Mouse (5 page)

Monday was Laura’s shopping day. Most people chose Saturday, largely because that’s when people didn’t work and had the added benefit of the street market. But she didn’t have to work so she chose Monday. Langbridge was quieter then anyway. Not as many people in the street or in the shops. So she drove her little Hillman into town and parked in one of the two small car parks. Always the same space, if she could manage it, arriving around
8.30am
to ensure she secured it. She popped into the butcher’s shop first.

‘Morning, Miss Leach,’ said the butcher. He seemed to come from the same mould as all butchers, thought Laura; large of frame, belly pushing at his white apron, pink-cheeked, looking smiling and happy even with a meat cleaver in his hand. He was hammering out lamp chops. ‘Usual, is it?’ He’d already wiped his bloodied hands on his stained apron, adjusted his straw hat and was piling brisket onto the weighing scales. ‘Lovely day,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she replied, looking away to avoid his pebble eyes. ‘Beautiful. Set to last, too.’

‘Too hot for me though,’ he admitted. I’ll be glad when it cools down.’ He popped the meat into a bag, hand automatically going to the sirloin. ‘I hear they’re planning on closing down the Empire,’ he said absently, making conversation.

‘Oh no!’ she said, horrified. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’

‘Oh, here, there and everywhere. I can’t rightly remember now, as you ask. But it’s been on the cards a while, I reckon.’

‘Well they can’t do that!’ she said shrilly. ‘They just can’t!’

He glanced uncertainly at her outburst as he rang up the till. ‘Not up to us now, is it? They can do as they please,’ he said with an air of finality, taking her money and handing back change. ‘Still, who needs them, cinemas? We’ve got telly now, haven’t we? And let’s face it, these days it’s all a load of American rubbish they’re showing. What’s happened to good old British films? Where are the Norman Wisdom films? Bring back the Ealing Comedies and all that.’

‘What? Ealing?’ she said vaguely. ‘I love
America
!’ she cried and he smiled awkwardly at her. ‘They are so – so colourful and positive!’

‘Well, yes, I suppose they are, if you like that sort of thing.’

Laura wasn’t really listening now. She went out of the butchers and into the newsagents, buying a Langbridge Gazette, the local paper, and hurriedly scanning the pages for news of the supposed closure. But she didn’t find one solitary article about the Empire. She was in a half-daze throughout the remainder of her shopping, feeling she wanted to burst into tears. How could they? Whoever
they
were, she thought acidly. Petty, faceless bureaucrats making decisions in back rooms that affect people’s lives. She hated them! She hated them all!

She backed the Hillman out of the parking space and there was an almighty bang, the car coming to a juddering halt as the engine stalled. Startled, she turned around to look over her shoulder and saw that she’d run into the back of another car that had also been reversing out.

‘Oh my God!’ she said in alarm, her hand pressed into her mouth, unsure what she should do.’ Oh my God, what have I done?’ She began to panic. Froze to the spot, terrified of getting out. She glanced fearfully in the wing mirror and saw a man emerging from the car behind her. ‘Oh my word! This is terrible! Terrible!’

The man came slowly round to her window. She heard a light tap of fingernail against glass. Without looking up she wound the window down, expecting the worst. A loud, blazing voice, a torrent of verbal abuse.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘We appear to have a little problem.’

Her heart crashing, her chest feeling as if someone were stamping all over it, she turned her head to look at him. It was a handsome, smiling face that greeted her. Blue eyes, blonde hair, a set of quite extraordinarily white teeth.

‘I’m so, so sorry!’ she stammered. ‘I’ll pay for it. I’ll pay for everything! My attention was elsewhere, I’m so, so sorry!’

He looked back to his own car. ‘Really, it’s not that bad,’ he said. ‘And you know, I think my attention was just as far away as yours. You’re not entirely responsible. In fact, I’d say it was entirely my own stupid fault. I was pulling out far too fast for such a small car park.’

‘It sounded awful!’ she said, hardly daring to look at him.

