Various Pets Alive and Dead (41 page)

‘I rather liked –’

‘They’re not productive, Freebie. Nobody’s making money out of them. Think – if it was all in the private sector. Schools. Universities. Prisons. Hospitals. Sheltered housing. Residential homes. Think of the business opportunities.’ He’s almost panting with excitement, in that glossy bright-eyed Dobermann way. ‘Think Russia. End of Communism. Unlimited opportunity. It’s our moment, Freebie.

‘By the way,’ he leans forward quickly and whispers into Serge’s ear, ‘looks like Edenthorpe Engineering’s being bought out. Private equity.’

Before Serge can say anything, he struts off towards the door.

Puff-puff – it swings closed behind him with the same double rush of air, blowing away things that had previously seemed utterly solid, things he’d grown up with, things he thought you could depend on; now they turn out to be just so much flimsy paper. Puff-puff: there goes heavy engineering, now light as thistledown; there go the dragonish dinner ladies. The trouble is, he can’t just shrug off the collateral damage, the way the others around him can. The trouble is, Doro and Marcus planted a seed in him of some tough thorny weed that’s taken root and prickles inside. He can’t feel quite comfortable in these City clothes, however much he likes the style, any more than he could embrace the barmy philosophy of the commune, however much he loves his parents.

Brazil. Focus on Brazil. It’s the third way. It’s the joker in the pack. It’s the escape parachute.

At lunchtime he rations himself to twenty minutes’ furtive surfing in the disabled loo. The Edenthorpe Engineering story is worse than he thought – the receiver is in negotiation with a private equity group registered in Luxembourg. The Doncaster plant will be closed and saleable assets sold off. The Barnsley plant will be stripped down to half the workforce. Did he and Chicken bring this about between them? Or did they just set the downward trend for other short-sell investors, who saw the direction of the market and piled in like wolves, bringing the company to the ground? Whoops! Serge feels vaguely sick as he reads, but maybe it’s just the smell in the loo.

Brazil. Focus on Brazil. He closes the business page and opens the property-search website – his spending ceiling is higher now – and keys in a few locations. And there it is. Yes! The place of his dreams. A modest single-storey cottage built of wood with thatched gables and deep shuttered windows set back behind a cluster of coconut palms fifty metres from a pristine beach. The concept of ‘modest’ is relative. It has air conditioning. Four bedrooms, with two ensuites. A private pool. Situated two kilometres down a private road from the nearest village. He opens up the floorplan. He Googles the location. An image comes up of turquoise sea, a silver arc of beach, fringed by dark forested hills. Far out to sea, white-tipped breakers are rolling. He stares. He enlarges the images. He copies and saves the link. He’ll print it off when he gets home and leave it on her desk tomorrow.

She’s back in the glass-walled office, working at the desk that used to belong to Tim the Finn.

He waits for her to summon him in but she keeps her head down, frowning with concentration as she taps away, peering up at her screen from time to time through glasses that keep slipping down her nose – he’s never seen her wear glasses before. Even her smell is different – less feral, more floral. He tries to catch her eye, but she’s lost in her own garden of algorithms.

It isn’t until late afternoon that she finally drops him an email.

No time today. Tomorrow Sergei we must talk. Mx

 

Clara is distracted by the smell in her classroom, which seems to be coming from Jason.

‘Is it true that spazzie girl’s your sister, miss?’

‘Don’t call her a spazzie.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

It’s nearly four o’clock, for goodness’ sake.

He shuffles away, and she realises now the smell is coming not from him but from the book corner – a bitter, fusty smell that reminds her of Solidarity Hall. She goes over to investigate. Yes, it’s definitely stronger here. But everything is ship-shape in the book corner as far as she can see, apart from a heap of little black chippings on the floor like the ones she found under her chair the other day.

Through the window she sees Megan, waiting for Jason by the gate. She waves and Megan waves back. A moment later, the two of them disappear. Then someone else appears in the car park. Someone horribly bearded. Mr Gorst/Alan still looks dishy, but a lot less dishy than before. And here’s Miss Historical Postlethwaite wearing a Zhivago-style coat with frog fastenings, and a Peruvian peasant hat with pigtails at the sides. She runs up and slips her hand into his, and he bends and kisses her. Despite the hat. Despite the pigtails. He kisses her.

