Epitaph (2 page)

Paul Crane closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, eyes closed, head thumping.

He remained in that position for a moment longer then reached out a hand and slapped on the light. A welcoming glow filled the hallway and Paul finally opened his eyes slowly. He sucked in another weary breath then dropped his briefcase. It landed with a thud on the expensive carpet.

The hall was pleasingly cool compared to the heat he’d struggled through outside. Paul hated the warm weather, especially in the summer. The often unrelenting heat that bathed the country for days or weeks at a time. He enjoyed the chill of autumn and winter far more. During the summer he had to retire all his favourite jackets for the duration of the heat. His office, naturally, was air-conditioned but, once he’d left that safe and temperature-regulated haven, he was out on to the streets surrounded, it seemed, by people with pink tinted skin and scarlet cheeks. People who seemed to be impervious
to the sunshine or, at any rate, incapable of ensuring that it didn’t cause them to look so comical.

This particular evening, the amount he’d drunk seemed to have exacerbated his dislike not only of the heat but of other people. He had studied those he’d ridden home with and experienced emotions ranging from contempt to hatred.

Everyone he’d looked at he’d imagined to be happier than he was. More financially secure than he was. Had more to look forward to in life than he had. Everything he was about to lose, they probably had.

Normally he would have taken a taxi home from work but, he reasoned, normally he wouldn’t have been thinking about the cost of a cab. He wouldn’t have been consider -ing the cost of anything because financial concerns weren’t high on his list of priorities. This particular evening, however, was different. Since receiving the news he’d got earlier that day, suddenly everything financial seemed of the utmost import ance. Every penny was crucial from now on, he told himself.

It had been the first thought to hit him when he’d heard he’d lost his job.

There had been no sense of failure, no sudden onset of self-doubt and thoughts of rejection. He had been overcome by one all-consuming and unshakeable conviction. He was going to lose everything. His home, his lifestyle and everything he loved. In the middle of the worst world recession in living memory, Paul Crane had been made redundant and he didn’t know how he was going to cope.

He ran a hand through his hair and wandered through from the hall into the kitchen to his left, dropping the mail he’d collected on to the kitchen table. He pulled a bottle
of vodka from the freezer, retrieved a glass from the cupboard above his head and poured some of the clear liquor into it. He swallowed most of it in one motion, as if he were dying of thirst, then he put the glass on the kitchen table, pulled out one of the chairs there and sat down. His head was spinning. He’d already drunk half a dozen large measures and a couple of tequila shots before coming home and now he looked at the bottle, common sense telling him not to consume any more of the vodka but a louder voice inside his mind urging him to drink until he collapsed. To anaesthetise himself against the pain of the day. Blot out the reality of the situation until at least the following morning.

Fuck it. Why not? What reason have you got to stay sober?

He held the glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, the cold surface numbing his flesh.

To drink or not to drink. That is the question.

He shook his head.

A job, a job. My kingdom for a job.

He lifted the vodka bottle and poured more of the liquor into the glass.

Employment, employment. Wherefore art thou, employment?
Again he shook his head.

Funny fucker, aren’t you?

Paul took a sip from the glass and then put it down, letting out a weary breath.

It was quiet inside the room; his neighbours in the flats above and below and to either side of him were out or going about their business in their usual subdued and undemonstrative ways. That had been one of the things that had attracted Paul to the flat in the first place, its solitude. He knew his neighbours to nod at if he passed them
in the walkways or met them in the lifts but, apart from such cursory meetings, everyone including him seemed to keep themselves to themselves. There was very little commun ity spirit within the block of thirty luxury apartments but that was something Paul was grateful for. He was comfortable in the company of others but had always truly enjoyed keeping his own counsel more. He had plenty of friends and always had done. From his various occupations he had amassed the requisite collection of acquaintances during his thirty-six years but, with a handful of notable exceptions, Paul Crane was more content alone.

And, at this precise moment in time, he felt more alone than he ever had in his life.

‘I’ve got to go.’

Gina Hacket glanced at her watch as she sat up in bed
.

‘Just another few minutes,’ said the figure lying next to her.

He ran one hand up the inside of her right thigh as he spoke, his fingers gliding along the smooth, taut skin there.

‘We’ve been here for three hours already,’ Gina reminded him
.

‘Not moaning, are you? You weren’t complaining when we first got here.’

She glanced around the room and shook her head almost imperceptibly.

The hotel room was basic, to say the least. Thirty-five pounds bought functional rather than luxurious. A rough, dark brown bedspread that resembled and indeed felt only two or three degrees softer than hessian lay untidily upon the bed. The sheets beneath were rumpled and sweat-soaked from earlier exertions. The carpet was worn and threadbare in places. There was a sofa beneath the window, its cushions badly in need of a steam clean. The same was true of the orange curtains. Blinds hung at the
windows, the slats waving lazily in the breeze from the opening. There was no air conditioning and only the warm air from outside circulated inside the room. The air within smelled musky. A smell of sex and hastily snatched pleasure. From outside, she could hear the sound of passing traffic.

