Dead Money, page 6
A dull crunch, and the lid sprang back up.
I didn't want to look. The smell alone was enough to bubble the booze in my gut. I felt along the lip of the boot until I touched the dog's leg, pushed it back inside and then slammed it shut again. I leaned on the boot, rain dripping off my nose, stared over the roof at the road, the street light shimmering on the tarmac. So wet now I didn't even feel it. I got in the car and fished around for my Regals. Found one that wasn't mush and chucked the rest out the window. I sighed smoke at the windscreen, closed my eyes until I felt myself drift.
There was me thinking I had it sussed. There was me with plans tonight. Well, man plans and God laughs, right?
When I put the cigarette in my mouth, I could still smell the dog on my hand.
Bad luck. Tell me about it. Some faces were like mirrors – soon as you broke 'em, that was seven years of shit. And Beale only broke the Chinese lad's face last week.
Which meant we had a way to go yet.
9
I was calmer by the time I got to Salford.
My problem now was disposal. The area was in a state of arrested development, which meant that there were a load of half-finished yuppie flats all around me, surrounded by wire fence and signs telling me that Big Brother was watching. I wondered what people were likely to nick from a building site that'd been cleared of all its machinery ages ago, but then they'd steal the steam off your piss round here. So I ended up staring through the windscreen wipers and wire mesh at wasteland, trying to work out where to dump the dog. It couldn't stay in the boot. The longer it stayed back there, the deeper the smell would go. It couldn't go over the fence, either. I wasn't strong enough to toss a dead dog over an eight-foot fence on my best day, never mind now.
In the corner of the dash, my mobile rang. I snatched it up.
Cath. I thought about turning off the phone. But then I'd have to answer more questions, and I had nothing to hide.
"Cath, I told you I'd be late, alright?"
"Where are you?"
I couldn't think of a lie. "Salford."
"Why?"
"Long story. Look, I've had a bit of an accident, okay? I'll be home when I can."
There was a hint of worry in her voice, but only a hint. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. See you when I see you."
She started to say something, but I hung up and sat looking at the mobile. I scrolled through to Lucy's number. My thumb hovered over the little green telephone.
Come on, Alan. How much more shit do you need? Leave it for now.
I turned off the phone and started the engine. First things first. I had to get rid of the dog.
One of these days, Manchester would be flooded right off the face of the planet, and the only things left would be the council blocks, standing above the waves in a twin tower flicking Vs to the rest of the country. Maybe tonight if this rain kept up – it was relentless, coming down in sheets as I looked for a suitably dark and quiet spot along the canal. I found it just behind a row of terraced houses. A steep concrete slope led down to the water's edge and I pulled up as close as I could.
I popped the boot and sat with it open for a minute, letting the fresh air and water get to it. I was in no hurry to get back out there. I'd been drenched enough and I was starting to stink worse than the dog. Cold sweat had crusted in the small of my back. The rest of me was covered in what smelled and felt like a thick crust of hair, blood and mildew.
Looking this bedraggled might help my case with Cath, but I liked the suit and I wished I'd brought a coat.
A sudden gust of rain lashed across the windscreen so loud it sounded like hail. I snapped awake. My stomach twitched, and I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.
The weather was a shotgun blast to the face. I squinted against an ice-cream headache and groped my way along the side of the car. My hands were numb by the time I reached the boot and ducked my head under. Rain dripped off my nose, and when I sniffed it back, I caught a whiff of the dog into the bargain. It hadn't got any fresher.
This was going to be tricky. I didn't need to test the path to know it was slippery, so I didn't fancy risking it with the dog.
Needs must, Alan.
I slid my hands under the dog and hauled it out of the boot. Swear to God, it had turned into a fucking sponge on the way over here. Either I was a lot weaker than I'd been a half hour ago, or else Fido here had soaked up enough water to keep an African village going for a week. I buckled at the knees as I brought it out, scraping against the back of the car. I struggled to keep upright, didn't feel the dog slipping out of my hands until its head was almost touching the ground. I went off-balance trying to catch the bugger, ended up with one knee in a puddle. As I felt the water soak through what was left of a pretty nice suit, I let the dog fall to the ground. Rain beat down on the back of my neck. I must've looked like I was about to propose.
"Fuck it. Fuck it."
I staggered up and back a few steps, soaked to the bone.
Something gnawed at the inside of my stomach. I kept my lips pressed tight together to hold in the scream that was building in my chest.
This ... fucking ... just ...
Counting to ten didn't work. The tide was already on the way back to crash against the rocks.
I looked down at the dog. It looked back up at me with one glassy eye.
"What the fuck are you looking at, eh?"
I kicked it once. Felt as if I'd stubbed my toe so I kicked it again, harder this time. And before I knew it I'd kicked six out of twenty-five ribs to splinters and I'd staggered back a few steps. I leaned on my knees, my breath a rasp in my throat. I wiped my nose and coughed up a lump of something that tasted more like bile than phlegm. I spat it at the dog.
I needed a drink.
