Chapter Three*
@fear_me_now Twitter Account
Tweets: 70
Followers: 133
@fear_me_now: I was out tonight. Watching. Those so called 'professionals' in short tight skirts. Well we all know what kind of pro's they really are
@_______ : WTF? Are you saying what I think you're saying?
@fear_me_now: I take it from your attitude that you are one of these so-called 'ladies'? A 'professional'?
@_______ : Yeah I'm a lawyer. What of it?
@fear_me_now: I hope I meet you out one dark, quiet night.
@_______: What? You threatening me you misogynist pig? Why don't you join the 21st century?
@fear_me_now: Oh I do hope we meet. Until then keep looking over your shoulder. You'll never know when I'll be there.
@______2: Yeah mate, do her the stuck up bitch
Wednesday Night, Six Months Ago
Dan flicked through the channels on the TV in the vague hope of finding something to watch.
It was past midnight and, deep down, he knew he should just go to bed but he could not raise the enthusiasm to even take that step. There was nothing for him there anyway, just the empty pain of memory and the torments of alcohol induced indigestion that he knew would keep him awake for hours. So the slightest flicker of interest in something from the TV would keep him planted on his rented sofa in his rented flat, an easy arms reach away from the wine bottle.
Wine.
Now there was a good thought. Time for another glass. Dan didn’t so much decide as go with the flow. He reached for the bottle. It was empty
He had promised himself tonight that he would stop at half a bottle, save the rest for another night, save his liver from himself. That would have been much better for him. Trouble is he had got watching an episode of ‘Top Gear’ that he had only seen twice before and had reached the half-bottle stage some 40 minutes before.
He decided he would have to do something about his drinking.
In the meantime he would have a whisky.
He weaved slightly when he got up and wandered over to the kitchen, dropping the bottle in the bin. He felt a pang of guilt; when he had lived with Alice everything had been recycled; everything had its own separate bin - glass, plastic, paper, cardboard. Now not doing it was not an act of laziness, nor rebellion. It was another full stop on his life, his previous life. He should move on but try as he might he couldn’t stop the painful memories and the brooding thoughts from starting.
And that led to more drinking and more brooding.
The bottles clanked against the others in the bin. Dan tried to ignore them and opened the cupboard door and took out the whisky bottle. He winced when he saw the level. He tried to think; he'd bought it Saturday morning and today’s Thursday? Well no; it was Wednesday night really.
He was drinking too much. He was having too many mornings where he had woken up with no memory of the night before. There were too many blanks. He should just put the bottle away.
He glanced back into the cupboard. The large plastic bottle of paracetamol was there, sitting there on the shelf quite innocently, a short rattle away.
He had told himself several times to throw it away but it seemed to be too much of a waste for him to take the step.
Every time he saw the bottle though, at times like these, lonely bleak nights with just himself and old TV programmes for company, he found himself imagining taking them, one after another, rehearsing how it would be done, wondering how it would feel.
He had heard about what could go wrong though. If you didn't do it right, you lived and got irreparable liver damage. Life would be even worse.
He shut the cupboard firmly and poured half of what was left in the whisky bottle into the glass and added half as much water from the tap.
Blogpost
I was watching and listening tonight. I often do it, though all too few realise it. That is usually to their cost; it is what gives me the edge over the pathetic morons I work with.
They were chattering self-importantly. It was time to let them talk, let them have their say. The wine had loosened their tongues. In vino veritas.
I knew they would say what they truly thought, they would let their dirty little secrets slip. It might not be anything important but knowledge is power, it always gives me that that little edge, the crack that can be levered open. So although I could hold court, although I have the power to command I chose to listen. My strength used against their weakness.
And at least I could enjoy the wine properly, could appreciate every nuance. Wine should be savoured, admired in the glass, one should swirl the deep red liquid to warm it gently, then take a careful sip, inhaling the bouquet as much as the taste. I could not help but sneer as one of the associates sank half of a glass of it at once. What a waste; they might as well be drinking some of that dreadful Beaujolais Nouveau rather than the premier cru that I had bought for them.
