Part One
Eamon smiled as he walked up the street. It was great news that he would be able to spend most of the weekend with Nick without having to be too careful. Perhaps this time it really was love. If that’s a feeling that makes you go weak, and your skin glows and you have a ferocious appetite, then yes, that was it.
He turned the corner and then the smile, the then sexy smile, dropped from his face. There it was right on cue, the silver blue Mercedes which had come to meet him. He felt physically sick in his gut whenever he saw that distinct shade of blue on any vehicle. It brought back memories of the sadistic bastard that controlled his life.
When Eamon was just seventeen, and soon after starting college, he left home. There was a blazing row when he told his parents that their little prince had grown into a princess and they told him they wanted nothing to do with him and meant it. He had worked hard academically to get the placing at the Crawley Teacher Training College and was determined that it was the right vocation for him. Having left home, he shared a flat with a fellow student named Mark. It was just single bedroom accommodation and for a while it went well. Eamon immersed himself in his studies and managed to find a part-time job in a restaurant in the centre of Crawley which allowed him to pay his share of the rent.
He and Mark got along well even though they held different views on almost every topic. It was the first time that Mark had been away from home, which is often the case with students. He was from Lanarkshire and for a while the excitement of being a student and not having to spend time with his parents was a novelty. Mark had few friends and was not gay but Eamon never found it necessary to tell him, which would have caused other problems. Very soon after Eamon moved in, Mark noticed all the female students and having his own pad, a phrase Eamon hated, meant that he could have a whole host of girls in his room whenever he wanted.
Eamon often went home in the early evening or later after the restaurant closed to find the room occupied. They had agreed a code that when the metallic numbers of the flat door were turned upside down, he was with a woman and Eamon was not to disturb them. It got to the stage that almost every evening Eamon would be sitting in a coffee bar going over his essays. This didn’t last long as the owner of the cafe, along with a number of similar establishments would ask him to leave.
Then the restaurant he worked in part-time closed down. The arrogant Greek bastard who owned it lined all the staff up one night just before they were leaving and told them that they should find other jobs because from that moment on they were unemployed. Eamon didn’t want to believe this bad luck as it was in the middle of term time and there would be no way that a student could walk into another job where there wasn’t already a waiting list; but there was worse to come. He returned to the flat after that and the code was not set. He interrupted Mark lying on top of a girl he’d picked up at the station earlier.
“Get out, for fuck’s sake. What’s the matter with you?” he shouted at Eamon from the bed.
Eamon stood staring. He was annoyed, exhausted and that was the last thing he needed.
“For Christ sake, Mark, you agreed that there would be nobody back here tonight,” he said.
“So I lied,” Mark shouted.
The girl on the bed was embarrassed, especially in the position Eamon could see her. She pulled the covers over herself and reached down onto the floor to pull her jeans over. She began to pull them on.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Mark demanded.
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” she quickly replied. “Where the hell do you think I’m going? I’m not staying here to be watched by your friend.”
“Don’t go,” Mark replied as he jumped up and pulled on his boxer shorts, which also lay on the floor.
“Do me a favour,” she replied as she pulled on her sweatshirt. “I don’t know why I agreed to come to this pigsty and anyway. You’re useless.”
“What do you mean, you slag?” Mark snapped.
The row became more lavatorial until she stormed out.
Mark was livid when he turned to Eamon.
“You see that? you see what you’ve fucking done now?” he shouted.
“But you said that you wouldn’t tonight,” Eamon replied, “and you didn’t turn the flat numbers up. How was I supposed to know?”
Mark was not listening and pulled the rest of his clothes on.
“I want you out of here. You’re screwing up my social life,” he screamed and turned to go out. “By the end of the week,” he added then slammed the door.
That was all Eamon needed.
He was jobless, almost penniless and soon to be homeless.
“Great,” he said to himself as he threw his books on the bed.