So I left the dog where it lay, slumped back behind the wheel of the Rover and drove home. Cath opened the front door before I got a chance to put key to lock.
"Oh my God, what happened to you?"
"I told you." I kicked off my shoes and went past her into the flat. "I had an accident."
"In the rain?"
I peeled off my sopping jacket and looked for somewhere to throw it. "It's raining, yes."
She took the jacket from me and held it at arm's length. "You need a shower."
"Thank you, yes."
And that was the last we spoke for a while. I stood under the shower until I was pink and raw from head to foot, and Cath tossed me a fresh towel to dry myself off. When I came out of the bathroom, she'd poured me a brandy.
"How you feeling?" she asked.
"I've been better." I sat down on the sofa next to her and reached for the drink.
"So what happened?"
"I hit a dog."
"With the car?"
I looked at her. She was serious. For someone on her pay grade, she could be dense sometimes. "Yes, with the car. It came darting out in front of me. It was raining, I couldn't swerve."
She frowned. "Did you kill it?"
"Not like it was premeditated, Cath."
"I know."
"Not like I went out tonight looking for something to run over." I said. "I mean, Jesus, you should see what the bloody thing did to the front of the car."
"You been drinking?"
I glared at her. "It was dark. It was raining—"
"Okay."
"That wasn't the reason. You could've been out there, you would've hit the bastard thing, too." I sipped my brandy. It didn't help. "Fuck's sake, Cath."
"Alright, I'm sorry I asked. So where is it now?"
"You what?"
"Did you take it in to a vet or something?"
"It was dead."
"So?"
"So I dumped it down by the canal."
She blinked at me, a smile and a frown battling it out on her face. "You're kidding."
"What would you do?"
"You're not kidding."
"What was I supposed to do? Go knocking? Excuse me, is this your dog I hit?"
She shook her head. "I don't know."
"You don't know." I finished the brandy, got up to pour myself another. "That's right."
She made a sniffing noise. I didn't turn. Maybe she was crying, maybe she wasn't. If she was, she sure as hell wasn't crying about me.
"I'm going to have a shower," she said.
"You do that."
I poured another drink, then went to the whisky to kill the sweetness in my mouth. It worked. I drank two more until the fatigue hit me and I sat on the sofa staring at the clock. I heard Cath come back into the room, smelled the perfumed steam that wafted in her wake.
"You coming to bed?"
"Yeah." I finished my drink and left the glass on the coffee table. I didn't brush my teeth.
I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Just as I was about to drop off, the mattress started to shake and I knew she was crying. I waited for her to stop. I wasn't good with emotion. Beale, I could handle. If he wasn't set to detonate, it was a moan or a growl, and most of that was a bluff. With the salesmen and the punters, it was a front – nobody'd ever hit a truly bad run, and luck was always on the turn, just you wait. With everyone else, it was a series of masks, the kind people wear when there's a stranger in the house – we're always this tidy, this hospitable, this honest-to-goodness nice.
We are happily married.
She wasn't going to stop, and I wasn't going to get any sleep unless I did something about it. I put an arm out to her and she pressed up against me. I heard the back end of a sob and put the other arm around her because it seemed like the thing to do. Her hair was still damp from the shower. It stuck to my neck like wet dog hair.
"I love you, Alan," she said.
I didn't reply. Nothing came to mind.
10
"Hey, hi, Alan, could I have a quick word?"
Should've known better than to try and sneak out the front way when Jimmy Henderson was in the building. The bloke had an office, but it was out back where he couldn't spend his time talking shite with our receptionist Laura and parking his gym-rat arse on the edge of her desk. Six months he'd been getting blown out by her, but he kept on. It was that persistence that'd put Jimmy Henderson in the sales manager's office. That, and his dad owned the company.
I followed him back through to his office. He closed the door behind me, and I faced off against a wall of plaques and awards that probably meant a lot to Henderson but bugger all to the rest of the world. Henderson gestured to a chair in front of his glass-topped desk. I took a seat. He unbuttoned his jacket and planted himself on the corner of his desk. Smelled like a changing room in here. I could see the source through the table top – Henderson's Adidas bag, spewing sports socks.
"Thanks for this, Alan. I appreciate you're busy."
"No problem."
"Hear you pulled in a full house."
"Just windows and a front door."
"Maybe some other time, then."
"Yeah, maybe." I wasn't going to sell fascias and soffits to anyone. It was cosmetic. "What's going on?"
"You got much on this afternoon?"
"A couple."
"Anything promising?"
I was about to shake my head when I remembered the Henderson positivity. "They're all promising, Jimmy."
He smiled. For a moment, I didn't know if he knew I was taking the piss or not. Then I realised I didn't care if he did know. "Good. That's good. It's good to see you bringing in the sales."
"Good to be bringing in the sales."
"How's Les?"
I blinked. "Sorry?"
"Les. I noticed he hasn't been bringing much in, you're his friend ..."
"Just a bad month."
"You believe that?"
Henderson was looking at me as if we shared a secret.
"Yes," I said, "I believe that."