They should be grateful they were allowed to share this tiny part of my life, my style, enjoy my exquisite taste. It matters not, this was part of the ritual, part of the strategy; to let them in, let them a little closer, be part of my club, the circle of trust.
Trust? Hah, they are idiots, none of them are really in my league, no one is really going to threaten my domain so why, you might ask, play the game? Is it worth it?
Oh yes, the game is always worth it even if the stakes aren’t as high as they once were. I cannot ever relax, I always have to keep trying, I have to keep my mind exercised.
Sometime I wonder what I am doing here. Manchester is a young, modern, vital city. It has its wealth, it has status but it is not a world city. It isn’t a London or a New York or Paris, cities with ingrained class and wealth and power. It isn’t even a Frankfurt with its technocrat bankers or Dubai with its expatriate mercenary professionals living in an uneasy truce with the Arab family blood, only one layer away from tribal feudalism behind that gross façade of tasteless conspicuous wealth. No this is a second league city.
Second league, second rate.
But that doesn't make me second rate too. No.
Why I am here still makes me angry. It causes the acid to rise in my stomach, to churn and burn and mingle with smouldering anger. The bastards, the midgets who tried to judge me, they are contemptible; I will crush in my own time, humiliate them.
Yes I can dismiss that thought. It is laughable. Me? Second rate? Hardly. I am the big fish in this dirty little pond. A shark amongst minnows.
I remember looking around at the small fry around me, busy with their self-important little worlds.
If only they knew. They are scared of me now but if only they really knew. They would shit themselves.
But I would never tell them, they may never know, I will never be found out. I am too clever.
I looked around. Mr Lee was in as usual, holding court like a triad chief. The truth was not too far from that, I know that, I wonder how many others there did? That is why the greasy little Chinaman is held in such thrall. That is typical of the power around here; it is not far removed from violence and pain. Still, it did not mean that it is not worth courting; money and power always is. I caught Lee’s eye and raised a glass. Lee nodded in return. Mutual respect.
Yet in reality it came from only one side. I have no real respect for him! Why should I? He is no better than a criminal.
But the Chinese have a similar saying; “After wine blurts truthful speech". It’s a universal truth. The Babylonian Talmud contains the passage: "In came wine, out went a secret". It also says; "In three things is a man revealed: in his wine goblet, in his purse, and in his wrath."
His wrath. I like that word. I have always liked it. It is such a round, majestic, powerful word, a word of the Gods. Gods have wrath.
They have not seen my wrath, how I deal with those who make the mistake of crossing me. My wrath comes in different forms, to each their appropriate treatment.
I just listened tonight. I will speak soon enough. And they will listen.
They had better listen. Or feel my wrath.
I smiled when I thought of this.
If only they knew.
Thursday Morning
‘God you look like shit. You must have had a good night?’
‘Morning to you as well, Boris,’ Dan muttered, his head pounding again, ‘I think I need coffee.’
‘I think you need several,’ said Boris.
Boris’s real name was Steven but he was always known by his nickname due to his resemblance to the London mayor. He occupied the cluttered desk opposite Dan’s, the papers often spilling over to Dan's side. He was searching through a pile of files, running his fingers through his mop of shockingly blond hair.
‘Thanks Boris. Have you seen my mug?’
‘You don’t need a mug. Just spoon the coffee straight into your mouth.’
‘You’re so funny.’
Dan located his mug under a pile of floor plans that had swept over from Boris’s desk and made his way to the kitchen.
Not only was his head splitting but his throat was sore, raw from having to throw up in the night. This was going to have to stop. This wasn’t much of a job but he’d like to keep it. This was three – no four – times in the last week he had done that. It was becoming far too much of a habit to be comfortable.
He found Hannah in the kitchen already making a coffee.
‘Kettle’s just boiled, there should be enough water,’ she said without glancing up. Dan watched her stirring milk into her drink. The spoon seemed to rattle very loudly against the ceramic.
