Final Demand

  ‘We are aware of your family circumstances and have taken them into account; we offer you our sympathy, but you must also be aware that we cannot support a business that has been constantly failing. Besides which, the tenancy agreement is for a couple, and now that you’re on your own . . .’

  They hadn’t added anything about drinking during working hours, an occupational hazard but one which the brewery took seriously. This had already been the subject of two phone calls and a warning e-mail from divisional office.

  It wasn’t true, of course. David had conducted himself with perfect propriety but he hadn’t the will to argue. On 5 October they were closing the pub for renovations; they planned to gut the place and theme it, some Frog and Filkin garbage but he hadn’t listened, it was no longer a concern of his. This part of his life was over and he just needed to concentrate on packing up and getting the hell out of there.

  So much rubbish – bags and bags of it. Dismantling a home seemed to spawn the stuff. He remembered his sixth-form Macbeth: Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him? It was not as if they owned any furniture; they had always lived in rented premises.

  ‘You’ve got a good pair of lungs on you,’ he told Paddy, dumping down a pile of LPs. ‘Buddy Holly, Van Morrison, take your pick, take the lot!’ David sprang upstairs, two at a time, and fetched some more. Staggering under the weight of them, all those stupid songs, he carried them downstairs. But Paddy had gone.

  Sheila appeared from nowhere. Had she phoned? Her mouth looked pinched, as if she had been sucking something bitter. Blow-job lips, David had once called them. With mild surprise, he realized that in the early years she used to suck his cock on a regular basis. She took it tenderly in her mouth, cupping his balls in her hand.

  ‘What did you say?’ She looked at him oddly. Had he spoken out loud?

  Sheila laid her hand briefly on his shoulder, like a sorrowing schoolteacher with a disappointing pupil, and disappeared into Chloe’s room. A while later she came out, dragging yet more plastic sacks.

  ‘I’m giving her things to Kayleigh,’ she said. ‘I hope that’s all right.’

  Who the hell was Kayleigh?

  ‘My niece,’ she replied.

  He must have spoken out loud again. Or maybe she was a mind-reader.

  ‘What about the photos in the bathroom?’ she asked. ‘The collage.’

  ‘Take them.’

  ‘You can look at them whenever you want. All the photos. You can have anything you want.’

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ said David.

  They stood there in the corridor. It seemed too narrow for them both.

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll drive the stuff there tomorrow.’ Her brother Terence had offered his garage for storage. ‘Some day you’ll have a house, you’ll find somebody else.’

  ‘David!’

  ‘Plenty more fritto misto in the sea.’

  ‘Fritto misto?’

  ‘Fried fish – Venice, remember? The waiter looked like that actor, in that TV thing, the thing with the vet . . .’ He ran out of steam.

  ‘What are you going to do, David? Why’re you getting rid of all your stuff?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  There was a pause. Down in the street a lorry blared its horn. ‘I think you should see someone,’ she said. ‘Just to talk.’

  He looked at her. ‘What’ve you done to your hair?’

  She made a small noise in her throat and turned away. Her hair was darker, and cut shorter. Less grey in it. He could see her neck.

  ‘Know something?’ David said. ‘We should have gone on more holidays.’ But it was too late, because just then her sister arrived to take her away.

  When on earth had they used the tea cups? They had been left to Sheila by her Aunty something-or-other, cups and saucers patterned with roses. Throughout their marriage the tea service had accompanied them from home to home – the early years in Morecambe when he was involved in that doomed enterprise, band management and when Chloe had had a plastic beaker, with a spout. Later years in Manchester, first at the Bull and Bush and then at the Queen’s Head. Unused, the cups and saucers existed in a parallel, ghostly universe where guests arrived for Battenberg cake and Chloe, slim and pretty, had passed eight O levels.

  David wrapped up the cups and put them in a cardboard box. He put his mind to it, concentrating on the task. One sheet of newspaper per cup, folded double exactly down the centre, then scrunched into the cup and the whole thing rolled in another sheet. Finally the ends had to be tucked in. It was important to get it right. If he folded the paper slightly off-centre then the ends didn’t align and he could feel the panic rising, heating up his face.

