Killing the Beasts (16 page)

'You're talking about date rape?'

'Watch what you say over the phone. Those were your words, not mine.'

Tom just had time to apologise before the line went dead. Hanging up, he looked at the little bag again, shook his head and tossed it on to the uppermost shelf above the computer, safely out of anyone's reach.

In the kitchen he opened up a beer and stepped through the French windows out on to the back patio. Hoping to try and spot The Plough once again, he looked up at the night sky. But all he could see was a greyish orange smear created by the massed lights of Manchester.

Chapter 10

June 2002

The sleek nose of the Virgin train eased slowly along before coming to a halt just in front of the buffer at the end of the platform.

As one, the train's doors fell outwards before sliding to the side. Watching from the barriers, Tom was returned for an instant to the Seychelles, disembarking from the plane into a holiday that never happened. Taking one last glance at the photos from his client's company web site, he started scanning faces. Soon he spotted them, briefcases and bags in hands.

Folding the printout into his jacket, Tom walked over. 'James. Will. I'm Tom Benwell.'

The taller, slightly balding man smiled and held out a hand. 'Hello Tom, nice to put a face to your voice at last.'

Tom shook hands and turned to the dark-haired man whose stare was a little too intense. Noticing his hands were still at his sides, Tom held out his own, wondering if it would be shaken. 'Good to meet you, Will.'

He grasped Tom's hand for an instant in a featherlike grip, then dropped his arm. 'Likewise,' he said with a guarded smile.

Tom nodded. 'How was the trip up? You're actually a few minutes early.'

'There you go – miracles happen. I must say, this station is immaculate.' They all looked up at the gleaming new canopy of girders and plate glass arching over their heads.

'Yes,' Tom replied. 'The roof was replaced and the platforms revamped last year, I think. They're still working on the inner part of the station, but we're assured by countless notices it will be ready for the Games. Shall we?'

He held out a hand towards the doors leading into the main part of the station. Inside, a corridor of blue hoardings led them towards the exit. From behind them came the sounds of drilling and hammering as dozens of workmen fought to beat the fast-approaching deadline.

Taking it all in, James said, 'They'll really have this done in less than six weeks?'

In reply, Tom just raised his eyebrows as they made their way over the bare concrete floor. Out on the concourse the pedestrian walkway had been altered again to allow paving stones to be laid down.

'I'm parked just round the corner.' Tom led them towards the main road.

'What's that going to be?' asked James, pointing up at a tall aluminium structure being erected at the end of the concourse.

'It's going to support the second largest LED screen in the UK. They'll use it for electronic advertisements and flashing up info on the Games.'

The two visitors swapped a look that seemed to say, Why haven't we been offered space on it?

Tom spotted the exchange. 'The contractors have run into funding problems – there's been no word on its completion date yet. My guess is it will still be half-built well after the Games have finished.' He pointed to the line of trees stretching away up the middle of the road ahead, young leaves already covering their thin branches. 'This road leads up to Piccadilly Gardens, kind of Manchester's equivalent to Trafalgar Square. Like the station, it's also been given a complete overhaul, along with much of the city centre in fact. I thought we could go back to the office for our meeting then head into town for lunch and I'll give you a guided tour.'

Back at It's a Wrap they headed through the double doors and sat down at the long table. Laid out in the middle were the small folders he'd been preparing until 11.30 the night before.

'OK. 'Tom opened the folder before him. Below the first page's headline of 'The Games Sponsors' was a mass of company logos including Manchester Airport, Microsoft, Cadbury's, Cussons, Asda, and Guardian Media Group plc. Tom began his presentation by reading out the caption at the bottom of the page. '“The Commonwealth Games about to take place in Manchester has already attracted more sponsorship than any other individual sporting championship in the UK.” That, gentlemen, is a quote from Niels de Vos, commercial director of the Games, just last week. The event has been the catalyst for an unprecedented level of development, one that has sparked a chain reaction across the city, resulting in an awe-inspiring collection of new buildings.'

