Killing the Beasts (21 page)

When Simon spoke, his voice echoed slightly. 'Here she is: the Vutek Ultravu 5300.' Long and thin, the machine stood about eight feet high and thirty feet wide. A huge roll of material was loaded into its top. Below it a printer head the size of a TV ran backwards and forwards along a highly polished rail, a wide ribbon of computer cable trailing along behind it.

'Essentially, it's just an enormous version of a desktop printer. Except it costs tens of thousands of pounds more,' Simon explained, opening a door at its base. Inside was a row of three-litre plastic drums, a pipe leading out of the top of each. 'Four colour - CMYK - printing process. The ink is pumped up from here into a secondary tank in the printer head. The computer takes care of the mixing and the ink is applied by means of a Piezo chamber.' Graham peered at the printer head as it toiled to and fro. 'Meaning?'

'There's an electrostatic charge as it goes one way, a vacuum the other. That way the ink is bonded like glue to the substrate we're using. In the case of your job – and most building wraps – we use a PVC mesh. It allows the builders working on the scaffolding behind to see out. Obvious safety benefits.'

Graham looked at the roll. Each time the printer head returned to the far end of the rail, the length of PVC moved round a few centimetres. On the small area of exposed material he could make out a fraction of the mobile phone's image. Each button was the size of his head. The model's unique selling point was a facia that could swivel right round. Graham was convinced it would prove a massive seller. Tom thought it was crap.

As soon as the train door shut behind his client, Tom turned away and started walking quickly towards the station's toilets. His jaw muscles ached from maintaining a smile for so long. Finding his way barred by pristine new turnstiles, he scrabbled around to find a twenty-pence piece, cursing the fact you now had to pay in order to piss.

When he had locked the cubicle door behind him, he lowered the toilet seat lid, sat down and extracted the sachet from his pocket. After taking a dab of the powder, he sat back and shut his eyes, waiting for the drug's reassuring grip. A few minutes later he stepped back out into the real world, feeling charged up once more.

'Sarah? Anything I should know?' he asked, marching back towards his car, mobile phone pressed to his ear. 'A Mr Austen Rogers from X-treme called regarding their...'

'Next,' interrupted Tom.

'Giles Peters and Sarah Palmer from Cussons will be here at six o'clock.'

'For what?'

'Rhodes and Co? Your table is booked for 7.45.'

Shit, thought Tom, only now remembering the dinner date. When, he wondered, would he have any time to spend with Charlotte?

Chapter 15

July 2002

Once Ges reached the bottom of the stairs, Creepy George emerged from behind his bank of computer monitors and walked over to the window. He watched as the large figure emerged on to the street and walked slowly off to his parked car.

Satisfied he wasn't coming back, George relaxed – he had the office to himself at last. Back at his computer, he loaded up the path-shredder programme to destroy the trail of his internet wanderings. Then he keyed in the address for his favourite portal and scrolled down the screen to see which girls had been posting up entries that day. There were a few promising images but nothing that really got him excited. That was the problem with having to rely on other people's images; he could spend hours trawling the internet and still not find anything ideal.

Lifting up the black briefcase on to his desk, he entered the combination for the lock and opened it up. Next to the digital camera with its collection of lenses was a small stack of adult contact magazines. Picking up the top one, he turned to the section he wanted and traced a finger over the small boxed ads, selecting the section for the north-west. There she was; height, build and even hair colour very similar to Julie's.

The phone was answered after the second ring. Female voice, accent a little too strong for his liking – but what she sounded like hardly mattered.

'Are you posing tonight?' he asked in a low voice.

'Yes. For a half an hour, starting at eight o'clock. It'll be forty quid.'

George decided to go for it, but couldn't be bothered to speak with her any more. Instead he just hung up and then closed down his workstation. After doing up the top button of his shirt, he pulled out a tie from the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved his suit jacket from the cabinet. He liked to look smart for any photo session – not like some of the drooling scum that shuffled up to events.