He scratched the side of his nose. "Because I have to say, this bad month is pretty much the culmination of a bad year. I know he won't mind me telling you, you being friends and everything, but your man Les hasn't pulled in anything significant for a long time."
"Why are you telling me?"
Henderson smiled, as if the answer were obvious. "Because you're his friend."
"And?"
"And, I don't know, as his friend perhaps you could take him to one side and have a quiet word about his volume."
"He knows about his volume."
"Then maybe you could show him a few tricks, yeah? Get him back in the game. We're all in this together."
I stared at Henderson. He shifted on the edge of the desk.
"You want me to tell him he's in the shit, Jimmy?"
The smile flickered. He moved his shoulders. "Well, that's not exactly the way I would've put it—"
"But it's the way it is. He doesn't pull in the numbers, he's out on his arse. So what do you suggest I tell him, Jimmy? Why don't you show me a few of your tricks, eh?"
Henderson licked his lips, shifted again. He clasped his hands together and looked at the floor. "I honestly don't know, Alan. You can tell him whatever a concerned friend would tell him. I don't want to let anyone go, but I've found it's good practice to at least give some warning. The business being what it is—"
"No, I get it," I said. "Market's constricting like a frightened arsehole, belts need to be tightened, all that. I'll have a chat with him, see what we can do."
"Great. Like I said, I don't want to let anyone go."
"Of course you don't."
Henderson showed me out. As I left the reception, my mobile rang.
The first thing out of her mouth was, "Alan Slater, you're taking the piss."
"I'm sorry—"
Lucy continued talking over the top of me. "That's the only way to look at. You call me up, tell me you're coming over, and then I get the other phone call."
"I know."
"Do you, though? I mean, you want to go on like once a week, don't get me wrong, that's fine, but don't piss me about either. I'm not going to spend my whole life sitting around waiting for you to get your arse in gear."
"It's not like I meant to. Stuff just came up."
"You're full of shit. What is it really?"
I opened and closed my mouth a few times. I didn't know what to say. Instead, I stared around the inside of my car for inspiration. I heard her huff on the other end of the phone. What was I going to say? It'd been a weird week.
"Seriously," she said, "what is it? What kind of stuff is it? Is it work? Is it stuff you honestly can't get out of, or is it a last-minute panic attack that your wife will find out about us?"
"It's work stuff."
"At ten o'clock at night."
"It's Beale stuff."
She laughed. "That's your excuse? Beale takes precedence?"
"He had some games he had to go to—"
"I don't want to fucking hear it, Alan."
"See, I knew you wouldn't. That's why I didn't tell you."
"You know how that sounds to me?"
"It's the truth."
"You know what, I don't doubt it, Alan. I really don't. But it's not like that makes it any better. You're blowing me off for Beale."
"He's a mate."
"Yeah, I know. He's your best mate. He's such a good mate you call him by his surname."
"That's just the way it is. Look, let me make it up to you. I'll come round this afternoon—"
"No, I don't think so."
I chewed the inside of my mouth. Thinking, this was it. This was the other shoe ready to drop, and I'd be dropped along with it. Hadn't expected it all to snowball so quickly, though. "Come on, Lucy, let's be sensible about this. You're pissed off at me, I can understand that, but you've got to let me try and make it up to you."
"No, those privileges have been revoked." She was adamant. "You can buy me a coffee and we can take this back a few levels."
"You what?"
"That's the way it's going to work, Alan. You don't respect me enough to treat me nice, you'll have to go back to square one."
"Now who's taking the piss?"
She hung up. I said hello a couple of times just be on the safe side, then disconnected. Unbelievable. It was worse than being dumped. She was making me beg for her attention. And part of me wanted to call it a day right then and there – this might be the time to do some serious decluttering of my social life – but then another part asked me what I would honestly do without Lucy. And the answer to that was spend more time with Beale, which didn't exactly appeal. And what was I going to do about Cath? Try to make it work? That'd be fooling nobody. My marriage got sick a long time ago. Any movement now was just a twitch of the death nerve.
I looked at my phone, thought about calling her back, then decided against it. Better to let her cool off for a bit, then maybe approach the situation from another direction. I had to be at a sit in ten minutes, anyway, and on paper it looked like a good one, came from one of the canvassers who'd been doing it a while. Normally his leads weren't the stuff of fertiliser.
The Lyons were a couple in their thirties who lived in Didsbury. Couple of kids, composter in the back yard, old wooden sashes that were badly in need of a lick of paint. Mr Lyon wasn't home, though. He should've been, but he'd had to go into the office.
"It's really quite awkward," said Mrs Lyon, a woman to whom two kids had done no favours in the arse department. "He normally works from home, and we arranged it so there'd be two of us in ..."
"We can reschedule if you want. I don't mind."
"No, no, come on in. We should probably talk about it, at least."
And while she was holding the door open for me, she might as well have slammed it in my face. A couple, one of which wasn't there, and the other one didn't seem to give a shit about anything I had to offer. Throw in the two kids, obviously off for half-term, whose sole purpose in life was to make as much noise as possible, and it was a dying pitch that stumbled out of my mouth.