‘Thanks,’ he said. There was very little room in the tea making area so he hovered at the door waiting for her to finish. She was shaking out her shoulder length red hair however and Dan found himself watching as she drew it all back into a ponytail and held it in place with a scrunchy. Only then did she catch his eye.
‘God, Dan you look like shit.’
‘Thanks. That does seem to be the general opinion of everyone today.’ He decided he couldn’t wait and moved in next to her, spooning two generous measures of Nescafe into his mug.
‘Sorry. That just slipped out, didn't mean to be rude,’ said Hannah. ‘You need a woman back in your life again to sort you out.’
‘Well if you’re offering…’
‘Ah, well I think my boyfriend might have something to say about that.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Oh yes.’ Hannah said, smiling as she pushed passed him. Briefly he felt the soft, warm, firmness of her body and caught her perfume. The feelings of loss and desire mingled once again.
‘Lucky boyfriend,’ he said quietly to himself, stirring his coffee.
Then he had an awful feeling he was not alone and, knowing what he was going to see, turned to find himself looking straight into Hannah’s green eyes. She had obviously stopped in the doorway and now regarded him with eyebrows raised. Luckily she seemed more amused than annoyed.
‘Said that too loud huh?’ he said.
‘Yup!’
‘Ah…erm…sorry.’
‘Hey I’m not complaining, Dan. If only I was free eh?’
She grinned and went into the office.
‘Yeah, right.’ Dan muttered, but this time really quietly.
This was getting stupid, he really would have to sort out his life. Hannah was a good sport and could give as much as she took but this just wasn’t like him. Making smutty comments, indeed. Dan shook his head; OK it was mild but this was a slippery slope well and on the way to sexism, misogyny and perhaps much worse. He had never thought of himself as sexist but sometimes lately he just didn’t recognise himself. Perhaps this was his true self just coming through? He wasn't sure any more.
Picking up his coffee he followed her back through to the office.
‘So anything new in?’ he asked as he sat down at his desk.
‘You mean like a multi-million pound investment portfolio that means we get to travel all over Europe business class to do the inspections?’ said Boris.
‘That would be perfect,’ sighed Dan. ‘What have we really got?’
‘Three repossessions to value, a probate job and a new agency instruction in Rochdale,’ said Hannah leafing through the printouts. ‘This is Bannister and Peters, not JLL I’m afraid.’
‘I had noticed,’ said Dan. ‘I’ll have whatever you two don’t want.’
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ said Boris, ‘Is that Rochdale thing a shop? I’ve got a few more down there that I could do with having a look at. If it is I’ll take it.’
Hannah flicked back to the right page.
‘’Shop with flat above’,’ she read, ‘Looks like that’s yours then, Boris.’ She passed over the paper to him.
‘That works well. I’ve got a viewing up there this morning so I can kill two birds,’ he said.
‘So you OK to split the rest, Dan?’ she said.
‘Sure.’
‘Right, well…if I give you the house in Salford and the probate, which is a flat in the Quays, you should be able to do both this morning. I’ll do the others. That OK?’
‘Fine by me,’ said Dan taking the proffered sheets, ‘I’m just the temp.’
Boris was dialling the number on his instruction, ‘I’m sure Ian wants to make you permanent. You are mates after all.’
Dan shook his head. They all knew the facts; there wasn’t enough work for two surveyors, let alone three. ‘Look we all know he’s just doing me a favour until I can get something permanent. I’m not going to muscle into your territory,’ he said.
Hannah was looking something up on Google Earth. ‘Good job you’re not driving anything flash,’ she murmured.
‘Why?’ said Dan, suspiciously.
‘Oh, you’ll see,’ said Hannah, lightly.
Thursday mid-morning
He did see.
He didn’t recognise the street name when he put it into his SatNav but the postcode told him that it had to be somewhere close to the University. He was; just on the other side of the river Irwell and close to Peel Park. From where he had pulled up he could see the university’s Maxwell Building where he had had so many lectures when he was doing his degree. He also had had many on this side of the river too before the university retreated back to the far bank, demolished the buildings and had sold the land off for housing. The buildings were vague memories now but the feeling he always got when he was over this side was all too familiar; the vague, uncomfortable threat that always seem to lurk around these streets.