By seven fifty he was parking on a small estate of new houses just outside Leigh. Looking around he saw a basketball hoop mounted above a garage door. A tricycle lying on its side on a tiny patch of front lawn. Curtains drawn, tellies on – just average people completely unaware of what went on just around the corner.

After retrieving the briefcase and his suit jacket from the boot of his car, he walked the short distance to the house, arriving at the same time as another man. Each glanced at the other's briefcase and they didn't need to speak. The door was answered by a tall, thin bloke in his late thirties – perhaps her husband, perhaps not. He showed them through into what was obviously the spare room. A double bed occupied the top part of the room, stripped down to the undersheet, the obligatory little photo album placed on the bed like some sort of menu. Three other men were already there. Cameras mounted on tripods, they fiddled around with lenses and light meters while avoiding each other's eyes.

'Forty pounds please, gents,' the man said. George and the other man produced the cash. 'I'll give you a few minutes to set up. She's keen to get going at eight on the dot. Now she's got a few uniforms. Photos are on the bed over there,' he said, pointing towards the booklet. 'If you want her in anything, just shout.'

The other newcomer stepped over to the bed and picked up the album, eagerly flicking through the images. George stayed where he was, knowing the chances of his particular tastes being met were unlikely in the extreme.

The room stayed completely silent until the door opened again five minutes later and a woman in her early twenties stepped inside. Five pairs of eyes greedily appraised her. 'Anyone want me to dress up?' she asked.

The men remained as silent as an audience being addressed from the stage. She shrugged, then without hesitation strode over to the bed and threw off her dressing gown. Announcing to no one in particular, she said, 'If you want any particular pose, just say. Otherwise I'll do my own selection.'

She lay down and the men's faces were sucked towards their viewfinders. As the half hour went by, marked by the steady click of cameras, the odd request came from the men around him. But George was hardly interested in the performance. He took a few snaps for appearance's sake, but quickly decided to save the memory in his digital camera for a more promising scenario.

At 8.30 exactly the man who had answered the front door said, 'Time!'

The woman climbed from the bed and put her dressing gown back on. As the others packed up their equipment, George approached the man. He coughed lightly to get his attention. 'Would the lady be interested in posing for a few more pictures?'

'Private session?' the man asked matter of factly.

George nodded.

'What sort of stuff?'

'Nothing other than she's just done, really,' answered George. 'It's just that I'd like to use my own background cloth. She would merely have to recline with her eyes shut.'

The man shrugged. 'I shouldn't think she'll mind. Hang on.'

He went over and spoke quietly in her ear. Adopting a bowed and shy posture, George pretended to fiddle with his camera, aware of her eyes glancing over him. Her harlot's eyes, assessing and judging. He wanted them shut, wanted their crawling appraisal to stop. He clamped his face in a neutral expression, afraid his features would betray the loathing he felt at her power.

The man came back over. 'Forty quid for ten minutes.'

'That's fine,' George replied, handing over the cash, keeping his eyes down.

As the man showed the other photographers out, she spoke to him. 'So how do you want me?' Her hands were straying to the waistband of her dressing gown.

'No, no. Please stay robed. If you could simply recline on the bed and close your eyes.'

She looked at him for a moment longer, then uncertainly lay back and lowered her eyelids. 'Like this?'

Her posture was far too rigid, but George whispered, 'Yes,' and the camera began to click. After a couple of minutes shooting from various angles he said, 'That's good. And just let your head fall to the side.' More photographs. 'Lovely. Now, um...'

Her eyes opened.

From his briefcase he got the background drape for Julie's staff shot. He spread it out on the floor by the side of the bed. 'Would

you lie on the blue cloth, please?'

'The floor?'

'Yes. Perhaps you've got a bad back and the floor is a natural resting place. You see?'

A little warily she lay down on the square of cloth, arms crossed defensively over her chest, ankles tight together. Her eyes shut once more.

'You need to relax,' George cooed, standing over her. 'Arms lying outwards to the side. Good.' He began taking more shots. 'Perhaps your head back a bit, legs slightly akimbo?' The camera began clicking again, his heart now racing. 'And could you open your mouth a tiny bit?'

