Pecking Order (21 page)

'This coffee is spot on, Pat,' said Julian. 'Don't you agree guys?' he asked the rest of the room. Several students nodded their thanks as Clare edged round the table.

'I'm glad you're enjoying it,' replied Patricia, as she moved away from the open door. Once outside, she ushered Clare further down the corridor and into the first available room. Without bothering to turn the lights on, she shut the door, excitedly grabbed Clare's hand and whispered, 'I've had a little phone call from the ESPRC. Well, someone I know on their allocation committee. They're officially announcing it in two days' time, but, according to him, the grant is ours!'

Clare noted how Patricia used the word, ours. 'That's brilliant Pat. Well done - you really deserve it with all the work you've put in.'

'Thank you. Anyway, I know this is premature, but I thought it would brighten your day.' She raised the envelope. 'In here is an application form for a position as a researcher and part-time lecturer.'

Clare felt blood rush to her cheeks.

'It's a bit improper, before I've even advertised for one I know, but,' Patricia rolled her eyes, 'well, when you want the best, you have to bend the rules occasionally. Don't let anyone see you with this, but get thinking about research areas that interest you and make sure they correspond with what the research project will be about. We can even structure it so you end up with an MA.'

Feeling her eyes filling with tears, Clare said, 'Thanks Pat - I can't tell you how much it would mean if you offered me a position.'

'Clare,’ Patricia hastily corrected her. ‘I am offering you a position.' She held out the envelope.

Clare didn't know what to say. Looking down to take it, she noticed all the polish had disappeared from Patricia's nails. Before she could stop, she found herself gushing, 'Your lovely nail polish has gone.' Immediately she blushed at the silliness of her comment. 'Sorry.'

Patricia smiled. 'I chipped the polish on one. Typical isn't it? Just after you have them manicured. The easiest thing was to remove the rest of it. At least my toenails are still perfect though!' she added cheerfully.

Clare had recovered enough composure to say, 'Pat, I would so love to work in your department. Your courses have opened my eyes to so many social issues...'

Patricia placed a hand on Clare's forearm to interrupt her. 'You don't have to persuade me how suitable you are,' she said smiling. 'I've already offered you a position. I thought you'd be an asset to the department ever since I was your tutor for your dissertation last year. Your enthusiasm and insight stood you apart from the other students straight away. Too many see this course as an easy ride and a ticket to cheap booze, as I'm sure you know.'

Clare lowered her eyes and, with heartfelt honesty, said, 'I wouldn't have enjoyed doing my dissertation half as much as I did without your guidance. To have someone with as many commitments as you prepared to sacrifice half her summer writing letters on my behalf, suggesting material for research, places to visit, it was ... well, it was inspirational for me. You didn't need to do so much.'

'But Clare, that's the beauty of doing something you really enjoy. Work doesn't seem like work when the subjects you are dealing with are so interesting, as I'm sure you'll discover. Now don't tell anyone about this,' she said, placing the envelope in Clare's hand. 'And return it directly to me when you've done it.' Squeezing Clare's arm, she opened the door and disappeared up the corridor.

Clare stood there for a few moments, pressing the envelope to her chest and enjoying the surge of elation flooding through her. Then she sat down at the desk behind the door and slid the application form out of the envelope. She had nearly finished glancing over it when she heard a voice, low and urgent, approaching down the corridor from the coffee room. She put the form back into the envelope as a blurred head and shoulders passed along the other side of the frosted glass window above where she was sitting. The door was pushed open and Adele backed into the dark room, mobile phone pressed to her ear. Unaware of Clare sitting almost behind her, she continued to speak.

'Listen, Mummy,' she hissed. 'It's a graduate trainee job with Nestlé. Do you realise how many people get to the second round of interviews - let alone graduates off some mickey-mouse course in sociology?'

Clare frowned: there was a home-counties accent evident in Adele’s voice.

'I bloody want this job OK?' Adele paused as her mum made her reply. 'I don't care how you do it. Transfer it from your account that Daddy keeps topped up, or something. Bloody well ask Daddy how to do it. I need enough for a return flight to London, I am not - repeat bloody not - travelling by crappy train. And I need a decent outfit. There's an Yves Saint Laurent in the big department store up here.'