The following day he searched for another part-time job but with no luck. He checked all the small ads in the local paper, the job-shop, and went into as many restaurants and shops as there were in Crawley, but they were not hiring. The town had already had its influx of students for that year and all the positions were gone.
He checked the postcard advertisements in newsagents’ windows, hoping to find free accommodation for domestic work, but there were none. It was while reading these that he noticed a card that read:
STUDENTS
Student loans available up to £5000
Borrow now and pay much later
No strings and low commission
Phone Crawley 55108
Eamon read the advert a couple of times. He could do with some available cash to pay for accommodation. He wrote the number down in a book he was carrying, intending only to use it as a last resort or in extreme emergency. He spent the rest of that day, and missed a lecture, in the search for something and by 5.30 pm it was becoming an emergency. He found a public call box and dialled the number on the card.
A pleasant sounding older man answered and confirmed that loans were available but only to the right people, and asked a couple of questions about the course he was doing. Eamon replied and he seemed to fit the criteria.
“That’s fine,” said the man at the other end. “You need to make an appointment to discuss the loan with the proprietor Mr Joseph Bulmer. Would this evening be okay for you, sir?”
Eamon was surprised.
“Uhm, yes. That would be perfect,” he replied.
“Excellent. Shall we say 8.30 p.m. then?” came the response and he gave Eamon the address.
Eamon went back to the flat to change, believing it would be proper to put on a shirt and tie. Mark was out but had clearly been in earlier as there were the remains of a doner kebab on a plate left by the side of the bed along with an empty can of lager. The room was a total mess, all made by Mark. How either of them found anything was short of a miracle.
Eamon surveyed the room.
“Jesus, I have to get out of here,” he thought.
He made his way to the address that he was given. The office was not too far from the room he shared and situated above a taxi firm in a rather shabby building in the high street. The old building had seen better days but the red brickwork above the doors and windows gave it an “arts and crafts” style. There was an entry phone and a bell marked “BULMERS”. He pressed the buzzer.
“Hello,” said a muffled voice through the receiver, which Eamon recognised as the old man he had arranged the appointment with.
“Hello, I’m Eamon Hargreaves and phoned earlier.”
“Ah, yes,” came the reply, “come on up to the top floor.” The door buzzed. Eamon pushed it open and went up the stairs directly in front of him.
The carpet on the steps was threadbare and there was a distinct smell of stale cat urine. The stairs creaked and Eamon realised that this was going to be a waste of time and considered turning back. An old man then appeared on the landing at the top of what was a very straight staircase.
“Come on, Mr Hargreaves,” he called down. “Mr Bulmer is waiting for you.”
“Right,” Eamon replied and quickened his
pace.
The old man led him into a fairly dated office then immediately through another door into a larger, much brighter room.
Eamon was surprised.
The inner office was quite unexpected and had a thick, light blue carpet which his feet sank into. By the window was a pine chest of drawers, well polished with a fax machine on top that was delivering a message. Few people had faxes in those days. A drinks cabinet was in one corner, well stocked and not as tacky as some. Next to this was a silver pin-ball machine. In the centre of the room was a leather chesterfield sofa with an armchair to match and a glass coffee table. At the far end was an oak desk strewn with papers and three different phones. Holding one of these was presumably Mr Bulmer seated on a high-backed leather chair.
“If you just take a seat, Mr Hargreaves, Mr Bulmer will be with you in a minute.”
“Thank you,” Eamon replied as the old man nodded and went out, closing the door behind him.
Eamon sat on the sofa as instructed and waited for Bulmer to finish his phone conversation. From where he sat, and with the man seated in front of the window, it was difficult for Eamon to see clearly what he looked like but he had a typical east-end cockney accent that you’d expect from a car salesman. It was clear the he was none too pleased with the person on the other end of the line.
“Look,” he almost shouted into the receiver, “if you don’t get the soddin’ proofs to me by Saturday at the latest, you can take the deal and shove it. I really don’t need this.”