Tsk. It’ll be wedding bells and babies next. Even Ida Blessingman confided last night that she and that serial-killer moustachioed lawyer are getting hitched. No doubt there’ll be a massive multilayered cheesecake at the reception. All around her, life is moving on – only she seems stuck in the past, in the secrets of Solidarity Hall.

Before she can decide whether to feel sad for herself or pleased for them, she hears a noise from the book corner – a scraping, rustling sound. She looks. There’s nothing there – but the rustling goes on. It seems to be coming from behind the books. The bookcase is as old as the school, and made of oak. Bending her knees, she heaves, and manages to pull one corner of it away from the wall a couple of inches. A wave of stench hits her, and she steps back sharply. Then, holding her breath, she leans forward to look. At first all she sees is a ball of ripped-up paper in the corner of the wall, then she realises the paper is in fact a nest, and curled up in the nest is Horatio, with four tiny babies, each hardly as big as a thumb, all suckling away. She watches, entranced.

Then, because she doesn’t trust herself to replace the bookcase without hurting them, she goes to find Mr Philpott.

‘So Horatio turned out to be a lass?’ Mr Philpott beams.

Between them, they gently ease the bookcase back almost against the wall. Clara takes her empty lunch box out of her bag and flicks out a few crumbs. The responsibility of providing for Horatio and her four little babies fills her with unexpected delight and anxiety. What do they live on? Probably crisps and butty crumbs from the kids’ lunches. She wonders about water, until she remembers the plants in their saucers on the window sill.

‘Who could be the father of the babies?’ she wonders aloud.

‘Where there’s ’amsters there’s mystery.’

She closes the classroom door, turns off the light, and follows him down to the boiler room for a cup of tea before she hits the road to Sheffield.

‘Talking about mystery, you mentioned a fire, when we were at Mrs Taylor’s the other day. Something to do with the lads in the Prospects.’

‘Aye, at Donny Rovers ground, Belle Vue. Back in 1995.’

Mm. Not the same fire.

‘Everybody thought it were a gas explosion. Then they discovered the prat who done it left his mobile phone behind at the scene. Ken Richardson, the owner, got put away for four year. Never a dull moment in Donny, duck!’

‘Poor old Doncaster Rovers.’

‘A defeated joy. But we beat Plymouth Argyle on Saturday.’

They’re down in the boiler room now, where it’s cosy and clinkery. Mr Philpott turns up the blaze and puts the kettle on. Outside the window the light is fading, but in here it’s a rosy glow.

‘Bloke who owns t’ Rovers now, Johnny Ryan, he’s a plastic surgeon. Created Melinda Messenger’s boobs.’

‘But there was a fire, in 1994. At the old Coal Board offices near Askern, where we lived. My little sister got burned. They never discovered who started it. Did you ever hear anything?’

‘Hm. That’s near t’ Prospects, in’t it? All sorts of villainy goes on down there.’ He pours boiling water over two tea bags.

‘My sister said it was lads from the Prospects. They set upon her once, when she was little. But she sometimes makes things up.’

‘I never ’eard nowt, duck. But they say that’s how Malc Loxley got started in 1988, wi’ a fire. He was in scrap metal wi’ his brother. Doncaster and South Yorkshire Scrap. Saved up enough to put a deposit down on a empty mill near Elsecar. Insured it for half a million. Watched it burn down.’ He fishes out his tea bag, squeezes it with his fingers and tosses it into the boiler, watching it hiss briefly. ‘I tell you what, though, you had to be a villain to crawl out of that dump. There were nowt else around ’ere. Milk? Sugar?’

‘Just milk.’

‘Aye, I wanted to go to college when I were a lad – but they sent me down’t pit. Stuck it for eight year. Got injured. Been at school since 1970. Retire next year. Funny how things work out in life.’ He picks up his tea again and sips slowly. ‘Did you read about that lass who put out a chip fire wi’ a pair of giant knickers?’

It’s already dark as Clara sets out for home. A few flakes of snow whirl across her windscreen, and she shivers, wishing she’d set out earlier, and not succumbed to the temptation of a cup of tea in the toasty boiler room, and Mr Philpott’s stories.

