Breaking Point (11 page)

Once back at my car, I stripped them from my shoes, added them to the sack, tied it closed. With a swift glance around to confirm I was still unobserved, I swung the bag into the trunk of the car, climbed behind the wheel, and drove off.

The bag went into the canal on the way home. I pulled into a service road for this, but no early-evening joggers or cyclists troubled me as I hurled the bag into the centre of the canal and watched it sink without trace.

It occurred to me that, to be fully safe, my work suit should probably be disposed of too. I thought an anonymous donation to a charity shop was the best bet. The torn pocket gave a rationale my wife would accept. Having resolved this, I pulled into the local shop and purchased tea bags.

On the way back to the car, I suddenly started to shake, quite uncontrollably, and tears formed in my eyes. I almost ran the rest of the way, unlocked the driver side, but, as my hand reached for the door handle, a wave of nausea rolled up from my stomach and I barely had time to turn to one side before throwing up violently in the bushes.

I heaved a couple more times, after which my stomach seemed to settle. I half-sat, half-collapsed in the driver's seat, and let the tears and the shakes come. The storm was violent, but swift, and, within ten minutes I was back in control, eyes dried, nose blown, ready to make the journey.

I drove home without further incident. As I pulled into the drive, I remember vividly feeling the relief settle over me. The deed was done, honour had been satisfied, and we were safe. As I opened the car door, and covered the few short steps to the house, I felt the familiar processes begin: filling my mind, my feelings, my very being with her and nothing but her, her words, her gestures, her expressions, her warmth and laughs and frowns and loves. I felt blessed, saved, as I always did. As the key slid smoothly into the lock, I resolved once more that the story of my life would be set, from this moment to the last.

The loving husband and the faithful wife.

THE DEBT

1

Tel holds my gaze thoughtfully. His grin stays fixed, unmoving, like a shark, but his eyes crinkle at the edges, squinting, and I can hear the gears turning. He’s thinking, can I use this? He’s thinking, can I trust this? And my guess is he’s already flicking through his own books, looking at outstanding jobs, profits, losses, schedules. Man’s got a mind like a fucking machine, whirring away under the ‘livin it large’ geezer front. You don’t stay at the top of his kind of game in this manor, for as long as he has, without it. I don’t know anything for sure, but I hear from reliable sources that more than one chancer has misunderestimated this man, and been very fucking sorry.

Not a mistake I’m likely to make. I’ve come up with him, seen him grow while I’ve slogged it out on the straight and narrow, even considered him a mate, sort of. But I saw enough of him in school to know what he is and what he’s capable of. Geezer’s a laugh, no doubt – life and soul, when he wants to be. And generous too – never seems to sit out a round, always buying, always doubles, always how’s the missus? How’s the kids? Waits for an answer too.

Still, he’s a fuckin wrong’un, though it’s been a long time since anyone would say it to his face, or behind his back for that matter. Sadistic, when his blood’s up, but so fucking cold with it. Scary combo.

Still, what choice do I have? Fucking none, that’s what. Over the fucking barrel.

“You mean it? You looking for work?”

“Yeah man. Straight up.”

He nods, still thinking it through. Regarding. Making me feel like a worm on a fucking hook.

“You wanna fag? Let’s step outside, have a fag, catch up. Yeah?”

“Yeah, great. Sure.”

He turns and leaves, cutting through the bodies in the bar like Charlton fucking Heston parting the seas. They just move around him and I follow in his wake, swimming under the safety of the belly of the shark.

We’re out, and head to the back of the tent, where the heaters are blowing the strongest. It’s a fucking cold night, but the half a dozen smokers huddled around take one look at Tel and either stub out or move to the other end. By the time we’re under the heat, it’s just me and him.

Cozy.

Here we go.

He offers me a Rothmans, which I quickly accept. Tel does not appreciate his generosity being refused. He lights it for me, casually handling the gold engraved lighter that probably cost a month’s wages (for me – fuck knows how much Tel clears a month – some things are best not thought about too much).

Couple of pulls, in silence, filling up a good first lungful, letting the nicotine hit my nerves, soothing the worst of the jangles. Waiting for Tel to start the bidding.

“So what is it Del? Money or birds?”

I can’t help but react, even though it’s pretty obvious I’m in the shit. He laughs, that wheezy, dirty chuckle of his, and waits for a reply.

“Money.”

He shakes his head sadly. “Pity. Birds are generally easier to fix, know what I mean?”

I haven’t the first fucking clue, actually, but I go for a rueful smile and nod, which seems to please him. He waves his hand, trailing smoke, dismissing.

“How much?”

