Part 13 (1/2)
”Thanks.”
”Oh, Clive,” murmurs Polly leaning on the kitchen door.
”Never mind all that. What was I doing?”
”You left me in the pub.”
”Sorry. But when you came home?”
”You were writing at the kitchen table.”
”What was I writing?”
”How should I know? Looked like a letter.”
”f.u.c.k!” I yell, unscrunching one of the sheets of paper.
”What?”
”I think I wrote to Lance Webster.”
The unscrunched piece of paper has nothing written on it. Lord knows why I scrunched it up. Another merely has the date. Which I'd got wrong.
”So?”
”So ... I was drunk. So it was probably nonsense. So it was probably hysterical, with my stupid name at the bottom, possibly even my address.”
”So?”
My voice allows a bit more exasperation past the flood barrier.
”So, Polly-he has a history of stalkers! So-I've probably completely sodded up my chances of ever getting within a hundred yards of him! Let alone interviewing him!”
”Right ... so what's that got to do with you leaving money in a pub?”
”Nothing! They're merely two totally separate but equally f.u.c.king disastrous outcomes of me getting w.a.n.kered, as b.l.o.o.d.y usual!”
”Well, if you ask me I'd say the money thing is slightly worse, but ...”
”Shhh!”
At the other end of the line I'm hearing steps coming back towards the phone. Steps that my entire bank balance and probably my job hang from.
”h.e.l.lo,” he says.
”Hi. Any luck?”
”No, sorry. Nothing. I can ask manager when he come, he come nine thirty.”
”f.u.c.k. Thanks anyway, I'll ring back.”
I sit down uneasily in one of the kitchen chairs and think for a moment. My one advantage is that I'm awake. It's five past seven. Time is on my side. Polly, who has a nice habit of going into maternal-style overdrive at times like this (at complete odds with the total shambles of her own life), puts the kettle on and fetches her laptop, which she places in front of me.
”Right. Go online and check your bank balance. Work out how much you can afford to blow on this, then I'll lend you the rest. The important thing is that you show up, on time, with a van. Then at least they can see you're trying.”
I discover I can physically withdraw two hundred, and G.o.d knows what I'll do for the rest of the month. Polly, bless her, lends me the other three. I phone and wake various other people as I dress and jump on a bus to Holloway: a couple of people from work (”Was there cash in the packet as it was being pa.s.sed round? Are you sure? Yes, yes, I know Ron's going to crucify me,” etc.), the Turkish shop, the other pub, the bus company, none of whom reveals anything useful, while the perpetual question of what the h.e.l.l I put in that letter rattles around at the back of my mind like a broken exhaust pipe. Incredibly, all this frantic activity manages to cancel out the vicious hangover I certainly deserve, although that probably says more about the general level of alcohol present in my body these days than any psychosomatic theory one could consider.
I pick up the van-a suitably knackered-looking Luton-and clatter back down the Holloway Road without further mishap. It's eight thirty when I pull up outside our grey office building. I'm greeted by a few tired and grumpy faces from last night; everyone cheers up considerably when I inform them of my impressive blunder. Ron hasn't appeared yet so we retire to the cafe round the corner, where I drink coffee like a man possessed and interrogate my colleagues. No one seems to remember anything. One of them suggests the bar staff pilfered it when collecting gla.s.ses. Further speculation seems pretty futile. The unanimous view is that I'm f.u.c.ked. I groan and order another coffee. I picture Lance Webster opening and reading my letter. It's nice to have another self-made catastrophe to focus on. It's times like this that I thank the G.o.ds I never started smoking.
My mobile rings at nine. It's Ron.
”Good morning, Clive.”
”Morning, Ron. We're just having a coffee.”
”I see the vehicle is currently parked in a car-parking s.p.a.ce that ceases to be free at nine thirty. Now, what I propose is that you give me the keys, and while you commence s.h.i.+fting some of the objects downstairs I'll familiarise myself with the van and find a free car-parking s.p.a.ce.”
