Think Yourself Lucky (10 page)

"A Greek island," David said and tried not to betray any relief. "Can you say which one?"

"Have we been looking like we can?" Almost as aggressively her husband said "Maybe we can take your books home and carry on there."

"You're welcome to take them. But honestly, I'm here to help in any way I can."

"Maybe it's not your kind of help we need. Just get the Greek ones, Daff. Leave the others," Pat said, jerking the door back and forth to hasten her out of the shop.

David felt as if his thoughts were following them downhill. As he returned the abandoned brochures to the racks he could imagine Pat and Daff were continuing the routine—inarticulacy aggravated by incomprehension—that appeared to have overtaken their relationship. Could the husband really understand as little as he had? David didn't like to think he'd been pretending, let alone enjoying the pretence. As he went back to the counter Andrea caught his attention with a peremptory cough. "I need a word, David."

"Any in particular?"

"I've told you before about being clever." She stood up as an indication that he should follow her. "Could you not let the little one damage those, please," she said to a couple whose toddler had snatched a brochure from the lowest rack, and not much less sharply "If I'm needed out here, someone let me know."

David had barely shut the staffroom door when she said "I want to hear what you say happened when you were leafleting."

"Someone who said he was from the council told me I needed a permit,"

"You don't remember his name, or didn't you get it from him?"

"I don't know why I would have wanted it at all."

"You didn't think to ask for any form of identification."

"As a matter of fact I did, but he wasn't showing any to the likes of me.

"You ought to have insisted. You need to be a bit more forceful."

"Yes, I've seen that's how you like your men." Of course he didn't say that; he didn't even think it sounded like him. "You mean," he said, "he mightn't have been from the council after all."

"I'm afraid he was, and he tells rather a different tale."

"You've heard from him, have you?" When Andrea only gave a displeased cough David said "Any success with the name?"

"It's Mr Norville."

"Nervous Norville, is it? I bet they called him that at school." While David managed not to say this either, it felt too close to thinking like a vindictive child. "I thought if I needed a permit," he said, "you'd have given me one."

"You're saying I'm to blame." Before David could deny it Andrea said "Was there anything else to the incident?"

"Don't try so hard to sound like a manager. I won't be forgetting how else I've heard you sound." Thinking this made David feel as if he was committing rape inside his head, not least because she couldn't know he was remembering her moans in his ear. "He tried to make out I was dropping litter," he said hastily, "if that's what you mean."

"And were you?"

"I wouldn't call our advertising litter, would you?"

"That sort of comment isn't going to do you any good, David."

"I'm starting to wonder what will."

"Certainly not that kind of remark either. Did you drop any of our leaflets?"

"Some people did. I'm afraid that's what they thought of our offers."

"Unless it was the way you sold them."

"Or how they looked."

"If you had a problem with the format, David, perhaps you should have raised it before you took them to the public."

"I didn't say I had one. I'm saying maybe some of our customers did. And as for littering," David protested, "I was nearly run over trying to pick one up that someone dropped."

"Run over." Without relinquishing her incredulity Andrea said "Where were you handing them out?"

"Nowhere I shouldn't have been, believe me, but somebody was scooting around as if he owned the pavement."

"You're referring to the disabled gentleman, I take it."

"You've heard all about him as well, have you?" In too much of a rage to be careful what he said David demanded "What else does your Mr Norville say I did?"

"I understand you got into an argument, and he says you used discriminatory language."

"I didn't say anything the fellow on the scooter didn't. How many more words are we supposed to keep to ourselves? There are words I don't like hearing in the street myself, but I'll bet nobody's going to listen to me." David felt near to indulging in the kind of rant that had led Kinnear to imagine he could be a writer—the kind he'd vowed never again to let loose. "Seriously," he said, "what business is it of his?"

"It's our business. That's what you were out there representing."

"Not after he'd told me I couldn't. He's trying to have it both ways if you ask me."

"You aren't being honest with me, David. I'll give you one last chance."

"To do what?" Her attitude seemed so intolerably parental that he had no idea how childish his response might be. "I don't know what you're on about," he said.

"You want me to think you did as you were told."

"Wasn't I a good boy? Has somebody been telling tales?" The retort only left him feeling more ridiculous. "Look, we can both behave better than we are," he risked saying. "If you aren't happy with the job I did, just tell me what your problem is."

He had to watch her face withdraw all recognition of the past they shared before she said "The fact that you carried on doing it when you'd been told you couldn't."

"By someone who wouldn't show me his authority," David protested, and then anger overtook him. "He was spying on me, was he? Hid in the crowd and followed me, or was it someone else? The chap on the scooter or the man with the good book?"

"I don't know what you mean by that, David, and perhaps I better hadn't know. You were caught on the security cameras."

"So that's what they're for, is it? Making sure nobody's offered any holidays. Nothing worse is happening out there." Although it made him feel absurd he couldn't help complaining "Maybe they should keep an eye on how people ride around the streets. Before the scooter got me a car on a crossing nearly did, and then a cyclist on the pavement had a go. Third time lucky, you might say, except I wasn't."

"Are you saying you were injured? You should have taken it up with Mr Norville at the time. I'm surprised he didn't see."

"He did."

"What exactly do you mean? That he isn't to be trusted?"

"Someone isn't. You decide." Close to accusingly David said "Did you think he was?"

"I haven't met him. He reported the whole incident to our head office."

"Too scared to come in here and speak up for himself, was he?" David didn't need her look to tell him he sounded pathetic; there was nothing in him to frighten anyone like Norville or indeed anybody else. "So what are you going to tell them?" he said.

"Is there anything else you'd like to say in your defence?"

"I was just trying to help the business."

"I can pass that on." She seemed about to continue when someone knocked at the staffroom door. "Yes, come in," she called. "We've finished."