He slammed the phone down and fiddled on his desk for a packet of Marlboro cigarettes. He took one out of the packet and lit it.
“Printers, bloody printers,” he called over to Eamon.
Eamon smiled and nodded. He considered just walking straight out and not looking back. Might have been a blessing in disguised had he done just that.
Bulmer stood up and walked over to the sofa away from the light.
“Sorry about that, son,” he said as he extended a large hand for Eamon to shake.
There was a gold ring on almost every finger.
He was about five feet, eight inches tall with receding dark hair and wore what Eamon presumed was a rather expensive navy blue suit with black brogue shoes, a white shirt with cufflinks and bright, patterned tie. He had an oval tanned face and Eamon presumed him to be in his mid-thirties. Not particularly handsome and slightly overweight but rugged. He could easily have been taken as an insurance salesman or a city dealer. Eamon at that time had no inkling of what a money lender might look like.
He sat down in the armchair and pulled the ashtray on the coffee table slightly closer to him.
“People let you down all the bleeding time in this business,” he started and smiled.
“Yes,” Eamon smiled back a little nervously.
“Now then, it’s Hargreaves innit? What’s your first name?” he asked.
“Eamon, Eamon Hargreaves.”
“Well then, Eamon. You don’t mind if I call ya that, do ya? I like to keep everything on first name terms. Makes it all much easier in my opinion.”
“No, that’s fine.”
“So, I gather you’re up shit street and need a loan?”
“Uhm ... well yes,” he started. “I saw your advert in a shop window and things are not going too well for me at the moment so ...”
“And what do you wanna be,” Bulmer cut in, “when you finished like?”
“A teacher. I’m studying European languages and teaching.”
“Good idea, son. You stick at it; we need good teachers these days.”
Bulmer stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.
“So tell me,” he continued, “you ever had a loan before, Eamon?”
“No, sir, never.”
“And what about debts? I know you’re only nineteen but have you got any?”
“No I haven’t,” he replied immediately.
“So tell me about yourself then.”
“What do you need to know?”
It seemed an odd and rather personal thing to ask and was not the type of interview that Eamon expected, but this must be how you got a loan.
“Just about you. You know, where you live now, who you live with, what your parents do and all that.”
Eamon sighed, hesitated and began.
He told Bulmer a little about his parents, where they lived and that he had worked hard to get a place at the college. He explained that the family had a disagreement and he needed accommodation closer to the college. He was originally going to commute to Crawley each day but that had not worked too well. He confessed the problem of sharing the bedsit and the fact that he had just lost his job, and lied that there were some interviews lined up for some other part-time work. He told Bulmer he needed a loan of at least £500.
Bulmer nodded and lit another cigarette. He sat back in his armchair and stared at Eamon, who felt more uncomfortable now.
“I like you son and I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he announced. “I’ll sort you out a loan to get you back on your feet. You sort out a flat and forget about those job interviews you got lined up. It’s staggering how the companies round here exploit you lot. Paying you peanuts no doubt, so sod all that. Now I know you won’t be able to pay me back until you start work full-time but you’ve come ’ere at a fortunate time as I need a bloke like you. Do you drive?”
“Yes I do,” Eamon replied. “I’ve only just passed my test.”
“Good, then here’s the deal. I need someone to help me as a delivery man. I’ve got another couple of little businesses going – got me hand in everything some say.” He laughed. “Anyway, I run a small hi-fi business in the High Road and a photographic studio in the town centre. Just bought this new equipment from Germany, you know, passport photos, portfolios and that. Loads of money to be made there if you got the right equipment, know what I mean? If you work for me a couple of evenings a week, I’ll defer the payments of your loan. And it isn’t worth my while dealing in small change like five hundred quid. The minimum loan is three grand.”
Eamon’s mind was not taking it all in but the figure shook him.
“No, I really don’t need that much,” he said. “£500 will be plenty.”
Bulmer drew on his fag.