Shit. I really didn’t want him to go there. I’m less than thirty seconds in and already the convo’s gone south. Trouble is, he’s spotted the hesitation, so he knows that I’m thinking about lying, and he knows that I know he knows, so he doesn’t have to worry that I will, because I can’t now, can I?

“Twenty large,” I say.

He whistles appreciatively. “That’s a lot of dough mate. You still on a grand and a half a month, right? At the yard?”

“Yeah. Got the supervisor role a while back, that was a nice boost, but since then we’ve had this fucking crunch...”

“Thanks to that Gordon Brown cunt.”

Oh please, not a fucking Tel politics lecture. Kill me now.

“Yeah, innit? Anyway, we all had to take a twenty percent cut just to fucking stay open, didn’t we? That was a fucking year ago, and nothing’s moved since. Except the rent, that’s gone up, along with the lekky, fucking petrol, grub... I mean, work’s ticking over, yeah, but...”

Again he does the wave.

“..Okay, okay, times are fucking tough, don’t need to tell me. But how did you get twenty in the hole, mate? I mean, you ain’t got a gambling habit I don’t know about or some shit, do you? Not got hooked on charlie or some nonsense, have you?”

He knows the answer to these questions. I mean, not how I got in the hole, but he knows it’s not a bookie or dealer I owe. He’s testing me out, seeing how uncomfortable I’m willing to be.

How much pride I have left.

Not fucking much.

“Nothing like that, nah. Look, it’s just... Fucking credit cards, okay? When the raise came in, we thought we was quids in. Everyone was chucking money at us. Fucking even Pam got one of them fucking store cards off the back of my earnings. We got that fucking conservatory on credit, lived a little, took Jodie to fucking Disneyland for her eighth – you know, all that shit.”

He stares at me, mute, listening. Indicating without moving for me to carry on.

Fucker. Probably loving this shit. His old pal Del, Mr. Straight and Narrow, forced to admit to being a prize tit with money. Bastard.

How much pride do I have left?

“Okay, so a lot of debt, but no problem, because everyone’s offering zero on the transfers, so all you gotta do is keep moving it, staying ahead of the interest, right? Worked like a fucking charm until the fucking pay cut. Then all of a sudden, your minimums are eating up the fucking grocery bill because you’re three hundred adrift every month. Then you’re juggling which card to stick the petrol on each month so they don’t twig that you’ve got more going out than you’ve got coming in, right? Then, eventually, your overdraft maxes out and you miss a payment.”

I take a drag and realise my hand is shaking a bit, in spite of the heat. I’ve told not a living soul about this shit to date, and now it’s all pouring out, and fucking Tel just nods and listens, face giving up not a fucking thing, gears grinding, grinding.

“Then they’re really off to the fucking races, right? The transfer offers fucking dry up, you get bounced on applications,” and how I remember the burning shame of that, dear sir we regret to inform you blah blah, burying the fucking letters in the bin before Pam caught wind, just more junk mail love, and the fucking anger – these faceless cunts taking all this fucking money every fucking month, bleeding us out and then fucking us over – it all passes through me in a flash, like a stomach cramp, “they start shutting down any spare credit you do have, making it so you can only pay down what you owe but not spend, and then.. you’re just fucked, basically.”

Fucked, yeah. And I’m starting to get the red letters. I’ve been missing one payment a month, bouncing a different card each time, trying to stay on top, and that held them off for a while, but they’re getting wise to that, and it’s starting to get nasty. The final kick in the nuts came this morning – the bank is taking my fucking overdraft, and I’ve got thirty days to clear the three grand I’m over and get back to zero, or they’re going to start cutting up rough.  Bottom line: If I don’t start getting regular with the card payments, sharpish, they’re going to take the fucking house.

I’m not telling Tel that though.

I have that much pride.

He lets me stew, turning it over.

“Well, that’s pretty shitsville, bruv. I’m really sad to hear it.”

Pause, just a second.

“How’s Pam taking it?”

Cunt. That’s a real fucking twist of the knife, that is. His face doesn’t change, but his eyes glitter. He already knows the answer.

“She doesn’t know.”

She’s starting to suspect though. I mean, she knows things are tight, but she’s always let me handle the money side of things, and I just don’t have the heart to tell her – she’d be gutted.

Pride.

He whistles. Chuckles.

“Sounds like you do have women troubles after all. She’s going to shit when she finds out.”

When
. That doesn’t sound good.

“Don’t I fucking know it. I’ll be fucking brown bread.”

That gets a full on laugh.

“Fucking will be!”

Drags. Exhales. Thoughtful.

“Well, I see why you want work. A loan isn’t gonna do much is it?” The grin gets positively toothy. “My rates are probably worse than the cards.”