‘Really, it’s not as bad as it sounded. It rarely is. Please, come and take a look for yourself.’

Reluctantly she opened the door and accompanied the man to the rear of the car. There were pieces of broken rear light on the ground, and the bumper of his car was dented. ‘Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry, really I am!’ she said.

‘I’m more concerned about what I’ve done to your lovely little Hillman Imp,’ he said. He bent to his haunches. She couldn’t help but notice the way the sunlight bounced off his healthy-looking hair. ‘See, it’s not that bad, but you’ll need some minor work doing. Largely cosmetic, I’m happy to say.’ He rose to his feet. ‘And all my dratted fault for not looking where I was going. That will teach me not to be so impatient.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a notebook and pen. ‘I suppose we ought to swap names and addresses for insurance purposes,’ he said. He held out his hand. ‘
Casper
Younge – pleased to meet you!’ he said, flashing that warm, engaging smile again.

She shook his hand. ‘Laura Leach.’ The contact brief. ‘I really don’t want the bother of involving insurance companies,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay for anything, whatever it costs. I can write you a cheque.’

He held up both his hands. ‘Hold on there – I’ve said it was my fault. It’s up to me to pay. OK, to save no-claims bonuses I’ll stump up the cash.’

‘I couldn’t let you…’

‘You don’t have a choice!’ he replied brightly. ‘I insist. It would hardly be proper of me to take advantage of a lady in distress, would it?’ He scribbled on the piece of paper. ‘Here you are; this is my telephone number. When you’ve taken the car to the garage and got a quote then give me a ring and I’ll settle up.’ He put a finger to his lips to stem her protestations. ‘I insist,’ he said, thrusting the paper into her hand.

With that he gave a smile and a wave and went whistling to his car.

She stared at the phone number, her heart racing.

*  *  *  *

They were waiting for him, their eyes button-bright, like a pack of hyenas anticipating the collapse of a wounded animal. He knew he was in trouble the minute he opened the door to the staff canteen, the conversations dribbling into quiet and all heads turning towards him.

‘I need some water for my bucket,’ Vince said, almost apologetically.

The cleaners were finishing off their shift, downing the last dregs of tea from their mugs, one or two of them already having bags in their hands and ready to leave. But his presence halted them. It halted everything. Something was in the air and Vince didn’t like the smell of it one bit. Of course, it had to be Monica who spoke first.

‘Well here he is! Here’s lover boy!’ She cackled loudly and the others followed suit. ‘Lover boy Vince!’

He avoided looking into her nasty little eyes, but she was blocking his way to the sink. ‘I need water for my bucket,’ he said again.

‘Water for your bucket!’ she echoed and made it sound real dirty. ‘I’ll bet you do. My, you’re a dark horse, aren’t you, Vince? Still waters really do run deep where you’re concerned,’ she said, refusing to stand aside so he could get to the sink taps.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.

‘Didn’t think you had it in you,’ she said. ‘Didn’t think you had the inclination.’

‘I’m sorry…’ he said, shrugging and squeezing past her to put the bucket into the sink. He brushed against her body and didn’t like the way it felt.

‘That’s it, Vince. Stick it in and fill it up!’

The women all laughed shrilly and he felt his damned cheeks beginning to betray his embarrassment like beacons on a zebra crossing.

‘Oh, leave the young man alone, Monica; you can see he can’t take it,’ said another cleaner, but clearly enjoying the baiting.

‘He can’t take it, but he looks like he can give it, eh?’ said Monica. ‘What’s this we hear about you having a crush on the Witch of Devereux Towers? That true, Vince? She’ll eat you up and spit you out, a woman like that!’

And again everyone burst into laughter. Vince ran hot water into his bucket and squeezed in a bit of washing-up liquid, watching the bubbles froth up like his desire to get out of there. It filled up too slowly for his liking and his discomfort grew and grew till he felt he might run from the room. But he tamped it down, held onto the sink’s edge with his knuckles glowing white.