It was like someone was always watching you, which, Dan mused, was because they probably were.
He was in a suit too. Suits were not the uniform of choice in these streets. Suits meant police, or the defendant, or funerals, or Jehovah’s witnesses, or debt collectors and loan sharks. Being in a suit instantly put you on the back foot.
It also made you a target.
Dan looked around for somewhere to park. Ideally he wanted somewhere where he could keep the car in sight. He knew it all too well around here; maybe this was the land of the loveable scally of Shameless but it was also a place full of smackheads, a place where if it started to rain someone would smash your car window to get at an umbrella. Dan knew this only too well because it had happened to him.
He managed to get a spot right in front of the house he was going to value. He looked at it through the windscreen. Sometime back in the sixties or seventies this must have looked wonderful on some architect’s drawing board. Perhaps they had won a prize for their vision for modern urban living; fresh modern homes for those displaced from terraced back-to-backs.
Now it looked like shit.
‘My ideal home,’ Dan muttered to himself, ‘I’d blend in perfectly here.’
He looked again at the instruction. Valuations here were rare, most properties were still council or housing association so it had to be a right-to-buy. Really great policy, the creation of a property owning democracy. Dan wasn’t against it, actually quite the reverse, it got people on the property ladder who wouldn’t have had a hope of managing it otherwise. There could be those who were trapped by it though; if the area was really bad and you bought but none of your neighbours did then you were stuffed – to use a technical property term.
This looked like one of those. Virtually unsaleable. Virtually no comparables to value the thing.
Thanks, Hannah, he thought, thanks a million.
Dan locked the car and had another look around. He might only have a Skoda but it was a VRs, a little pocket rocket that he secretly loved and which could embarrass cars many times its price. He would rather keep it in one piece.
The coast looked clear even if he knew that he would be being watched.
He had picked up the keys from the building society that morning. He walked up to the door and tried the first one in the lock
Then the second.
And the third.
None fitted. He checked the house number again, and the street name. Now a couple of youths in hoodies had sidled up and were leaning against the broken down, faded, stained fence by the end of the street. They feigned disinterest but Dan caught the look, the hungry eye of the thief, the interest in his car. He knew they were waiting for him to disappear inside somewhere then the jackals could get closer to the kill.
Well it didn’t look like he was going anywhere. He looked at the door again. It was roughly painted. It looked new, as did the lock. The frame showed signs of being forced, there were splinters around the keep.
With a sigh, he pulled out his mobile and called the building society to break the news that the house they had repossessed had been re-repossessed back. It was a short conversation.
He got back in the car and drove to the Quays, noting that the jackals had slunk off as soon as he had moved back towards the car.
He had to admit he like the Quays. He knew that they were not everyone’s cup of tea, Manchester’s (OK Salford’s really but even the city was now branding itself as Salford, Manchester) docklands, started at the same time as London’s. At one point they were very popular with the scally’s from the streets that he had just left as a takeaway shop, a source of BMWs, Audis and nice TVs, but things had improved for the Quays. Lots of better quality buildings had gone up and the Lowry, the shopping centre, the Imperial War Museum North and lately Media City had made the place a lot more fashionable and safe. Dan, in his weaker moments had forgotten about his debts and lack of deposit for a moment and had toyed with the idea of buying a place here.
He quickly found the block where the apartment was. It looked like one of the newer ones and a nice one at that. It certainly looked fine from the outside. It was hard to believe he was only a mile from where he had just been, from the squalor and deprivation of the estates. Was Britain getting like America with its underclass forever stuck in poverty and crime? Dan wasn’t sure but the gap between the have and the have nots certainly seemed ever bigger from the evidence of this morning.