Truth. And your way of managing skipped payments is bloody murder.

I laugh, but it’s a little late and a lot strained and he doesn’t show much but I sense I might have pissed him off a bit.

“Trouble is... Times are tough all over, yeah? I’ve got people coming to me for work all the time now. Especially the youngsters. Fuck all opportunities round here, innit? And no offence mate, but you been a straight arrow a long fucking time. What do you know about the game anyway? My game?”

More than you fucking think, shithead. But probably still not enough. Fuck it. I can feel tears threatening to come, my throat tightens.

Don’t beg. He’ll lose all respect if you do, and that’ll flush whatever chance is left.

“Yeah, I know. But, you know, I thought... I thought the straight thing might be a plus, you know? Like, you might have some shit needed doing on the quiet, you know, that wouldn’t go back to you. Someone...” don’t say clean, fuck’s sake ... “someone outside, you know? Fresh.”

Again, his face doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does. Fuck me sideways, he’s actually thinking about it. Come on, you bastard. He’s turning it this way and that, holding it up to the light to see if it’s good, we smoke two more drags with nothing, him staring off into the distance, me hanging by a fucking thread trying to look dependable and not desperate, hoping against hope...

“Nah.” His eyes focus back on my face. His tone plays regret, but I’m not sure it’s real.

“I mean, I do see what you’re saying, but I ain’t got nothing like that in the pipeline right now. Especially not twenty gees worth.”

“That don’t matter. Any work, that’s what I’m saying. Just to keep my head up – if I can hit down the fucking lump sums a bit, then I can chisel the rest myself over the long haul.”

It’s a long way from what I wanted, a long way from what I’d hoped and tried to plan for, but this fucker has played this game a lot longer and a lot better than I could ever hope, and he’s got me over the fucking barrel now, so it turns out this is begging time after all.

He seems to think about it again, then shakes his head, sadly, regretfully.

“Nah, mate. I just ain’t got anything like that on. I wish I could help you, I really do...” Sure you do – just not enough to, you know, actually fucking
do
it - “but it just ain’t happening at the minute.”

Fuck. I think about the date I have circled in my diary. Twenty-eight days away. That’s the date the first card, the one I owe the most on, is going to refer to the bailiffs, because my overdraft will be gone and the payment will bounce. That’s the day I can’t hide it from Pam any more. That’s the date my fucking world burns down, and this selfish prick, this evil bastard, my last hope, is just going to sit there with his fire hose and fucking laugh.

He claps me on the shoulder.

“Anyway, cheer up mate! Might never happen. Maybe things’ll pick up and the OT’ll start coming back. Or maybe you can get a second job for a while.” Not likely, and not in time, and I think you fucking know it, arsehole.

“Anyway, let’s get back in, it’s fucking taters out here. Fancy another one?”

“Nah man, better be heading back. The trouble’ll only give me earache otherwise.”

Dangerous, refusing hospitality like that, but I’m past caring right now. I’m fucking done for. Anyway, he doesn’t seem put out, particularly. Maybe he gets it.

“Okay Del, well, don’t be a stranger,” he says, and I shake his offered hand, making sure to match his tight grip with my own.

“I’ll see you around,” I reply.

“Yeah, okay. Oh, Del,” just as I’m turning to leave, “wanna give me your mobile number? Just in case something does come up? No promises, but I can keep my ear to the ground for you.”

I’m positive he’s just yanking my chain, but he’s got his phone in his hand, ready to start typing, and I think, fuck it, what do I have to lose?

So I give him my work mobile, we shake again, and I leave as he turns back into the pub. I walk to the bus stop in the cold, with the taste of stale lager and cigarette ash swirling around my mouth.

I want to puke.

2

I get home around seven. Pam is watching some crap on the telly, Jodie is reading a book. Nine years old, she’s sitting reading a book while the telly’s on. I fucking love that kid. I give her a hug and a kiss on the head, exchange grunts with Pam, and go and nuke dinner.

And then, time just passes. The days at work, crushing cars (only bit of the business that’s still thriving, gotta love a downturn), down The Head for a pint or two, home, nuke dinner, rinse, repeat. Pam has even stopped giving me earache, which is a mixed blessing. I mean, I can do without the nightly rows, that’s for sure, but now, it’s worse, somehow. She just sits there on the couch like a fucking lump, lies next to me in bed like a fucking lump. It’s like she knows, and she’s only waiting for me to come clean so she can get up on her high horse and shit all over me. I’ve always done the money, that’s the thing, and she’s always trusted me, and now that’s all done, or it will be, and she’ll blame me for all of it.