Killing the Beasts (7 page)

'It doesn't change a thing, mate. I tell you what should make you feel really trapped – your shared mortgage with her. That's harder to get out of than any marriage.'

Jon smiled wryly in agreement. 'Until you have kids. Then you're really tied down.'

Again Tom sounded surprised. 'You're not a hundred per cent, then?'

Jon looked up at the ceiling and kicked his legs straight under the table. 'I don't know. It's the biggest step you can take. I just reckon I'll be crap at family stuff. I avoid holding babies like the plague.' He raised a large hand and stared at it, the knuckles peppered with scars and cuts from rugby studs. 'Tiny little things, just keeping you awake for months on end. I'd probably hate it. And there's my job – the hours I work. Nights and all that. It would really screw things up.'

'I'd love to start a family.'

Now Jon was stunned. 'You're serious?'

Tom's eyes dropped to his drink and when he spoke there was a melancholy note in his voice. 'Absolutely. Something's kind of shifted in me lately. It's all part of this plan to get out of the city and move to Cornwall.'

'You're getting broody.'

Tom smiled regretfully. 'I am. I admit it. But it's the last thing that Charlotte wants.'

Jon plucked a cigarette from Tom's pack and leaned forward a fraction. 'You've discussed it?' He touched a flame to its tip, listening to the tiny crackles as he took a deep drag. Tom shook his head. 'There's no need to. It couldn't be more obvious.'

'You know, when you two got married, it took me totally by surprise.'

Tom looked up. 'I know what you're thinking. Tom the shag monster.'

Jon laughed.

'But I tell you, the first time I saw her in the ad agency where she was the receptionist... fuck, my mouth filled up with saliva. I couldn't get my eyes off her body.' He stared into space. 'I went through the entire meeting on autopilot. As soon as it ended I was at the reception desk making up some bollocks reason to use their fax machine. Honestly Jon, if you gave me nude photos of every female film star and said put together your perfect woman, I couldn't do better than Charlotte.'

'And had you actually spoken to her by the time you'd decided that?'

Tom didn't even register the joke, and Jon groaned inwardly at how precarious the basis of their relationship must be. But then Nikki Kingston's face appeared in his mind. 'I know what you mean when the sight of someone just makes you go...' he snapped his fingers. 'There's this woman I work with sometimes. A crime scene manager. We flirt around a bit, but more and more I'm...' He shook his head.

Tom tapped a finger on the table. 'Don't even go there, Jon. What you've got with Alice – don't risk that for a quick shove.' He swept up their empties and returned a minute later with two fresh pints. 'You know what I really miss about rugby?' he announced, sitting down.

Jon acknowledged the switch in conversation by sitting up and grinding out his cigarette.

'The pain.'

Jon took a long sip and placed his pint on the table. 'Go on,' he said.

Tom slid a cigarette from the pack, picked up the lighter and put both elbows on the table. 'Thing is, the way the world has got today, it's too easy to forget what it's really like to be alive. You get up, go to work, sit at a desk, go home, sit down and watch TV, go to bed. Maybe you visit a gym once or twice a week. Our lives are so cocooned and predictable. I look at people and think we've become so safe, we're all half asleep. Trudging around our daily business, living in our artificial environment. Know what I mean?' he concluded, lighting up.

Jon remained silent for a second. 'That's what I like about getting pissed with you,' he suddenly said, affection flooding his voice. 'Football? Women? Films? Yeah, they're worth covering. But you always drop in some big psychological point.'

Tom grinned at him. 'But you still play,' he said. 'When I think of the adrenaline surge I used to get on the pitch ... At the time you don't realize how immune you are to the knocks, the impacts, getting stamped all over in a ruck. You get so into the match you don't feel it until afterwards. And that pain is a reminder that you've been out there, that you're actually alive. If I went out and played tomorrow, the first tackle would have me hobbling. I've gone soft. And this life I lead has made me that way.'