  Half an hour had passed and he had done nothing. David roused himself and picked up another sheet of newspaper. It was an old copy of the Yorkshire Post. Spreading it out, words caught his eye. Phone Girl Charged with Fraud.

  Later he wondered: Why did he notice it? Was it the word phone? Or was it just that he didn’t have the energy to carry on? Thirty-two-year-old Natalie Taylor, of Her on Drive, Selby Road, Leeds, appeared at Leeds Magistrates Court yesterday charged with fraud, deception and handling. An employee of NuLine Telecommunications, it was alleged that she had altered payment cheques by substituting her own name. A NuLine spokesman said, ‘As a precautionary measure, it has always been our policy to urge customers to write out our full name on cheques when paying their phone bills, or if possible use direct debit.’

  Sheila could make no sense of the phone call. David must have been drunk.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ His voice rose in his excitement. ‘That was why we were cut off! Don’t you see, Sheila?’ She knew that hectoring tone so well. He started babbling about some woman who lived in Leeds. ‘It was her!’

  ‘Who?’

  He said he had rung NuLine but they wouldn’t talk to him. ‘I said I was a customer and all I got was fucking Vangelis. I said I wanted to talk to someone but all I got was fucking I’m Sheila, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’m Sheila.’

  ‘I said I was the father of the murdered girl.’

  The murdered girl. David had never said the words before. Sheila gazed through the window. A gale was blowing; out in the garden, Fiona’s weeping willow swayed like weeds in a river.

  ‘David,’ she said, ‘you’re talking gibberish.’ Fiona came in from the kitchen, drying her hands, and raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘It was her fault!’ shouted David’s voice. ‘She stole my cheque. That’s why we were cut off. It was her fault that it happened.’

  The next day, Saturday, David drove to Leeds. It only took an hour from Manchester but when he arrived, and drove out east on the Selby Road, he couldn’t find the street. Heron Drive wasn’t on the map. He stopped at a newsagent’s. The man didn’t recognize the name but a customer buying some fags said: ‘It’s that new, up-its-own-arse estate. Son of a bloke I know, he’s bought a condo there.’

  He gave David directions. David arrived there, and drove along the toy town streets of the housing development. A man pushed a little girl, wearing a silver crown, on her trike.

  The Sales Office was a Portakabin draped with a banner: PHASE TWO NOW AVAILABLE. Flags hung limply from a row of poles. David went inside. The office was empty, though a phone was ringing on the desk. It rang and rang – a low, insistent warble.

  When he was a boy he was given a toy phone: red plastic, with a string connecting the two parts.

  ‘Ring ring,’ he said, and passed the receiver to his mother. ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘Who is it?’ his mother asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What should I say?’ She gazed at the receiver in her hand.

  He gave up. ‘I don’t know!’

  Suddenly he realized what it was: a piece of plastic, with no voice inside at all.

  The ph
one was still ringing. It must be a matter of urgency but nobody arrived to answer it. Wherever you are, whatever the time. . . David gave up and went outside. Across the street, a man was washing his car.

  ‘Can you help me, mate?’ asked David. ‘Know where a Natalie Taylor lives? I know it’s Heron Drive but I don’t know the number.’

  ‘Can’t help you.’ The man shook his head. ‘I’m new.’

  David walked down Heron Drive. It was yet another row of raw brick houses. He longed for a drink. His body felt loose along the seams; only a Scotch would tighten it up and return him to himself.

  ‘Bang bang! You’re dead.’

  A little boy sat in a doorway. The barrel of his machine-gun was levelled at David.

  ‘I’m dead already,’ said David. ‘Look.’ He spread out his hands. His fingers trembled; he noticed this with vague interest.

  ‘Fall down then,’ said the boy.

  David asked him where Natalie Taylor lived.

  ‘She lives here, next door to me,’ replied the child. ‘She lives with the murderer.’

  A stocky young man opened the door.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Nobody phoned me, but never mind.’

  ‘No, I didn’t phone,’ said David.

  ‘Come in anyway.’ He stood aside, to let David through. ‘That’s the lounge.’ He pointed.