Again he had the keys, this time collected from a solicitors office in Manchester close to the firm’s own place. There was a proximity card on the key fob. Dan decided to take a gamble that it would get a parking spot and so drove up the service ramp to the roller shutter door to the parking garage and pressed the card against the panel. It worked; the shutters rose in front of him. At least the car was going to be safe at this one and getting in boded well; it looked like he was at least going to get into this place.
It was mid-morning but the car park was virtually full. Dan guessed that most people worked in the city and caught the tram in or else walked into one of the offices on the quay and left their cars here. Cars would be for weekend trips and visits to IKEA and supermarkets. He found a space next to a dusty Alfa with flat tyres. He prayed the owner of the space wouldn’t come back in the 30 minutes or so he would be in the property. Hopefully his luck would hold this time..
The card also got him into the building’s lobby. It certainly was a high spec place; there was a uniformed commissionaire on the desk. Dan didn’t need to but he thought he would introduce himself anyway.
‘Hi, I’m Dan Jackson from Bannister and Peters? I’m here to do a valuation on Flat 714?’ He thought putting it as a question was odd the moment he said it, but it was what surveyors and the like always seemed to do. It said, quite clearly, ‘I’m expected, aren’t I?’ countering any challenge before it was made.
‘Oh yes, sir, you’re in the book. Apartment 714.’
The man seemed friendly at least; that was good.
‘Good. I’ve got the keys from the solicitor,’ Dan held them up, then felt a bit stupid; a key was a key, what was he trying to prove? Anyway onto the important bit; ‘Have many fla..er…apartments been sold in here recently?’ Even in today’s internet world it was well worth having a few word-of-mouth comparables to follow up on.
‘I’ll do you a list should I?’ The commissionaire gave Dan a knowing smile.
‘You’ve met a lot of valuers, haven’t you?’ grinned Dan.
‘One or two, one or two, lad,’ chuckled the man. ‘Pop back when you’ve done and I’ll have it ready.’
‘Thanks, much appreciated.’
Dan took the lift up to the seventh floor, making a few notes as he went. There wasn’t that much to residential valuations, nothing as technically challenging anyway as with a commercial one, but they were a sod if you got them wrong, because banks and building societies would always go for the ones with the indemnity insurance if the deal went sour, and the only people who had that were the valuers. It was best for your firms renewal premiums to get them right first time.
The building itself was nicely done, as good inside as it looked from the out. It was well lit and finished with some nice tasteful and good quality materials. Dan found apartment 714 and, with a silent prayer and barely holding his breath, put the key in the Yale and turned it. It smoothly unlocked. He released his breath in a satisfied sigh; At last things seemed to be back on track.
The flat was unfurnished and, largely, immaculate. The hall led into a lounge which was neutrally decorated and newly carpeted, the trimmings from some of the underlay laying discarded in a corner, a calling-card that carpet fitters are wont to leave wherever they have been. Also off the hall was a shower room fitted out with an expensive curved glass enclosure – Dan recognised it as one Alice had looked at and had terrified him with the price, and a door to what Dan guessed was the bedroom.
He walked into the lounge. A large, airy room with French windows and a balcony looking out over the water and the Lowry. A good view; there would be a premium for that.
The kitchen was off the lounge. Small but well laid out and fitted with some expensive built-in appliances. This was certainly not the typical buy-to-let investment that Dan had expected. There was taste and money at work here; the only thing that grated slightly was the new carpet. It was OK but it wasn’t top quality. Dan found that surprising. He wasn't a great one for details but even he noticed that it spoiled the overall effect. It looked out of place.
He wondered who had owned it. This was the probate valuation; someone had died without making a will. He had expected it to be owned by someone older, someone who had this as an investment, part of their pension but what he saw was telling him something different. Someone younger then, someone who had died unexpectedly perhaps in an accident or of some disease? He looked at the name on the form; The estate of the late J.Johnson. The name didn’t ring a bell with Dan, no reminder of reading about some car or bike accident.
Ah well, he thought, what did it matter? He was just here to do a job.
‘I love this flat, especially this view.’
The voice made him jump and drop his pen.
There was a young woman staring out of the lounge windows.