Barely moving her lips so her pose didn't change, she whispered in a toneless voice, 'What, like I'm dead?'

Lost in the moment and unable to hear the sarcasm in her voice, George said, 'Yes.'

'Barry!'

The door flew open and the man almost leaped into the room. George shied backwards as the girl stood up.

'What happened? Did he touch you?' The man looked from her to George and back again.

'No, he just ...'

'Why were you on the floor?'

'He wanted me to stretch my arms out and pretend I was...' She sounded scared, but when she glanced at George her eyes were full of contempt. 'He's just weird. I want him out.'

The man turned towards George, but he was already sliding along the wall, mumbling how he was so sorry to have offended the lady, imagining how she'd look on his computer once he had whitened her skin to that of a corpse.

As he let himself in through the back door, a voice called out, 'Is

that you, George?'

As he had done since he was a boy, he replied, 'Yes, mother.'

Suit jacket and tie now removed, he stopped to put his briefcase on the bottom stair, then poked his head into the front room. She sat in her usual seat, knitting something for the charity shop, radio on in the corner. The scene hadn't changed in thirty years: the same lacework antimacassars over the backs of the chairs, the same sheepskin rug in front of the clumsy-looking gas fire, chunky brown tiles round the hearth. 'There's a package for you in the hall. It's got Mexican stamps on.'

George felt a jolt of excitement.

'Who's it from?' she asked.

'Just work stuff,' he replied, stepping over to the table and picking it up. The wrapping hadn't been tampered with by customs. He turned around and hurried up the stairs to his bedroom.

She emerged on spindly legs behind him, repeating the same question she'd been asking for years. 'When can I hoover your room? It hasn't been done for weeks.'

He would never let her in. 'I'll do it this weekend, Mum.'

She flapped a hand in disgust and went back into the front room. George took the key from his pocket and undid the padlock securing his bedroom door. Inside, he bolted it behind him, sat down at his desk and turned the anglepoise lamp on. The light spilled out, pushing the shadows back a little but not enough to properly illuminate the photos of women that plastered his walls. Taking a scalpel from his mini toolbox, he slit open the package and pulled the sheet of pills out. He really didn't believe they would ever show up. The website was American but it warned that, due to US narcotic laws, the pills would be sent from Mexico where regulations concerning that particular sedative were far more lax.

He looked at them as if they were sacred things. Which, in a sense, they were: they had the power to make his dreams come true.

Sly gazed down at the motionless spider crouched in the corner of its glass home. The way its legs were bunched up – knee joints higher than its body – reminded Sly of the eight roof struts encircling the newly completed Commonwealth Games stadium, Manchester City's new ground once the Games were over and the stupid running track had been ripped out so another tier of seats could be added. He clenched a fist in triumph – finally the Blues would have a stadium to match their status in the city. Something newer and better than those bastard Reds at Old Trafford.

Slamming his front door shut behind him, he looked around the courtyard. The snotty couple were sitting in the sun on one of the benches at the side of the Zen garden, Sunday papers spread out across their laps. Next to the bench were two cups and a pot of fresh coffee, curls of steam catching in the sunlight.

He yawned loudly to intrude on the peaceful atmosphere, snorted and then trudged over to them. They tried to ignore his presence, but once he was behind them he leaned over the girl's shoulder and remarked, 'Dirty slag. 'Manchester accent deliberately made heavier.

Her head whipped round. 'I beg your pa—'

'That bird.' He pointed to the photo of the reality game show hostess in the paper on her knee. 'You can just tell she is.' He looked at the man sitting on the bench. 'Bet you'd give her one, though you can't admit it. Not with your missus sat here, right?' He laughed loudly and carried on his way, imagining the couple shaking with suppressed anger.

He slid into his car, put on a pair of sunglasses, lowered the windows and pressed play on the CD player. The Stone Roses started booming out and he smiled at memories of nights spent in the Hacienda, so out of his tree he could hardly speak.