”Ah, yes-um, good idea, Ron, but I need to just quickly have a word with you about something, if you just wait there ...”
I run round the corner. He's standing by the van wearing an absurd pink and purple fleece and jeans that look like they've just come out of a packet. Bright white unbranded trainers. His gla.s.ses are held on by a yellow elastic band. None of which makes him look any less scary. Gingerly, I tell him the news. His reaction is interesting.
”Oh, f.u.c.k!” he exclaims.
Ron is not a man who says this word very often. He looks genuinely gutted, and stares at an unspecified object halfway down the road for what seems like the next ten minutes while I stand there stupidly.
Finally he sighs and says, ”Well, these things happen, I suppose, but I can't believe you couldn't have been more careful.”
And that, it seems, is that. I actually think he's far more upset at not being able to drive the van than he is about the money. Of course, that could very well mean that in his view, the money is not his problem.
The rest of the day pa.s.ses at an unbearable crawl. The van now being solely my charge, I spend most of the time either sitting in it, driving it or standing next to it, wondering if my parents will lend me some money, if my bank will extend my overdraft limit, if there's any s.p.a.ce left on one of my credit cards. And when I'm tired of thinking about those things there's always the rich worry-seam of the Webster letter for me to relentlessly mine. It's amazing how my brain has recorded none of the contents whatsoever, although-crazily-I somehow recall the shape shape of the text on the page. For some baffling reason I balanced it all in the centre, starting with the greeting, the sentences spreading out below, line by line, wider and wider like a Christmas tree, a design decision that will certainly lend currency to the argument that he's being addressed by a gibbering lunatic. Mercifully, I don't think I went beyond one page. I hope to b.u.g.g.e.ry I didn't mention I was the guy working in the vet's. of the text on the page. For some baffling reason I balanced it all in the centre, starting with the greeting, the sentences spreading out below, line by line, wider and wider like a Christmas tree, a design decision that will certainly lend currency to the argument that he's being addressed by a gibbering lunatic. Mercifully, I don't think I went beyond one page. I hope to b.u.g.g.e.ry I didn't mention I was the guy working in the vet's.
We continue s.h.i.+fting and packing the rickety truck with endless loads of paraphernalia, Ron in his element, presiding over the process with mathematical precision. One wonders why he became an accountant at all and not the boss of a removal firm. Only after every cubic centimetre of s.p.a.ce is filled and the van's a.r.s.e begins to sag dangerously am I permitted to trundle round to our new premises: an even more depressing sixties block behind Brick Lane. There I find a second team of weirdos, who reluctantly extinguish cigarettes and get busy hauling the stuff inside every time I appear. Towards three o'clock, when the old office finally starts looking emptier than the new one, Ron accompanies me on one of the trips to find four of his employees relaxing in the car park with pints from the pub round the corner.
”I find it improbable that you have moved all the furniture to its correct place, and completed setting up the electronic equipment,” he reflects, shortly before going inside to discover his hunch is correct.
Typically, Michael doesn't appear until around six. He strides about in his suit, concentrating on the less essential aspects of the undertaking: finding a place for the coffee machine, putting up the pictures, the calendar and various statistical charts, instructing a few chaps to install his orthopaedic chair. Just before seven, after I've swung the van into the new yard for the last time, Michael does that annoying thing of beckoning me over with his little finger.
”So, Clive. Sounds like you had a colourful evening last night. Has someone reimbursed you?”
I'm agog.
”Er ... no?”
He extracts ten fifty-pound notes from his wallet as if he's giving me change for milk. I swallow hard, fighting to remain dignified, although frankly I feel like kneeling down and kissing his brogues.
”Oh, Michael, that's really good of you ... I wasn't expecting that, to be honest.”
”Well, that's the kind of company we are, Clive. We give our staff money and they go off and lose it.”
He smirks and strides off towards Ron, who is happily changing a strip lightbulb in the foyer.