Jon nodded. 'But you're talking about
our
lives which, comparatively speaking, are very safe and comfortable. Some parts of Manchester I work in – the run-down areas, the parts where people are trying to sell stuff like curtain rails in their local newsagent's window for two quid. Cushion covers. Old plates. Knives and forks. And those are the people trying to get by honestly. Then there's the scum and what they'll do for cash. Plenty of people experience pain in their daily lives thanks to them. Plenty of people are made aware that they're alive and reminded how shit being alive can be, thanks to them. It's a different world to ours and believe me, you don't want your world coming into contact with the one those scum live in.'

Tom breathed deeply. 'Yeah, I suppose you're right.' He glanced at his empty glass. 'Anyway, get them in.'

The next morning Tom found himself looking up at the massive yellow side of Portland Tower once again. Only this time he was a passenger in his boss's car.

Despite the exhaust fumes drifting through his open window, Ian took a satisfied breath in. 'Can you smell it in the air?' he said, waiting for Tom to ask him what he meant. Dutifully Tom turned his head and raised an eyebrow in question. 'Money, my friend. Filthy fucking money!' He growled with delight and pounded the heels of his hands on the top of the wheel, making the steering column judder.

The traffic began moving forward and he casually pressed 'play' on the dashboard CD. Though the action appeared to be spontaneous, Tom suspected it was a pre-planned move. Sure enough Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries' started and his boss looked to the side. 'Don't you just love the smell of money in the mornings!'

Tom knew that barking out a GI-style 'Yo!' in reply would be the appropriate answer, but it was too early in the day to start putting on an act, papering over his true emotions with a veneer of enthusiasm. Instead all he could bring himself to do was smile, then sip at the small hole in the lid of his Starbucks coffee cup.

They battled their way to the top of Portland Street, then turned left into the traffic jam leading down to Piccadilly station. As they crawled along, Ian said, 'We need to get on to the owners of that derelict building on Great Ancoats Street, the big white one with the bushes growing out of its gutters.'

'Will do,' answered Tom, taking the lid off his cup, swirling round the dregs and draining the last of his latte. Fraction by fraction he succeeded in arousing something that resembled a professional interest, and as he did so his feelings of self-loss increased. He knew by the time they reached the office, the real Tom Benwell would have been fully replaced by a serious and eager executive for yet another day.

At last the car made it onto the emptier road beyond the lights, Tom glancing wistfully at the Bull's Head as they drove past. Soon they had parked outside It's A Wrap.

The driver's door of the Porsche Boxter swung open and Ian hauled his bulk onto the pavement. Holding his empty coffee cup, Tom climbed out, raised his arms above his head and gave his far thinner frame a good stretch. Then he followed his boss through the front door.

The woman behind the stainless steel desk said chirpily, 'Good morning,' and lifted up two piles of post.

'Morning Sarah,' replied Ian. Tom greeted her with a smile and nod of his head. They took their post and crossed the flagstone alleyway into the other half of the office. Ian walked towards the door marked 'Head Honcho' while Tom, with a heavy heart, started climbing the iron staircase to his office. 'So if you find out who owns that derelict building that would be great,' called out Ian as he opened his door.

Tom leaned over the stair railing, careful to sound keen, but not sycophantic. 'No problem – it will be perfect for any one of our sponsors.'

'Good work,' answered Ian, disappearing into his office.

Tom continued up to the top of the metal steps. As he stepped into the room, Creepy George was just sinking down behind his monitors and their eyes met for an instant. Waving hello to his more friendly colleagues, Tom lobbed his empty cup into the bin by his desk and heard the empty Becks bottles from the evening before clink together. Next he dropped his post into his tray, sat down and turned his computer on in one fluid motion.

Safely out of sight behind his monitor, he dropped his cheerful expression like a piece of litter. Raising a hand to his head he gripped his temples, head still pounding from last night. He'd got in at about ten o'clock, nicely drunk from the beer session with Jon. But then Charlotte had wanted to go out. A dab of speed later and he was up for it too, joining the other clubbers desperately in denial that the weekend was over. They hadn't got in until after two.

Hung over on a Monday morning. Not good at any age, much less at thirty-two, he thought while shifting round the contents of his top drawer looking for some paracetamol. And he had to get his Audi back from the garage and put a halt to these Monday morning drive-ins with his boss. What a way to start the week! No easing into the day with some Zero7 or Cafe Del Mar album gently washing over you. Instead it was stop-start all the way along Oxford Road with a continual stream of enthusiastic business talk battering his ear. Then a quick diversion through the city centre to check on the abandoned properties and half-finished developments that needed screening off for the Commonwealth Games.