He turned the page, revealing a series of photographs and accompanying lines of text. 'Manchester Art Gallery. Opened last month after a thirty-five-million-pound extension. Urbis, The Museum of the City, just opened at a cost of some thirty million. The Lowry Centre, opened April 2000 at a cost of sixty-five million. Chorlton Street Bus Station opened last month after a three million pound face lift. Piccadilly Gardens, opened last month after a ten million pound revamp. Piccadilly station, fully open next month after a fifty-five-million redevelopment. Imperial War Museum North, opening next month after thirty million pounds of investment. Essentially, Manchester has enjoyed two decades' worth of development in a twentieth of the time, and that list doesn't even touch on commercial ventures.'

He turned to the next page.

'We have some of the most modern, exciting shopping developments in Europe. Aside from the mighty Trafford Centre, this city boasts a Selfridges, Europe's largest Marks & Spencer, The Great Northern Movie Megaplex, The Printworks and The Triangle, home to shops and restaurants such as Quicksilver, Muji, Jerry's Home Store, Zinc Bar and Grill, Wagamama...'

'Wagamama?' Will piped up. 'I didn't know you had one of those up here. That's my favourite place to eat.'

'Well,' replied Tom, anxious to keep the momentum going, 'let's eat there this lunchtime. Gentlemen, come the opening ceremony on the twenty-fifth of July, we expect more than one million visitors to be enjoying this city's unique atmosphere. And in the middle of all this celebration will be your building wrap.'

'Would anyone like another Kirin?' asked Tom, as his clients picked out the last of their noodles from the giant bowls. Both men declined, so Tom discreetly asked for the bill. After everything was settled they climbed back up the stairs, emerging from Wagamama's subterranean floor on to the wide pavement.

'Right, if we wander past the new Marks and Spencer building, we'll get to the site of your building wrap in about ten minutes,' Tom said.

They crossed the plaza, walking past the giant windmill-like structures with their slowly revolving sails outside the front of the store.

'All this seems new as well,' remarked James, waving a hand at the plate glass and textured concrete surrounding them.

'It is – well, relatively at least,' answered Tom. 'This whole area had to be rebuilt after the IRA bomb went off in June '96.' He pointed to an old-fashioned red postbox that stood somewhat inconspicuously in the modern city-centre street. 'That was the only thing that remained standing in the immediate vicinity, so it was left as a sort of monument. We're actually standing at the bomb's epicentre, or what you'd call Ground Zero these days I suppose.'

A short walk later, Tom pointed across the road at an old building that, like many others along the stretch of road, was clad in scaffolding. 'There you go – Crossley House. Soon to be luxury flats but, for the next two months, the frame for Arturo Aftershave. Directly behind us, as you may already have smelled, is Chinatown itself – a magnet for diners each lunchtime and weekend. And of course Princess Street itself is one of the main roads shoppers and commuters take in and out of the city.'

'Seems like a great site,' answered James. 'So where are we in relation to Piccadilly Gardens? I understand that will be quite a centre of activity during the Games.'

'Absolutely,' answered Tom. 'If we turn left on to Portland Street, it's at the top of that.'

Once on the main road the two visitors immediately looked up at the bright yellow side of Portland Tower. Will read out the lettering above the digital screen. 'Counting down to Manchester 2002 Commonwealth Games.' The screen now glowed with the number forty-one. 'There's quite an atmosphere building up,' he conceded.

Halfway up the road a white lorry with blacked-out windows pulled up at the lights beside them. In front of them a girl in a mini-skirt was waiting to cross the road and a load of banging started up inside the vehicle.

'It's a prison van, ferrying people from Strangeways to the courts over there, 'Tom explained, pointing vaguely ahead and to the right. The lights changed and the van pulled away. Written into the dirt on its rear doors were the words, 'Crim Coach. Bad men insi-'The 'd' and 'e' of the last word had been wiped off by a handprint.

It was a side to the city Tom didn't want his guests to see. As if on cue, Will said, 'Is there still a lot of deprivation in Manchester? Coming in on the train, outside of the pristine centre you're showing us around, there seemed to be a lot of run down and empty buildings. Ones with chimneys like in those Lowry paintings. They weren't being done up by any property developers.'