"Sorry if I interrupted," Helen said. "It's the couple with the little one.

"What's he being allowed to do now?"

"It isn't that. He'll be too old to go free when they travel but they're saying he should because he's young enough now."

"For heaven's sake, can't anybody deal with people any more?" Andrea stalked out to the counter and planted her hands on her hips. "Well," she rather more than asked, "where have they gone?"

"I told them Helen was right and they took their ball home," Bill said, losing the larger part of his grin as Andrea stared at him. "Went looking for their free flight, anyway. It's not like anyone will give it to them."

"Maybe they'll come back," Emily said, "when they find we're as good as anyone."

"We need to be better." Andrea watched Helen and David return to the counter as if she was causing if not urging this to happen. "I'm leaving you in charge, Helen," she said. "I want to see how our competitors are promoting themselves."

Nobody spoke until she'd left the shop, letting in a strain from an accordion down the hill. "What was wrong, David?" Emily said. "Or don't you want to say?"

"Apparently I've been reported for handing out our leaflets when we should have got permission first."

Her face turned pink on his behalf while Bill and Helen made their indignation audible. "You were only doing what you thought was right," Emily said. "When you think what some people do..."

David felt he was being invited to ask "Anyone we know?"

"Whoever's been using that title of yours for a start."

"I did say it wasn't my title." He would very much rather not have been reminded of the blog, and felt compelled to add "Anyway, they're only words."

"It's worse than that, I wouldn't like to meet whoever's responsible."

Despite his reluctance David couldn't avoid saying "Worse how?"

"Words can hurt too, can't they?" For a moment he was able to believe this was all Emily meant, and then she said "They've been writing about someone who was in the news. If they can say that kind of thing I wouldn't want to think what they'd be like if you ever met them."

He'd met far too many people like that, David tried to reassure himself. Behaviour like that was all too common on the train— people who brought food and its smell into the carriage, and ate with their mouth open to share the sight and sounds with their fellow passengers, not to mention planting their feet on the seats and leaving behind the detritus of however many courses of their meal—but how many of them also took their shoes off and complained about the fit? How many talked to nobody in particular throughout the journey and let sentence after sentence trail off, dangling a lonely word? There was no point in trying to deny the truth. Whoever was responsible for
Better Out Than In
had in mind a man David remembered from the train just weeks ago.

His name was Donald Sugden, and he'd died in the lift at Lime Street. Now David realised why the face in the newspaper was familiar, though when he'd read the item at Stephanie's restaurant he hadn't managed to grasp that it was. Sugden was in David's local paper too, in the obituary section.
Beloved Husband, My Life's Companion
...
Much Missed Dad
...
Unfailingly Helpful Brother-in-law
... David was grateful to be distracted by the rumble of a bin across the road, where Mrs Robbins was trundling hers to the kerb to await tomorrow's collection, but when he lowered his eyes he found two images of Sugden—a recent photograph and a younger version—gazing up at him. Why should he feel guilty because someone had disliked the man enough to celebrate his death? Vicious comments were often posted online after people died, not infrequently by total strangers lent courage by disguise or anonymity. He would be dismayed to think that Sugden's family might read the blog, but surely nothing would attract their attention. He had to admit that he was more relieved that nobody would associate the blog with him. Apart from Stephanie, nobody knew about Lucky, and she seemed happy to believe the blog was a coincidence.

Couldn't it be one? Weren't all the entries about common forms of misbehaviour—shop assistants ignoring customers, car owners who couldn't be bothered to quell their alarms, cinemagoers who blundered in front of you when you were watching a film? That entry seemed to have even less to do with David, since he didn't care for horror films, especially not the kind the blog described, if the film even existed. Surely all he need do in order to reassure himself was read the rest of the blog. He was behaving too much like Andrea's image of him—timid, ineffectual, useless. In a rage he brought up the site on his laptop and chose the latest listing on the sidebar. "
Pests
," it said.

He couldn't help agreeing for a few paragraphs, until he saw that Mr Lucky wasn't just distributing pamphlets in the street but being warned off by an official with a jerky head. While the blog didn't give the man's name, David knew it all too well. He had to force his hands to relax, because they were gripping the sides of the laptop so fiercely that he heard the plastic creak. Long before he'd finished reading the entry he kept feeling he'd forgotten how to breathe. "What are you doing?" he said wildly, he wasn't sure to whom.

"
Look
." That was the last word, and he stared at it as though it had paralysed him. The room around him seemed to have grown less substantial than a photograph—the shelves of favourite books from his childhood and later, not to mention discs of old films he liked; the armchairs he'd saved when his parents were replacing their furniture, which just now felt too much like a bid to conjure up companionship; the big thin television screen as blank as his mind wanted to be. He was hardly aware of fingering the keyboard, but it brought him back to the home page of the site, where the unrepentant title along with the column of first words and phrases seemed to invite him to venture deeper into the blackness against which they hung. Perhaps it was a desperate attempt to postpone thinking that made him click on another phrase. Who's next? the words might have been daring him to discover.

Mr Accident was, and soon David had to give up pretending not to know his real name. Mrs Robbins was in the blog as well, and Slocombe's general store up the road. David felt he was being hollowed out by everything he read. When Dent's gutter gave way and the man fell two storeys onto the concrete, David's hands clutched at the air as if he could catch the victim. He raised his eyes with no idea of where he was looking except anywhere but at the screen, and saw Mrs Robbins bearing yet another bag of rubbish to her bin.

For a moment he felt too guilty to think, and then he lurched to his feet and dashed out of the house. How could he look normal, as if he had some pretext for being in the street? His bin had to be one, and he grabbed the chilly plastic handle to trundle the bin to the kerb. "It's that time again, Mrs Robbins," he called, the only words he could think of.

"It keeps someone in a job."