“No, no, Eamon, I don’t deal in that anymore. I use to and I’ve still got loads of people on my books paying in fiddling amounts each week. It's not worth the paper it’s written on. Besides, do you know how much flats are around here these days? Landlords are all sharks and crooks. Daylight robbery it is. Three grand is the deal and a little part-time work. And a good-looking kid like you, I might even be able to put some other work your way.”
Eamon thought quickly.
“Look, I can’t do anything illegal,” he announced.
“Illegal. Christ do I look like a crook?”
Eamon thought he did.
“And what about interest on the loan?” Eamon asked.
“Between two and three per cent above the bank base rate. None of this old crap you here about loan sharks with exorbitant interest rates that go on for years. Now I can’t be fairer than that, can I? And besides, I expect work from you; think about the risk I’ll be taking.” He laughed. “I don’t even know you from Adam so the pair of us are taking a risk.”
Eamon realised he had started sweating and wiped his forehead. It was a great deal of money he was being offered, much more than he needed but the deal would fit in well with his studies and he could forget about financial problems and finding a job for a while. He pictured the bedsit and Mark and the remains of the doner kebab on the floor.
“Okay, but what do you mean about putting other work my way?” he asked.
“You’re a good-looking boy, Eamon, very Christian and sensible looking. I’m doing well round here and might before long need a chauffeur if all goes according to my plans. I don’t want someone driving me about who looks like a nutter. You’ll do all right, especially if my old Mum needs someone to take he
r out to that new shopping centre or bingo. What do you reckon?”
Eamon was slightly relieved.
“Yes, okay, that’s fine.”
“Good, then. You’ve made the right decision. THOMAS,” he shouted, “bring us in a contract and three big ones.”
Bulmer lit yet another cigarette.
“This saves me a lot of hassle,” Bulmer continued. “I was going to advertise for a delivery bloke-cum-assistant and now the problem’s sorted. I asked Thomas to keep a lookout for someone suitable and he’s done me proud with you, well I hope so, and I am usually a good judge of character. Everyone does well when you just cut out all the crap, know what I mean?”
Eamon nodded.
Thomas, the old man, appeared after just a few seconds, carrying a single sheet of paper and a wad of notes, which he handed to Bulmer.
“All you got to do now, me old son, is sign our contract. But make sure you read it first; I’m not in the habit of getting you kids to sign your lives away.”
Eamon read the paper, which only took a few seconds. It was just a piece of headed note-paper with Bulmer’s name and address at the top and an affidavit which said that he was Eamon Hargreaves and attended Crawley Teacher Training College. The amount of the loan, £3000, was to be paid on completion of the course when full-time employment was taken up at a fixed mutually agreed monthly amount no more than three per cent above the current Bank of England base rate. All he had to do was sign and date it along with Bulmer’s signature and the signature of the accountant, who was Thomas.
It seemed easy enough.
“But Mr Bulmer,” Eamon said, “you haven’t even asked for my date of birth or proof of home address. I would have thought that was standard procedure.”
“Yes it is standard procedure matey, but this is also a private deal for me and I don’t need all that nonsense. Besides, in this business I take everyone on face value. Before you got here though, Thomas gave the college a ring to make sure you did attend there and to check if there was there any reason I should avoid you. There wasn’t any. Now, all you have to do is sign it and there’s the money.”
He dropped the wad of notes on the coffee table.
Eamon signed the agreement.
Bulmer also did and stood up.
“There you go, Thomas,” he said as he handed the paper to him. “You get that signed and filed.” He turned back to Eamon. “Now you be careful with that dosh and get yourself sorted with accommodation. And make certain you’ve got a phone. If there isn’t one there, get one installed and as soon as you do that, let Thomas know your number so I can contact you about the work.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” Eamon said as he picked the notes up and put the wad in his pocket.
“Don’t thank me, Eamon, old son. After all, you’re doing me a favour as well and saving me a few bob.”