The unresolved mystery of the fire still smoulders in her mind. Was it the lads from the Prospects? Or was it Oolie herself, who’d made up the story to cover her tracks, worried that Doro would never let her move into a home of her own if she found out the truth? It was all so murky and so long ago, maybe they’ll never discover what really happened. Maybe it doesn’t matter any more.

She lets it drift away like the snowflakes into the night, and muses instead upon the giant knickers, remembering how the commune kids used to giggle to see Doro and Moira’s sensible knickers on the washing line. They thought they were so liberated, sleeping around with everybody, like they’d invented the orgasm. Nowadays, girls have to fight for the freedom to say no.

Poor Doro – she’ll miss Oolie, when she moves into her own place. Maybe a baby hamster would keep her company. And Oolie might like a hamster when she moves into her new home. That’s two of the four taken care of – three, because she’ll keep one herself. Mr Philpott, maybe?

Then she worries about the ethics of breaking up this small happy family for human gratification. Perhaps she should just leave them all to live happily ever after behind the bookcase.

No doubt Shakespeare or Wittgenstein will have the answer.

‘We need new philosophy to understand new economic environment, Sergei.’

A dark strand of hair has worked its way free from Maroushka’s bun, and she’s chewing on it distractedly as she swivels to face him in the narrow glass-walled office. He has to stop himself from reaching out and easing it back into place.

‘I thought the housing market recovery was the new philosophy, princess. Green Shoots.’

She’s wearing a charcoal-grey skirt, with a creamy silk blouse and a fitted jacket. The severe corporate outfit emphasises her smallness, like a little kid trying to look grown-up.

‘Green Shoots is for average investors, Sergei.’ Her stockinged feet are crossed on the base of the chair; a pair of black suede platforms is tossed under the desk. ‘Now we have new private hedge fund. Will yield great financial benefit in event Green Shoots defaults.’ She says it with a little nervous giggle, pulling the strand of hair from her mouth.

‘You’re selling a product to investors, and at the same time betting it’ll fail?’

‘Is not against law,’ she says, without meeting his eyes.

‘No, but –’

‘We have possibility of unlimited upside with limited downside.’

From what she’s saying, it seems that Green Shoots (of which, she reminds him, he is now the front man) is no more than a vehicle to attract investor interest, packed with mortgages as ticky as time bombs. Its aim is to cash in on a short-term bounce in house prices – technically a ‘dead cat bounce’ – which she has already calculated will fall again in a few months’ time. Meanwhile she has helped Chicken to construct a complex private hedge fund that will reap huge profits if the recession deepens and mortgage foreclosures rise. As she reaches forward to point out the details on a graph on her screen, her bra strap slips down on to her collarbone, greyish against the creamy silk of her blouse.

‘Is it … er … ethical?’

She giggles cutely and her strap slips forward another centimetre.

‘Ethics is for average people, Sergei. Not for us.’

Should he tell her her strap’s showing? It looks grubby, but strangely sexy.

‘In new times average people will be poor, only elite will be rich. Is better to be elite, Sergei.’

If only he could take her by the shoulders and shake her out of this bewitchment of dream-graphs and fantasy numbers that once enthralled him too.

Princess Maroushka!

Hear the song of Serge …

If only he could lean forward and ease that grubby bra strap down over her shoulder, to kiss the sharp collarbone and press his mouth on the hungry twelve-year-old lips, which are sucking again on that stray strand of hair. But through the glass, he can see Chicken sauntering down the aisle of the trading hall in their direction, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie loose. A quick expression he can’t comprehend flits across Maroushka’s face – half a smile, half a wince.

Then a phone rings on her desk.

‘Da?’ she answers, and rattles off something in her incomprehensible language.

What’s she up to now? Though when you think about it, pretty much everything about her is incomprehensible – or maybe he was just too thick to get it.

As he stands up to leave, she raises her head from her call, puts her hand over the mouthpiece and says, ‘By the way, Sergei, you also are not very ethical. Chicken knows you been trading on private account.’

Which is kind of obvious by now.

At times like this, you need to phone a friend, but the disabled loo is engaged for what seems like an eternity.