  David went into the room. He paused for a moment, and then sat down.

  The young man stood in the doorway. ‘Nice room,’ he said, and gestured round. ‘Built-in shelving, built it myself . . . Feature fireplace.’

  There was a pause. ‘Is that a phone ringing?’ asked David.

  The bloke shook his head. ‘Crickets.’

  He remained standing in the doorway, his large hands hanging at his sides. David became conscious of a curious smell in the house.

  ‘Want to see the other rooms, then?’ asked the young bloke.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Most people do.’

  There was a pause. ‘Sorry, I haven’t explained myself,’ said David. ‘I’m looking for a Natalie Taylor.’

  ‘Natalie?’ The bloke stared at him. ‘What do you want with her?’

  ‘I just need to speak to her.’

  ‘I thought you’d come about the house.’

  ‘What?’

  The bloke pointed out of the window. There was a FOR SALE sign outside.

  ‘Oh,’ said David. ‘I didn’t notice. Mind if I smoke?’

  The young man brought him an ashtray. ‘You from the police then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s gone away.’ He sat down heavily. ‘Two months she’s been gone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Why do you want her?’

  ‘Just – unfinished business.’

  The bloke stood up. ‘Want a cup of tea?’

  David followed him into the kitchen. It was stacked with empty cardboard boxes. ‘Getting them ready for hibernation,’ said his host, filling the kettle. ‘Put ’em in, take ’em out, put ’em in, take ’em out . . . sometimes, know something, er—’

  ‘David.’

  ‘Colin.’ He shook his hand. ‘Sometimes I’ve been thinking: what’s the ruddy point?’

  Colin fell into a reverie. A tupperware box stood on the draining board. Inside, its contents were heaving.

  ‘Would you be wanting a biscuit with your tea?’

  David shook his head. The kettle boiled but Colin took no notice. He seemed to have run out of energy, too. They stood there for a moment, lost in thought.

  ‘She cheated on you too?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said David.

  ‘You an old boyfriend or something?’ he asked bitterly.

  ‘No. Nothing like that. Where did she go?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘Leeds was too small for my Nat. She had bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘Fritto misto,’ said David vaguely.

  ‘Nobody’ll find her, she’s too darned clever. She’ll always be one step ahead, will Nat. Know why? Because she looks after number one. That always came first with her, number one.’ Colin gazed at the Fairy Liquid bottle. ‘Shouldn’t be telling you this. Thing is, I got nobody to talk to. They’d all say I told you so. Specially my mam. Even if they don’t say it, they’re thinking it, and that’s just as bad.’ His eyes filled with tears.

  ‘I read about her in the paper.’

  ‘She was in all the papers. The local ones.’

  ‘She altered cheques?’

  Colin nodded. ‘Altered them to Taylor and pocketed the money. See, she only married me because . . .’ He broke into sobs.

  David’s eyes filled too. This startled him. He gazed at the steaming spout of the kettle. ‘You don’t happen to have anything to drink in the house, do you?’

  Colin fetched a half-empty bottle of gin. ‘This is hers. Didn’t touch the stuff, till I met her.’ He poured the gin into tumblers. Five measures each, at least, David noticed.

  ‘Got any tonic?’

  Colin shook his head. ‘It’s dog eat dog in this world,’ he said, taking a gulp.

  ‘And you didn’t realize?’

  Colin shook his head again.

  David doused his cigarette under the tap. ‘I presume the police are after her.’

  Colin nodded.

  ‘They don’t have any leads?’

  ‘They know she’s gone to London but I could’ve told them that. She paid by credit card on the motorway. Bought some petrol.’

  ‘They’re useless,’ said David.

  ‘Trail’s gone cold since then.’

  ‘Bloody useless.’

  Colin drained his glass. ‘When I heard her putting away the pots and pans, making the kitchen into a home, I thought: I’m the happiest man alive. I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming.’ He turned his streaming face to David. ‘I thought – one day I’ll wake up and she’ll be gone. The house will be empty, like she’s never been.’