Eamon left the premises and he thought Bulmer looked quite pleased with the outcome and the meeting. There was something about Bulmer that Eamon could not put his finger on but he liked him – he liked the sound of his voice and his manner of dealing with him. He even thought he looked trustworthy but then it was their first meeting and looks can be deceiving.
Within a week, Eamon had rented a fully furnished, one bedroom apartment in a new development overlooking the park. The location was perfect and only a mile and half from the college. His £1000 deposit and month’s rent in advance meant there was plenty left over. He bought a number of books and some quality stationary that the grant would not stretch to, a new wardrobe suitable for a student and a second-hand bicycle. He would still need to find a job that paid a bit more regularly as he had no idea how much work Bulmer would be able to give him. But there would be a couple of months before he needed to find to find additional money to meet the rent. A phone had already been connected. The balance of the money went into a building society account though he toyed with the idea of returning it to Bulmer but thought better of it.
He contacted Thomas, Bulmer’s assistant, when he was settled and for a while all went well. The evening job that Bulmer fixed up was ideal and more regular than he initially believed. This only involved driving a small white van to a warehouse near Gatwick airport and taking some boxes of hi-fi to some of the local Indian traders in the area. It could not be simpler and only took a couple of hours three times per week. Bulmer explained that things would be much busier around the Christmas period, which was perfect as he would be paid for any additional work. Bulmer explained that the hi-fi was a little specialised and was advertised in technical sound and vision magazines.
To Eamon’s surprise, Bulmer visited him at his flat one evening.
“Just to see how my boy was doing,” he said and added that he didn’t like seeing students being ripped off.
Eamon was just nineteen years old then.
Bulmer had a good look around the flat and made a couple of criticisms about furniture placement. Eamon said that it felt like his father was visiting and there was something quite comforting and homely about having Bulmer in the flat.
Oh how naïve the young can sometimes be.
His studies were going well and he had plenty of time on his hands. He tried contacting his parents and attempting to patch things up but they had already decided he was not to be part of their life though he spoke regularly to his sister Chrissie, who kept him informed of family business.
The problems then began when Bulmer asked him to run deliveries of photographic paper to and from his studio. This was not part of the original agreement and Bulmer said he would pay him for the runs, which was perfect. He had a few studios and one was a converted barn near Langley but just outside the town; Bulmer appeared to employ a couple of photographers who lived in the small farmhouse attached. Bulmer had said that the space was used for designing portfolios but on the few occasions Eamon went there, the place was almost deserted and a little too remote for the type of business that Eamon would expect.
They certainly got through plenty of paper and developing chemicals but he was blind to what was really going on as he fell for one of the photographers.
He took a shine to Gregg, who was twenty-seven years old, about the same build as Eamon, with short, dark hair and a smooth, well defined chest with muscular legs.
It was not long before Gregg and he were rolling naked on one of the couches in the studio. There was no commitment there, just satisfaction of a primeval need for release. Their sessions became a regular event every couple of weeks and suited Eamon just fine.
Eamon regularly asked about Gregg’s work and he showed him some of the photos he’d taken. They were very good. Some were very arty and not altogether Eamon’s taste while others were merely family shots taken in the studio.
Gregg asked Eamon if he could take photos of him in various states of undress for personal keeping – something he could look at while waiting for the next visit.
Eamon saw no harm in that and agreed. He posed at least three times for Gregg and found they enhanced their afternoon romps.
That was the first big mistake.
Gregg and him became closer and he confessed that he also did other work for Bulmer, who did a rather specialist service in taking photos of couples having sex together for their own enjoyment. It appeared to be quite lucrative. There was nothing illegal about it and people, especially married couples, paid good money for their personal entertainment.
All seemed fine – a little distasteful perhaps but not exactly breaking the law. Some of the couples were perhaps a little seedy looking and part of the “swingers” scene in the home counties of England. Gregg showed him some of the personal photos and quite frankly they were mostly laughable and not in the least bit titillating. But it takes all sorts, as they say.
