. And a bit pissed.’

  I registered the ego-flattening fact that she hadn’t noticed we’d actually made love last night. Ah well.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she suddenly said. ‘Maybe I should just sell up, start something somewhere else. To hell with my grandfather’s name.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Remember at that conference? You suggested bespoke online retail. I couldn’t stand being in a pokey little bookshop selling obscure titles, but online, selling lots of obscure titles from different lines, acting like it was a whole set of pokey little bookshops…’ She sipped her wine. ‘Old titles, early editions, new authors… ‘

  ‘It might work,’ I suggested.

  ‘And it wouldn’t have to be in York.’ Her eyes met mine, and my body began to tingle.

  ‘You could do it anywhere. My work has to be in Glasgow, but we could be based anywhere reasonably handy for there.’

  ‘Living together? I sell the house here? Buy something decent in Glasgow?’

  I ignored the suggestion that my flat wasn’t ‘decent’. ‘There are some luxurious places off the top of Byres Road,’ I said. ‘I’ll show you round when you’re next up.’

  ‘This sounds like commitment, Martin. Long-term commitment.’ She sat back, finishing her wine.

  I got another beer, and a coke for her.

  ‘Yes, commitment,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been there before. It didn’t work out. Twice.’

  ‘This would be different.’

  ‘Are you offering to commit to me? Do you know enough about me? Are you enough in love with me?’

  Those were curious, serious questions. ‘Ah, well... Taking those questions in order: yes, yes, and yes.’

  She smiled, and reached to hold my hands. ‘Think about it for a couple of weeks, then we’ll talk again.’

  ‘OK.’

  *

  I got back to Glasgow on a high, and thought through the new future that had opened up for me. Living with Elizabeth. And the unspoken thought that was there: marriage? She had had two broken engagements, I was a widower. Would marriage bring us closure?