He went to 'Favourites' on his screen and scrolled down to an entry that simply read 'Cornwall'. He clicked on it and the view from the web cam overlooking Fistral Bay filled his screen. The golden sand was almost deserted. There were just a couple of people walking their dogs, waves breaking nicely about forty metres out and the bobbing heads of half a dozen surfers visible in the swell beyond. Tom's shoulders sagged a little more and he let disillusionment flood his head like a wave rushing into a rock pool. Shutting his eyes, he imagined the life he was yearning for more and more. Striding along the beach at dawn with a Border collie or perhaps a long-haired Alsatian at his side, sucking in the clean air, feeling the sea spume fleck his face with microscopic drops, skin growing tight as the salt water dried.

He let the image hang in his head, savouring it like the delicious instant before a long-awaited sneeze.

Then a phone rang from the next workstation and the reality of his surroundings returned. With an effort he pushed the listless feelings back down and opened his eyes. The view of the beach still filled his screen. He stared at it for a second longer, then closed it down and reached for his post.

After shuffling paper round for as long as he could, he turned his attention to tracking down the owner of the derelict building on Great Ancoats Street. He could remember it used to have a religious message across its front, something about miracles happening every day. Obviously not where paying the rent on the building was concerned, he thought. A phone call to the Land Registry revealed that the Christian Mission had sold it on to a businessman, a Mr K Galwi. He dialled the man's phone number but got a 'number no longer available' message.

Tom clicked on Directory Enquiries and typed in the surname and initial. Forty-eight hits came up for the Greater Manchester area. He printed the list off, grabbed three cans of full-fat Coke from the fridge in the kitchen, then returned to his desk and picked up the phone. A succession of bewildered-sounding old ladies with broken English, dead phone lines and answer machines greeted most of his calls.

By 12.30 he'd had enough. His headache had been washed away and his sugar levels restored by the Coke, but now he was starving. Standing up, he glanced round the room, noticing how flat the atmosphere was. Everyone's head was bowed as they settled down for another week on the meaningless hamster wheel that was work. Knowing that it was weak of him to keep relying on his company credit card to bolster morale, he stood up and asked the room if anyone wanted a sandwich from town – he was doing a run to First Taste. As he expected, there was a flurry of activity, Ges being the first to order. While he went through his routine of being undecided about what to choose, his free hand had crept across his desk and on to his considerable paunch. Tom scribbled down, 'Ges – Indian starter selection with chutneys, club sandwich, dessert (strawberry cheesecake).'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Ges. 'The Indian starter selection with chutneys and a club sandwich, I suppose.'

Tom pretended to write it down, then Ges added, almost as an afterthought, 'And the lemon and lime cheesecake.'

Tom crossed out 'strawberry' and scrawled 'L&L' above it. 'Gemma?'

A girl of about twenty-three with wiry ginger hair glanced round her screen. 'Smoked salmon with low fat cream cheese on brown, thanks.' Due to get married at the end of the summer, she had been slimming mercilessly for months.

Tom looked towards a blonde woman at the next workstation to Gemma's as she struggled over the unfamiliar menu. 'Julie, a jellied eel?' Sent up from the London office as temporary help in the run-up to the Commonwealth Games, Julie's southern accent and feisty attitude had been a welcome jolt to the office. Tom had noticed Creepy George staring at her on several occasions.

'I'll go for the Thai ginger chicken on whole grain and a bag of those salt'n'vinegar organic crisps, cheers.'

'Ed?'

When getting his Coke earlier on, Tom had seen Ed's sandwiches in the fridge. He knew his colleague would now have been thrown into confusion. Were the sandwiches going to be on the company or should he eat his own and save some money?

Tom put him out of his misery. 'Don't worry. I'll get them on expenses. We're way over target this month.'

They all smiled while Ed looked relieved and said, 'Beef with horseradish on a white roll, please.'

Even though he knew the offer would be refused, Tom called over to the corner out of politeness. 'George?'