After a year he was getting good results and showed much promise as a student teacher. Bulmer had also been paying him for additional trips he was doing and, on a few occasions, he acted as chauffeur. This meant that his grant was covering the ren
t with a fair bit left over. There were only a few months to go on his course.
One evening, he received a visit from Thomas, Bulmer’s accountant, who asked if he would call into the office the following day as the boss wanted a word with him. Eamon thought little of it though wondered why Thomas had not simply phoned. He was not prepared for what Bulmer was about to confront him with.
On arriving at the office, Bulmer greeted him and handed him a copy of a magazine entitled Spielkart. It was a German publication and Eamon flicked through it. It was full of pictures of naked or partly dressed men, some with erections and some not. It was a gay magazine and Eamon blushed.
Bulmer sat in his armchair sucking on a Marlboro.
“Have a look at page nineteen,” Bulmer said.
Eamon turned to the right page and then got the shock of his young life. There he was in all his glory lying across the couch in the studio with his enlarged cock in his hand and a wide, relaxed grin across his face.
Eamon felt rather sick.
“Jesus Christ,” he blurted, “what the hell is this? That’s a private photo.”
“I think it’s obvious what that is, sunshine,” Bulmer casually said.
“But how the hell did they get these?”
“They did. An also see pages twenty and twenty-one. Oh, and if I’m not mistaken, twenty-two as well.”
Bulmer stood up and walked over to Eamon.
“Funny, you know,” he said and puffed on his fag, “I thought they’d publish all of them. You’ve certainly got the type of attributes the punters want.”
Eamon was confused and his head was spinning.
“What is going on?” he demanded as he slapped the magazine shut and threw it onto the coffee table.
“Oh relax – just a little bit of insurance, son. Don’t look so worried. Anyway your family or the college don’t need to know. Well, not at the moment anyway.”
Eamon was speechless and picked the magazine up again. Sure enough he was splashed over the other pages as well.
“But Gregg took these. He said that ...”
“Yeah, I know what Gregg said but he works for me and does just what I tell him.”
Eamon could think of nothing to say.
“Now then,” Bulmer continued, “what I’m doing, son, is just lettin’ you know what it’s all about. By the way, I got a good price for those and if you could do a few more for me, then both of us could do well out of it. There’s a good market in Europe for all that and I can make a star out of you. A star in this private little world that very few venture into.” He drew on his cigarette and continued. “Don’t look so worried. Okay, so I’m a businessman and look at as many options for making money as I can. Don’t shoot me over that, young Eamie. Nobody’s died and no animals were hurt in the making of it. Just take it as a new experience.”
“You must be joking,” Eamon said. He was getting angry and it was all fitting into place.
“I knew you’d say that but let’s just work this out for a few moments. You’ve been a good boy to me and all I want to do is develop your, what can I say, talents as it were. Don’t let it all go to waste. You’ll thank me for this one day. And I told you before – I’m a businessman and always on the lookout for any opportunity. I’m not being judgemental or anything of that shite. I like you, Eamon, my boy, and would be proud to have you as my son. This is a way for you to make a heap of dosh and, quite frankly, the type of people who buy this stuff are not exactly going to make things difficult for you.” He smiled and added, “You should be proud.”
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing ... I’m going to the police about this.”
Bulmer laughed.
“Eamon, take it easy sunshine. You need the full picture first and if you did do anything stupid like that, your family and college would have a copy of that flick-mag before you even reach the local nick and you don’t want that, do you? Now listen carefully, I’ve got a number of business deals going down at the moment. Okay, so some are a little dodgy, knocked off hi-fi, hand-made specialist videos, photo sessions and the loan agency. And I’m getting a little tired of it. I need to branch out, develop my true potential as it were. So I’m jacking parts of it in and moving back to London to concentrate on the art side of things.
“You mean the porn business?” Eamon cut in.
“No, it’s not porn. Art I prefer to call it.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Eamon added.
Bulmer sucked on his fag.