Gina looked at the no smoking sign above the small sideboard to her right, perched above a grubby white kettle and a bowl of coffee sachets, tea bags and single-serving milk cartons.

There were two empty soft drink bottles there, too. She and her companion had brought them into the room when they’d first entered. Gina felt like something stronger.

Her companion trailed two fingers gently between her legs and felt the heat and moisture there. When he removed the digits he offered them to her and she flicked her tongue over them, tasting both herself and his saltier emission, too.

‘Just a quickie,’ he grinned
.

‘There’s no such thing with you,’ she told him, trying to inject a note of disapproval into her voice but failing miserably. ‘There never has been.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it? Better than it all being over within a couple of minutes.’

‘Time’s like money; it’s fine when you’ve got it to spare.’

‘Smart-arse.’

‘I was just saying.’ She shifted position slightly on the bed, her attention caught by a long crack in the ceiling. She lay gazing at it.

He pulled her hand down towards his groin and she felt her fingers brush against his erection. Gina looked down at it, her fingers closing briefly around his shaft.

‘It won’t take long,’ he assured her, moving closer to her, kissing her slender neck.

‘I’m sure it won’t,’ she breathed as he pushed more insistently against her, his penis butting against her thigh.

‘Come on’
.

‘You’ve got to be back at work, haven’t you?’ she continued
.

‘Eventually.’

‘They’ll notice you’re not there.’

‘No one checks up on me. As long as the work gets done they don’t stand looking over my shoulder, you know.’

Gina felt his hand on her face and he stroked her cheek softly. She turned her face towards him and he kissed her. She responded almost in spite of herself. When she pulled away she was breathing more raggedly.

‘I knew I’d persuade you,’ he grinned, his hand now gliding to her breasts, his palms brushing over the erect nipples. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t want it again. I know what you’re like.’

‘Not now,’ she whispered
.

‘Why have you always got one eye on the clock?’ he wanted to know.

‘You know why. I want to be home when Laura gets there. I don’t like her coming home to an empty house.’ She swung herself off the bed, picked up her knickers from the floor and walked through to the tiny bathroom.

‘Perhaps we should meet up earlier in the day, then you wouldn’t have to worry about that,’ he called.

‘We’ll both have to worry about it soon. It’s the school holidays. She’s off for six weeks.’ Gina inspected her reflection in the mirror, fluffing up her shoulder-length auburn hair with her hands. She pulled on her knickers then returned to the bedroom.

‘What are we going to do? When are we going to meet up?’ There was something like irritation in his voice.

‘She’s staying with her grandparents for a week. We can see
each other then,’ Gina told him, retrieving the remainder of her clothes from around the room. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

He watched her as she buttoned her blouse then slipped a hair band around her hair, pulling it into a ponytail.

‘Are you getting dressed?’ she enquired, looking at her naked companion who was now sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘You can’t leave me like this,’ he said, raising his eyebrows and indicating his erection with one index finger.

Gina hesitated for a moment then dropped slowly to her knees between his legs.

‘I told you,’ he grinned. ‘It won’t take long. I promise.’

She dipped her head, closing her mouth around the tip of his erection, her tongue sliding across the sensitive glans. The carpet felt rough beneath her bare knees but she ignored it and concentrated on the stiffness in her mouth. She massaged his testicles gently as she slid her head up and down his shaft, hearing his breathing grow more laboured. After a moment or two, he bucked his hips upwards to match her movements. She felt one of his hands on the back of her head, keeping her in position as he neared his peak.

He groaned in appreciation
.

‘I told you it wouldn’t take long,’ he gasped.

He was true to his word. Gina felt his penis throb in her mouth and she kept her lips fastened around it as he climaxed, his thick fluid filling her mouth. She swallowed it quickly then straightened up, glancing back at him lying naked on the bed, his organ softening after his release.

‘That’s better,’ he grinned, his eyes still closed.

She pulled on her jeans, stepped into her shoes and headed for the door.

‘If you’re still horny tonight your husband can take care of
you, can’t he?’ he called to her and she thought that she heard a note of sarcasm in his voice. She paused and looked evenly at him.

‘I’ll ring you tomorrow,’ he added, stepping through into the bathroom. She heard the shower sputter into life.

Gina dug in her pocket for her front-door keys and checked her watch once more. As long as the bus came on time, she should be home in twenty minutes.

Across the street, hidden by the shadows of the doorway in which it stood, the figure that had been watching her since she arrived at the hotel now watched her leave.