Tom almost said that behind the nice building wraps, you're never far from dereliction in Manchester. Instead he parroted a politician's reply. 'Well, the industrial parts of the city undeniably suffered as manufacturing died away. But things are looking up, thanks to over two billion pounds of government, council and EU money.'

Will was looking unconvinced as they reached Piccadilly Gardens. Tom gestured around. 'This was only opened four weeks ago. Once the Games start there'll be giant screens set up and carnival performers and street entertainers walking around. The side of Sunley Tower here,' he directed a finger at a tall thin building overlooking the gardens, 'will have a seventy-three-metre-tall image of an athlete hanging down it.'

The two men looked around, James saying, 'And if we get the weather, that fountain will prove a hit.'

They watched as dozens of columns of water began emerging from the flat, round surface of what appeared to be a large concrete disc laid over the lawns. Half a dozen soaking kids began screaming with delight.

A hit with whom? thought Tom, choosing not to tell his visitors that, before being revamped, the old Piccadilly Gardens had been listed as one of Europe's top five spots for picking up rent boys. Already complaints had been made to the police about older men loitering in the new gardens, watching children playing in the fountain.

Tom walked them over the lawns and on to the expanse of new paving interspersed with saplings and benches. 'This area is already popular with workers at lunchtime.'

James looked down. 'It's lovely stone – swirling reds and greys. Such a shame about the gum.' 'The gum?' Tom looked down at his feet.

'Those white blobs. It's chewing gum people have spat out. It's far worse round London. Mind you, these pavements are new. Give it a few weeks though...'

Tom looked with revulsion at the paving surrounding them. Dotted here and there was the occasional circular shape of greyish white. He'd always been vaguely aware of the strange markings on the pavements, but had never realized until now that it was discarded chewing gum. He felt saliva flood his mouth and the blood drain from his face.

To his side, Will said, 'They spend a fortune trying to clear it up. I think they should ban it like they've done in Singapore.'

Tom cleared his throat. 'I imagine the council will keep close control. I know litter clearing is a massive priority with the number of visitors expected.' He looked around and lifted his voice. 'Shall we return to the office? I suppose it's time we got your bags and checked you in at your hotel.'

James looked at his watch. 'You're right. So you'll pick us up at around nine? We can't wait to try out Manchester's nightlife. Canal Street is where it all happens, isn't it?'

'Yeah, there are plenty of good bars there,' answered Tom, wondering if they knew it was the gay village.

Back home he found a note in the kitchen. 'At my evening aerobics class. See you later.' He flipped the square of paper over and wrote. 'Out with clients, back who-knows-when. See you in the morning.' After heating up a meal for one, he showered and changed into a Ralph Lauren shirt and DKNY jeans then sat down to start signing off the internal expenditure for that week. Clicking open his briefcase, he stifled a yawn and began leafing through the pile of paper inside, looking for where he'd stashed the sheath of purchase orders.

His eyes caught on a fax at the bottom and before he'd even read the first line, his head was in his hands and he was whispering 'Shit,' over and over again. In a gesture that combined despair with defeat, he drew his fingertips down his cheeks, pulling the skin around his eyes down and exposing the red insides of his eyelids. Blinking several times he looked back down at the piece of paper, suddenly feeling very tired. It was a reminder from Centri-Media telling him that, if he didn't immediately confirm their slot at Piccadilly Station for the X-treme chewing gum promotion, it would be offered to another company. He remembered shoving the papers in his briefcase before a pub lunch with his colleagues days ago. He hadn't looked at them since. Tom's eyes crept over the page to the date of the fax: it had been sent ten days ago.

The energy seeped out of him and he sat back in the seat. He felt like he was sinking. As fast as he cleared jobs, more were piling up. The only thing to keep the pressure from totally stifling him was the thought of resigning in just a few weeks' time. He imagined the bonus that he was due – the key to his move to Cornwall. The clock in the corner of his computer screen told him it was almost time to go out and meet his clients, but all he wanted to do was slump in front of the TV or, better still, go straight to bed and catch up on his sleep.