When The Devil Drives (3 page)

He was looking at her again, checking how she was taking it, waiting eagerly for her response now that she couldn’t play the same get-out card.

How on earth did I end up here, Jasmine asked herself, putting up with shit like this? Honestly. The things you had to do for money.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow,’ she told him. ‘Was there something in particular you wanted to ask me?’

‘Aye. I was trying to tell them you’re not bothered by us talking about this kinda stuff, so they shouldnae be stopping us just because they don’t like it. That’s right, isn’t it?’

Jasmine knew she had to eschew a response ostensibly agreeing with him and adding, in this spirit of sexual candour that permitted speculation about colleagues’ genitals, how she imagined he probably had a cock like a budgie’s tongue. Instead her words had to be measured and carefully chosen.

‘I don’t think you should be saying anything that makes the people
you’re working with uncomfortable, and what you just said was grossly disrespectful to all of us as colleagues and as women. I think you’d have to consider yourself very lucky if neither Doreen nor Sandra put in a complaint.’

Liam looked towards her with a glare that told her they probably weren’t going to be BFFs.

‘Oh, sorry, were you wanting my actual opinion, or just a wee bit of “banter”?’ she asked.

The atmosphere did not improve, but at least everybody was equally uncomfortable and Liam wasn’t getting to enjoy himself. What disappointed Jasmine, however, was that Sandra and Doreen thereafter seemed almost as pissed off at her as they were at Liam. Evidently, she shouldn’t have poked the tiger.

Once the operation was over, the patient was wheeled into recovery by Dr Hagan and Sandra, while Liam went off on a break, having said very little throughout. Jasmine was helping clear up, though she had learned not to touch anything until directed to do so by one of the nurses.

‘You’d better watch yourself now,’ Doreen told her quietly. ‘You’re new, so you weren’t to know, but you’re better just ignoring him. Get on his bad side and it’s more trouble than it’s worth.’

‘But he clearly thinks that’s acceptable, and it isn’t. You should put in a complaint.’

Doreen gave a sour laugh.

‘You think nobody ever has? Also more trouble than it’s worth. Behind his back, his nickname round here is Eliot.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘As in Ness?’

‘Still don’t get it,’ Jasmine confessed.

‘What age are you?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘Before your time, right enough.
The Untouchables
.’

‘I see.’

‘No, you don’t know the half. He’s a law unto himself, knows the system inside out. He’s well in with Brian Anderson, the Unison FoC, and he’s got Brian believing that all the complaints are trumped-up charges because management have it in for him. Well, technically that’s true: management would love to get rid of him, but they can never make anything stick.’

‘Why not? His behaviour today was in front of several witnesses.’

‘Nobody ever feels like talking by the time the grievance proceedings are heard. That’s why I’m warning you to watch out. He’s very intimidating. Christ, Sharon Murphy’s been off five months long-term sick with stress; Julie Philips was off the best part of a year and then put in for a transfer. He’s not daft either. There was a porter saw him moving boxes of drugs out the back door, which there’s been rumours about for years. Liam knew this porter was in a flute band, so he claimed the guy had made it up to get him sacked because he was a Catholic. Don’t think Liam’s darkened the door of a chapel in twenty years, but management panicked soon as he’d played that card. It was his word against the porter’s, same as it was his word against Sharon’s over the sexual harassment. As I say, it’s not worth it. Keep your head down. Stay out his way.’

Jasmine knew it was too late for that. She could try not to antagonise him any further, but the damage was done. Even if she kept her head down, as Doreen suggested; even if she did her best to physically avoid him, she suspected Liam would be making a point of seeking her out.

He didn’t wait long. It happened the next day.

Jasmine was wheeling a stack of equipment along the corridor following a colonoscopy list when Liam appeared at her side and began pushing the trolley too. His left arm was stretched across her shoulders, not quite touching, but enclosing her between him and the stack nonetheless.

‘Many hands make light work,’ he said.

‘I’ve got it,’ she said. ‘I’m fine myself.’

‘Don’t be daft. Between us we can have this back where it belongs in no time.’

His tone was polite and matter-of-fact, lacking any trace of grudge or aggression. It sounded like an olive branch, or at least as if it was supposed to.

Oh, you’re good, she thought. But not as good as you think.

‘I said I’m fine. I’d prefer it if you took your hand away. You’re crowding me and it makes me feel uncomfortable.’