  David paused. He knew he should feel sorry for Colin, in fact he could feel a stir of sympathy, but he hadn’t the energy for it. ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘She’s got these freckles . . . all on her shoulders and all d-d-down her front . . .’

  ‘I’m not going to be looking down her front.’

  ‘She’s just so p-pretty,’ he sobbed. ‘She’s like . . . the prettiest lass you ever saw.’

  ‘What sort of places would she go to?’

  ‘She liked shopping,’ he said. ‘And clubbing.’

  ‘She got any friends in London, anybody she could be staying with?’

  Colin shook his head. ‘Not that I know.’ He wiped his nose with his huge hand.

  David, who had been propped against the kitchen unit, eased himself into a standing position. ‘I’ll find her.’

  ‘What, in London?’

  ‘I’ll track her down. I’ve got nothing to lose.’ They had finished the bottle of gin, he noticed. ‘I’m out of a job next week, got nowhere else to go.’

  ‘You’ll never find her.’

  ‘Give me a photo.’

  They stumbled out of the kitchen, knocking over the cardboard boxes. Everybody seems to be packing up, thought David. What had the bloke meant by hibernation? It sounded a sensible idea to him.

  Colin, gripping the banister for support, went upstairs. David followed him. The trilling phones grew louder.

  Chloe! Where are you?

  Pixies. Can you come and collect me?

  The smell was more powerful up here – a pungent, corrupt odour.

  Come and fetch me, Dad.

  Colin led him into the bedroom. ‘Bit cluttered,’ he said, ‘but now she’s gone I can bring them inside and keep an eye on them.’

  The smell clogged David’s nostrils. He felt sick.

  You can’t just sit here, rotting away . . .

  David sat down on the bed. He gazed at some boxes, filled with straw.

  ‘Something fell on them i
n the hold,’ said Colin. ‘Half of them, their shells are cracked. Imagine anyone doing that to poor defenceless tortoises. It’s murder, that’s what it is.’

  Rotting away.

  He looked at David. ‘You all right?’

  David didn’t reply. There was a silence.

  ‘Some of them, they’ll recover, honest. A little TLC and they’ll be as good as new.’ Colin rummaged in a drawer. ‘Most folk, they’re not like you, they don’t get upset. They think, ugh, creepy slimy things, which is just plain wrong. Slimy’s the last thing they are, in fact their skin’s drier than our skin is . . .’ He took out a photo and looked at it. ‘This is her and me in Paris. We went on a weekend break, a Japanese bloke took it.’ He carried it over to the bed. ‘Feeling better?’

  David pointed to a poster on the wall. ‘My daughter liked them too.’

  Colin followed his gaze. ‘Oh, O-Zone. Nat was their biggest fan, got all their records, once she went all the way to London when they did a gig.’

  ‘She was crazy about the lead singer, what’s-his-name . . .’

  ‘Yeah, but I bet she grew out of it,’ said Colin. ‘Natalie never did.’

  David got to his feet. ‘No, she never grew out of it.’ He took the photo and put it in his wallet.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Colin. ‘You need it.’

  One after the other, they filed down the narrow staircase. ‘If I find her, what do you want me to do?’ asked David. ‘You want her back?’

  Colin opened the front door and shook his head. ‘She’s dead to me now,’ he said. ‘Dead and gone.’

  Chapter Three

  I’M WALKING THE streets, looking for you. It’s funny, I never get tired though I walk all day, and when darkness falls, which is does early now, I’m still walking. Along Oxford Street the shops are lit, bright lights, and there are girls in there just like you, they’re standing at the racks of clothes, their heads tilted, considering. They pull off their gloves, because it’s chilly now, sometimes they take them off with their teeth, and they stretch out their hands and feel the blouses. They turn and laugh soundlessly to each other, I see them through the glass.

  I could stand there for hours. ‘What’s your problem?’ a voice once said. Thought I was a Peeping Tom.

  Sometimes it’s a girl alone and she selects items and lays them over her arm and on the way to the changing room she hesitates. I know what she’s thinking because you thought it too: Am I too big? Will somebody love me one day? I feel close to these girls, through them I’m closer to you because their dreams are your dreams, they’re living your life, the life you should be living now.