A pause.

‘Great.' Sarcasm was heavy in her voice. 'No Mummy, that's fine. I'll just go in my bloody dungarees and Doc Martens.’ She listened again. ‘So what? You bought me a flat up here, big deal. Sell it again when I get this job. Unless you want me to live up here permanently? Is that it? Do you honestly expect me to get a job as a social worker or something in the north of England?'

Another pause, during which time she drew angrily on the last of her cigarette.

'Yeah, yeah. Just put Daddy on, will you?'

Adele stayed silent for a while and when she spoke again, her voice had softened. 'Thank you Daddy. When will it be in my account? Excellent. Honestly, you won't regret this. I'll get that job, you wait and see. Nestlé! You don't get much bigger than that. Love you, Daddy.'

She ended the call and began to look about for a bin to dump the end of her roll-up in. As she turned round she saw Clare sitting quietly at the desk by the door. In the dim light Adele turned white. She stood there, motionless.

Clare wasn't sure what to say. Adele, of all people, was a complete fake. Memories flooded her mind of all the times the other student had passed politically-correct judgements on ill-considered comments made in the coffee room. Part of Clare wanted to laugh with relief: there were others on the course just as hypocritical as her! But to express any kind of sympathy with Adele would only expose herself. And she couldn't afford to do that. Instead, Clare smiled coldly at the other student and, as she got up, said, 'More coffee Adele? Nescafé perhaps?' She left the room without waiting for an answer.

Hours later and Clare was still shaking her head, unable to believe Adele's act. Then she realised where she was; sitting in a call-centre waiting to make money out of vulnerable peoples’ hopes and fears.

Uneasily, she ran a finger along her mouthpiece, wondering how much of a better person she was. Or even if she were worse than Adele. Before she had time to decide, her line clicked three times and, clearing the thoughts from her head, she readied herself for a caller who had dialled her extension.

‘Hello, this is Sylvie Claro speaking. Would you like a horoscope or a tarot reading?'

'Sylvie, it's me.' Then, as if he was her only caller, the person added, 'Remember?'

But Clare did: she instantly recognised the voice and its childish enthusiasm.

Before she could say anything, it boastfully continued. 'I put another one to sleep! The man called again and gave me another mission!'

Clare remembered with dismay the details of their earlier conversation.

'So my child,' she hesitated. 'You say it was a success?'

'Yeah! It was an old man this time. I wasn't sure about doing him at first, ex-para he was. But that was long ago. He'd turned fat and was snoring his head off like a pig, cider bottles all around him.'

Clare considered how to handle him, even if she should just cut him off. Deciding that he'd only call someone else if he couldn't spout off at her, she said, 'So you must have a lot of money to spend.'

'The man hasn't paid me yet. But he was really pleased with me, said I'd done a first class job with flying colours. That's why I'm calling - can you see if there will be many more missions?'

Clare paused for a few moments. The whole thing was too creepy. Rather than claim to be looking up his charts to spin out the call for longer, she decided to get off the phone as soon as possible. 'Let me see. Taurus is coming into the sphere of the dynamic Mars, which indicates a very auspicious time for you. And with a full moon on the wane, I'd say that yes, you can expect a long and fruitful run with this work.'

‘How soon will he call me again?'

'Oh, soon my child, soon.'

‘Great!' An awkward pause. 'Well, thanks. And, um ...Sylvie...do you...'

She could tell he was building up to ask her something else. Abruptly, memories of abysmal school-age fumbles appeared in her mind. She cut him off with a speedy, 'Thank you, and good night.'

Sitting back, she blew out a long sigh. Something about the way he talked worried her. He was obviously very uneducated, but occasionally words would appear in his speech which were entirely unexpected. As if he was repeating something a third, more intelligent, party had said to him.

Remembering that Brian always kept a copy of the local paper on his desk, Clare hit 'call-wrap-up' and walked over to his office. After knocking lightly on his window, she opened the door a little and said, 'Mind if borrow your paper?'

'Course not, sweetie. Help yourself.'