His hand seemed to grip the steel a little tighter for a moment, probably an indicator of suppressed rage, then he let go, holding both hands up in an exaggerated gesture, giggling a little, as though mocking what an unnecessary fuss she was making.

‘Wouldn’t want that,’ he said. ‘Just trying to help out. I’m heading this way anyway. I’m going to orthopaedic theatre. Mr Williams has his usual over-long list this afternoon. Be lucky if we’re finished by seven.’

He kept walking alongside her, talking. Talking too much. Explaining himself when he didn’t need to. Jasmine felt a dull dread in her stomach. She wasn’t liking this.

They passed two nurses dawdling in the other direction, probably pacing themselves so that they’d have time to finish the packet of biscuits they were eating between them before they got back to their ward.

‘You know, nobody’s going to think you can’t manage by yourself just because you’ve accepted a bit of help,’ he said, still polite, still cheerful, still walking way too close alongside.

The room where the stacks were stored was just up ahead.

‘I
can
manage by myself and I’d rather you left me alone.’

Liam glanced forward and gave a dismissive shake of the head, a hollow smile remaining on his lips.

‘Just trying to help, hen.’

He skipped ahead a couple of paces and pulled open the door to the equipment room.

‘At least let me get this for you.’

Jasmine would have preferred he didn’t, but she didn’t really have a choice. He was already holding it. She looked up and down the corridor, disappointed to see nobody coming.

Liam looked at his watch, partly to mock her hesitation but possibly also to check how long before he was due in theatre.

Jasmine wheeled the stack through the open door and into the narrow storage room, where several similar trolleys were ranged against the walls. She heard the door close behind her and turned to see that Liam was standing in front of it. He put an arm across her shoulders again and began pushing the stack towards an empty slot.

‘Tricky parking these things,’ he said, his arm now resting across her neck.

The stack bumped the back wall and Jasmine turned around. Liam had both hands on the stack, either side of her arms, trapping her.

‘Let me past,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have followed me in here. I find what you’re doing extremely intimidating.’

‘What? You that can manage by herself? You that doesn’t need anybody’s help? You’re saying you’re intimidated now?’

‘You’re a man twice my age and twice my size and you’ve got me pinned up close inside an enclosed space where nobody can see us. Yes, I’m intimidated. Let me past.’

Liam lifted his right hand from the stack and held it in front of her, but he didn’t move out of the way. Instead he waited until she made to move, then he placed it upon her shoulder. He focused a steely stare into Jasmine’s eyes and slowly slid his hand downwards.

Jasmine took a breath and swallowed, both to fight back tears and to steady her voice to speak.

‘Your hand is on my breast,’ she said, just managing to keep the timbre of her voice above a whisper. It sounded like a cruel parody of words spoken in a lover’s clinch. ‘That is considered sexual assault.’

‘Not if it never happened,’ he replied, moving his face closer to hers, the sour smell of cigarettes on his breath. ‘Like you said, nobody can see us. Your word against mine, hen.’

‘Is that how it was with Sharon Murphy? Your word against hers?’

‘If you heard about Sharon, you’ll know what I’m trying to say here.’

Jasmine did: loud and clear. This wasn’t about sexual harassment: sexual harassment was merely the weapon he used. This was about power.

‘I don’t take shite from anybody,’ he said, almost nose to nose, his right hand lightly squeezing her left breast. ‘Not from torn-faced
boots like her and not from snobby wee cows like you. See I clocked your type right away. Student summer job is it? Just passing through so you think you’re better than the likes of me. Talking all proper, like you’re giving a commentary. “Your hand is on my tit,”’ he mimicked. ‘Think you’ll be buying and selling me one day, don’t you. Well I’ve got news for you, bitch. In here, I’m the one that owns you.’

Jasmine reached to his hand and pulled it away from her.

‘I think that’s enough,’ she said.

‘
I’ll
decide what’s enough,’ he growled, throwing off her grip and replacing his hand on her breast.

‘Actually, I think you’ll find it’s a third party who’ll decide it’s enough. More than enough.’

She had spoken clearly but he didn’t hear what she was telling him.

‘Third party? You still arenae listening, are you, hen? Your word against mine, remember, and who are they gaunny believe? I’m an ODA, been here twenty-odd years. You’re in the door five minutes and you’re just a clinical support worker.’