In all of his thirty-six years on the planet, Paul Crane had never felt the sense of helplessness he now experienced as he sat at his kitchen table.

Combined with a growing feeling of anger and desperation, it closed around him like an invisible vice, tightening with every passing moment. Perhaps, he told himself, he’d had it too easy in his life up until this point. Maybe that was why this current chain of events had hit him so much harder than he’d expected. But, as he considered his situation, he knew that wasn’t true. He’d worked hard for everything he had. None of what he’d achieved had been down to luck; it had been down to sheer bloody hard work and, now, all that counted for nothing.

With no job he knew that he would lose everything that mattered to him. His home. His way of life and, even more cripplingly, his self-belief and confidence. He had no savings to fall back on. He’d never been one to plan ahead and make provision for such shattering eventualities.

He earned money and he spent it. It was as simple as that. He bought the best clothes, the finest wines and when he ate out he did so at the best restaurants. He always paid top price for theatre, concert or event tickets and, when he took holidays, he never considered travelling any other way but first class and enjoying his breaks in nothing less than five-star hotels. The money had always been there. That was why he worked, to ensure that he could afford the best that life offered. He’d never envisaged the day when all that would change so why, he wondered, should he have seen it coming? He was good at his job. Well liked by his colleagues and those he dealt with. There was never any reason why he should have suspected that when job cuts were made at his firm he should be one of those who was so simply and easily discarded.

And that was where the desolation turned to anger. There were others he knew of who were less competent than him. Others who deserved to lose their jobs.

He’d been at Meyer and Banks advertising agency for close to fifteen years. He’d done a bit of everything there in his time. Market research at the beginning, then design, direct marketing and finally copy writing. There’d never been any complaints about his input, commitment or dedication. Customers had always liked him. Some of the agency’s most successful campaigns over the years had been because of him. The quality of his work had been consist -ently high. Unlike some he could think of even now as he sat helplessly at his kitchen table.

He wanted to smash something. To pick up the glass and hurl it at the nearest wall and bellow his rage and frustration.

He wanted to know why it had to be him. Why did he have to be the one who lost his job?

Of course the subject had been mentioned briefly during the course of the afternoon but, upon hearing the news of his release (dismissal made it sound as if he’d been removed because of some inadequacy) he had been too shocked to probe his bosses about the reasons for his removal from the position he enjoyed so much. They had spoken of things like redundancy payments and working until the end of the month but all of those subjects had floated past him. As if they’d been spoken while he was asleep. After the initial news that he was being released, very little had penetrated his consciousness. He wondered if this was what it was like hearing you had a terminal disease. Once the word terminal had been uttered, everything else was subordinate and unnecessary.

Had this happened a year or two earlier then he would not have received the news with such despair, but to be laid off in the middle of such a deep and seemingly endless recession offered little hope of salvation. A year or two earlier there would have been other firms willing to employ him. Other companies only too willing to take on his expertise. He would have looked upon his redundancy as a chance to take a holiday. A hiatus from the daily grind. He would have used that time between jobs to relax and enjoy some of the life that his handsome salary brought him.

But not now.

Paul poured himself another drink and slumped back in his chair, the anger he’d felt now replaced once again by that same creeping despair he had grown so accustomed to since leaving his office earlier in the day.

The sensible side of him said that he should get up early in the morning and scour every available outlet for a job to replace the one he’d lost. But sense didn’t feature too strongly in his mindset at this precise moment. It was hard to think logically and begin formulating plans when you felt so much distress and helplessness. Anyone who thought otherwise had never been in this position.

The other side of him had already decided that there was nothing to do at present but wallow in self-pity and that no amount of enthusiasm, drive or desire was going to get him a comparable position in a firm of equal or better standing. It was a matter of logic. It was nothing to do with trying to work out some kind of strategy for moving on. His position was intolerable and, right now, there seemed nothing that could be done about it. More to the point, the mortgage would need paying. A reasonable redundancy payment might keep him solvent for a few more months but it wouldn’t last for ever.

Words like repossession began to circulate inside his already overcrowded brain and he finally sucked in a deep breath and got to his feet, his hands shaking slightly.

He shrugged off his jacket, hung it on the back of the chair and walked through into the sitting room, switching on the lights as he did so. He looked around the immaculately decorated room for a second then glanced in the direction of the polished wood table close to the wall to his left.

The red indicator on his answering machine was flashing a five.

Five people had rung him. Paul wasn’t sure if he wanted to speak to any of them, whoever they were. Nevertheless,
he moved towards the machine and rested an index finger gently on the PLAY button.

‘You have five messages,’ the electronic voice confirmed.

When Paul heard whom the first one was from he jabbed the STOP button.

He couldn’t listen to it. Not now.