She picked it up and returned to her cubicle. Once her headset was back on she re-released 'call-wrap-up' to open her line once again then unfolded the paper and began scanning through the pages, searching for any reports of a murder of an old man. As usual, there were plenty of incidents of old people being battered and robbed. She passed one story about a seventy-six-year old woman being mugged in the street for a few pounds. Another about a fake gas inspector who'd duped his way into an eighty-three-year old man's flat, assaulted him, tied him up and taken his life savings. But nothing on the suspicious death of an ex-soldier, or the discovery of an old woman's body either for that matter. When she reached the TV and horoscope section she knew the following pages were only full of adverts. She refolded the paper and opened her book once again.

Over the next three hours she completed fourteen more calls, two lasting for over ten minutes. Not bad for a Wednesday night. Once the clock on her console clicked midnight she pressed the 'log off’ button and packed her stuff up. Passing the cubicles she could hear the quiet murmur of a voice coming from each one.

At Brian's office she opened the door and put the paper back on his desk. She waved him goodnight, but he was too busy analysing the call statistics on his computer screen. Ahead of her the door opened and two more girls came in: peak time for the chat lines.

Chapter 33

Baffled, Eric turned back to the front of the paper and scanned through the stories more closely. But it was obvious there was nothing about an ex-soldier’s death inside. He couldn’t contain his surprise; it was now two days since the mission and he was sure someone would have discovered the body by now. Curiosity filled him, making him fidget in his seat. He dropped the paper into the bin, rose to his feet and stared out of the window of his office, across the twinkling lights of the city towards where the old man had lived.

Succumbing to the inquisitive urge nagging at him, he left the building and drove to the area behind the station. Once again, he passed the shabby off-licence, retracing his previous route until Wood Road appeared on his left. He turned into the road, scanning ahead for any blue flashing lights. It was deserted. Slowing down a fraction, he stared at the building, looking for signs of police tape at Bert’s door; instead seeing the faint light still glowing from behind the thin blue curtain drawn across his front window. No one had noticed a thing.

As he pulled into his close a short while later he noticed a sheet of paper stuck to the lamppost on the corner. He drew to a stop and wound down his window to read it.

Bold hand-written letters spelt out the word, LOST. Below it was a poorly photocopied snapshot of his neighbour's cat. Lying on what appeared to be a pile of tea towels, it smugly regarded the camera. Eric thought of all the times it had sprayed acrid urine round his garden, laid turds in his flowerbeds and abandoned the corpses of small animals on his lawn. Glancing over the few lines below the image, he spotted a phone number and mention of a reward before he eased the vehicle forward again.

Just as he was locking his garage a trembling voice said, 'Eric?'

He turned around to see his neighbour standing on her front doorstep. With slippers covering her feet, she was reluctant to step onto her drive. Eric walked to the knee-high fence separating their two front lawns. ‘Mrs Fleming, is everything all right?'

‘Well, not really. I don't know if you've seen any of my posters. Frank's gone missing; I haven't seen him for days. I'm worried sick he may be trapped in someone's shed. I was hoping you could just check yours for me?'

'Of course. Now I think of it, I haven't seen his little face looking at me from the top of the fence in days.'

'I know,' she frowned. 'It's horrible not knowing where he is.' A hand went to her throat and she fiddled anxiously with her collar.

'I'll check right now. Though I haven't been in it myself for well over a week.'

'Oh, thank you. It will just help me sleep better knowing he's not in there.'

Eric walked down the narrow passageway and into his back garden. He crossed the lawn to the shed at the bottom and glanced over his shoulder. Light suddenly shone out from his neighbour's French windows as she opened the curtains. He heard the doors being slid back, so he opened his shed and poked his head into the dark interior. Just inside the door was a bag of chicken manure fertiliser and he tapped his fingers on the neck of the sack while calling with unnecessary loudness for such a small space, 'Frank! Fra-ank!' Then, thinking about the animal's impromptu cremation, he whispered to the shadows, 'Can you hear me up in kitty heaven?'

From her garden the neighbour called in a high tremulous voice, ‘Franky, Franky, Franky! Come to Mummy!’.