“And I had you down as a bright boy. Oh Eamon, son, don’t disappoint me. You’ve done all right by me and one day, very soon, you’ll be doing what you really enjoy, teaching, and from what I’ve heard, you’re gonna be very good at it. But can’t you see, I had to have these pictures published cos, first, well, I’m a businessman and couldn’t let an opportunity like that pass and, secondly, in case you clear out of here when you have your degree and forget about me, I’ve got something to remember you by.”
“You’re twisted. Bloody mad. You can’t get away with this,” Eamon replied, starting to sweat.
“Eamon, Eamon, my son,” he said and put his arm around his shoulder. Eamon shrugged it off.
“I just want you to know where we all stand, son. This is such a pity you know, a real waste of talent. There were two ways you could take this. The best one, the most lucrative one, would have been for you to listen to the plans I had for you and a few other young boys, and girls I’ve got on my books. Think about it. You should see some of the others I’ve got in line for great things. All you would have to do is have a good time with them and allow some of my guys to take a few measly photos. That way you have a good time and get paid, get well paid for it. I could have made a star of you know.” He sighed. “But I suppose, I really didn’t expect you to agree. I’ve got to know you well over the past year and you certainly have not disappointed me.”
He pointed at Eamon.
“But you have now, sunshine. Yeah, you have now.”
Eamon was sweating more profusely and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.
Bulmer sat down in the armchair.
“Now, I’m off to London in a few days and I’ll contact you in about eight months. Don’t worry about leaving Thomas an address. I’ve got my own way of finding people. Especially my friends, and I do put you in that category Eamon. Then you can start paying me back for all the help I’ve given you. Oh, and there’s no more runs of that old knock-off hi-fi. I’m finished with that. Got much bigger deals to get on with.” He pulled yet another Marlboro from the box on his desk. “You can see how ambitious I am son, can’t you?” he continued. “And I expect to really be going places in the next few years. I know this must seem callous and uncalled for but I have to look after my future interests. There may be times when I have to call in favours. Having something on you is really just a little insurance, know what I mean?”
Bulmer walked over to Eamon and extended a hand, which he didn’t take.
“Now you get off. You’ve got loads to think about and if you do change your mind about, well, your talents as it were, I’ll be here for another few days. If not, well good luck and you work hard. I’ve got money on you and I know you’ll come in a winner. If, by any chance you do change your mind and want to become one of my ‘models’, then just let me know. You could make a lot of easy money in the sex world.”
This was like a scene from a play. A particularly poor play.
The worst part was that Bulmer looked sincere, like he meant what he was saying and genuinely wished him well.
He was not just crazy but probably very dangerous.
Eamon looked at Bulmer’s extended hand and then the magazine.
“BASTARD,” he shouted and stormed out of the office.
“Eamon,” Bulmer called after him. “Thomas has a few quid for you out there and it’s for the driving work. All legal, of course, so don’t get stroppy about it. Pick it up from his de
sk on your way out.”
Eamon headed for the closest pub to calm down.
He thought about what had happened. Bulmer was right; there was little he could do. He was annoyed at Gregg for leading him on and wondered how many other young people would be innocently involved. He was already connected if the deliveries of the hi-fi were stolen and that would not look good for a potential teacher regardless of his version of events. He could not deny that he had posed for the photo shoots – a teacher involved in pornography would not go down well with any educational establishment.
How could he be so stupid?
But the damage was already done and the best action to take was to put it at the back of his mind. If it really was just insurance for the future as Bulmer had said then everything may still be fine. Hopefully he would wake up any minute and find it was all a nightmare.
But it was no dream.
That was the last he heard from Bulmer for eighteen months and his time was devoted to his studies. The loan office closed along with the mini-cab business and a betting shop in the same parade of shops. Bulmer had no doubt moved to greener pastures but was sure to show up again.
Perhaps there was a chance – a very slim chance – that the whole incident would go away and never come up again.
Not a likely scenario.