‘Mark my words, Vince,’ Monica continued, ‘you’d do well to keep away from her; she’s damaged goods. I
should know;
I’ve done some cleaning for her a while ago and she’s as batty as hell.’

‘That’s not true,’ he said quietly.

‘No? What do you know, lover boy?’ She came closer to him and he could smell stale cigarette smoke on her breath. ‘Do you want me to give you a few lessons, Vince?’

He turned off the tap and hoisted the bucket. Water slopped out and put a dark stain on his groin. He noticed how Monica’s eyes widened even more in amusement. ‘I wish you’d all just shut up!’ he said, head down and rushing for the door. He heard them snigger at his back. Why did Edith have to go spreading things like that around, he thought? Now he was a complete laughing stock.

He was still smarting as he cleaned the doors to the projection booth. The phone on the wall rang; apparently the film delivery they were expecting that afternoon was going to be late, possibly causing problems. Vince thought he should notify Martin Caldwell at once so he hurried downstairs, threaded through the narrow corridors and went to his office. The door was slightly ajar. He knocked timidly.

‘Mr Caldwell?’ he said. ‘I’ve got a message for you.’

He heard a noise from within the office so he slowly pushed open the door.

Martin Caldwell was standing in front of his desk, his trousers and underpants around his ankles, his white rump pumping back and forth. He was gripping Monica’s flabby bottom and she lay slumped across his desk. She was gasping in a way Vince found most alarming, and
Caldwell
was grunting as if he were lifting heavy weights and about to have a heart attack in the process.

Caldwell
’s head swung round suddenly, his eyes glazed.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Caldwell,’ said Vince not knowing where to look, ‘but I’ve got a message…’

‘Get out! Get out!’
Caldwell
yelled, pushing himself away from Monica and scrabbling to raise his trousers.

Vince scuttled away, feeling like one of those cartoon characters whose legs seem to run for ages before finding purchase and actually going anywhere. He almost sprinted up the stairs to the projection booth, his cheeks firing up for the second time that day.

An hour later, just as Vince was getting ready for the first screening,
Caldwell
came up to the projection booth and closed the door after him. He asked Vince how he
was;
made a half-hearted attempt at discussing the weather before turning to the real reason he was there.

‘Look, Vince, there’s an elephant in the room…’

Vince blinked, glanced around him. ‘Sorry?’

‘That thing, earlier, in my office.’

‘Ah…’

‘She was helping me out,’ he said, first looking up at a spot on the ceiling and then down to his
Chelsea
boots. ‘I know what it looked like, but it’s not that straightforward. These things never are, are they?’ Vince shook his head. Carried on inserting the anamorphic lens for the Panavision picture he was about to show. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing. I love my wife, you understand?’ He laughed nervously. ‘You know how it is, one thing leads to another and then wham! Look, we’re both men of the world…’ He stared fixedly for a second or two at Vince. ‘Well, maybe not. Listen, what you saw in my office, it never happened, right?’ Vince remained quiet, going about his business. ‘What do we pay you, Vince?’ he asked, and Vince told him. ‘Seems you’re about due for a raise. I’ll put something forward to HQ. There, how’s that, Vince?’ Vince told him it sounded OK. ‘I’ll look after you and you look after me, eh, Vince?’ he said, rubbing his hands down his trouser legs. ‘I’m glad that’s all sorted then!’

And with a clap he left a bemused Vince to finish off what he was doing and start the show.

Monica wasn’t so forgiving or generous. She purposefully sought him out the next morning, pinning him against the corridor wall, her face a few inches away from his.

‘You say one word about what you saw yesterday, you little toe-rag, and you’re dead! Do you hear me? Dead!’ How anyone could cuddle up to a woman whose clothes reeked of week-old fish and chips, Vince would never know. He didn’t say anything, just averted his eyes. ‘I thought as much, you wimp. Are you a fucking man or a mouse?’ she said contemptuously, thumping him squarely on the shoulder.