Jasmine allowed herself a smile.

‘That’s where you’re really quite disastrously wrong,’ she told him brightly.

She could see the change of tone provoke first surprise, then confusion and then, as she went on, true, exquisite horror.

‘I’m not a clinical support worker, I’m a private investigator, and the reason I’m giving a running commentary is for the benefit of your employers who are listening in. Hence you’re profoundly mistaken about your own job status too: trust me on this, maggot, you
were
an ODA.’

The tallest trees stand like Greek columns, making a proscenium of a Highland glade, grass lush and soft beneath bare feet. A felled trunk lies at the centre like some minimalist modern sculpture, an ancient thing of indeterminate purpose: climbing frame, picnic table, bench and even bower. There are human figures curled before it, feigning sleep. The moon hangs impossibly above like a glitterball, a globe rather than a mere disc of light, shadows and contours rendering it perceptibly spherical. It looks mere miles away, and thus too solid to simply sit there unsupported, not like some wispy cloud that can plausibly drift upon the air. It appears thus because though it is evening, the sky is not yet dark. All above the trees there is clear blue, minute by minute more tinged with the magenta promise of another summer’s day.

It may seem an incongruous setting for a malign conspiracy, but the hour is later than the light would indicate, and even the prettiest arbour hides secrets in its shadows.

A demon and a god stand either side of the felled trunk, malice in their souls, but neither is the darkest spirit lurking amid the woods this midsummer’s night.

‘Captain of our fairy band,’ the demon addresses the god. ‘Helena is here at hand, And the youth, mistook by me, Pleading for a lover’s fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!’

‘Stand aside,’ his lord replies. ‘The noise they make Will cause Demetrius to awake.’

‘Then will two at once woo one; That must needs be sport alone; And those things do best please me that befal preposterously.’

The audience observes from three rows of tiered seating atop an articulated trailer, one end of which is hitched to a tractor. There is no need of a curtain nor of slides or backdrops, as each change of scene is effected by the audience being relocated to another part of the castle grounds, where their champagne flutes are replenished silently and solicitously by waiting staff in black tie and cocktail dresses. A susurrus of fizzing greets each new act like quiet applause, giving way to occasional whispers, a resultant modicum of shushing, the low buzz of phones on vibrate and, as the performance draws on, in one instance light snoring.

The sleeper apart, most of the audience are enjoying the play; or at least telling themselves that they are enjoying the play, for not to would be to admit to lacking in culture. Some would have preferred seats for Murrayfield, or even seats for
Mamma Mia
if theatre was the theme, but they know that this is a privilege. The greater part of its worth is in simply being able to say that you were there, that you were invited, as this trip is regarded as a cut far above the corporate hospitality the bank ordinarily proffers. It says something about your standing if you are taken to Cragruthes Castle: not merely your worth as a client, but the class of individual the bank perceives you to stand among. This is no mere dramatic spectacle either: the play is bracketed by dinner in the grand hall and overnight accommodation in rooms fit for (and in some cases previously used by) royalty.

Among the audience there are those whose appreciation of the evening is less equivocal, and they are as distinct in this as they are in their dress.

One is the man in trews. He is as relaxed and content as he has been since this time last year, though there is just a tiny shade of melancholy running through his reverie: of regret at a different life never led. His pleasure is twofold. He is the Laird of Ruthes, owner of the castle that has been in his family for four centuries, but none of his forebears were so challenged by the burden of its upkeep. Even before the predations of the credit crunch upon his portfolio, he had been forced to look for ways in which the castle and its policies could pay for itself, and corporate entertaining has proven its saviour. Cragruthes was not big enough, not of sufficient historical importance nor stuffed with the requisite treasures to attract the level of what
the consultant called ‘footfall’ required to make it worth opening its doors to tourism. However, as a venue for select events it had what he was told was ‘high-end niche value’. Thus businesses could hire it to conduct top-level meetings amid aristocratic luxury, or to reward their executives – or perhaps their clients – with a few days’ private and exclusive hunting and fishing. These activities proved lucrative, but by their nature they tended to be sporadic and unpredictable. For eight years now, the most reliably consistent revenue stream on the calendar has been the midsummer plays staged in the grounds. The troupe are, strictly speaking, amateurs, but their company does get paid, and handsomely. This engagement goes a long way towards funding whatever else they choose to produce throughout the year.