Fishnet (19 page)

She says it with such scorn, full force of her Rona-face, that I feel winded for a second.

‘That one goes like this. Der der, duh DAH! Zookeeper! Ladies!'

It's exactly the same dance, but I don't point that out. Instead, I pick her up and swing her round, there on the path, till her shoes brush the foliage and we're both laughing.

Off

One lovely day's respite, then back to it. Screaming protests over brushing her hair. Gritting my teeth as the train just stalled, stayed stalled, vibrating, overheating. Everyone inside, their frustration mounting with the driver and the signals and each other. Didn't even manage to get a copy of the paper, either; the last one swiped by the woman ahead of me who fumbled for an age in her purse for change while I tensed and tensed and tensed my fists. I decide to tell Ian there seems to have been an accident in the motorway tunnel. In fact, I could come into the office asking about it. Has anyone else heard about it on the news this morning? I imagine Moira shaking her head and worrying about smashes and the people trapped inside them all day, checking the news websites, holding out for the afternoon paper to come round. I imagine that the seriousness of it would put Ian off from having to have the time management talk with me again.

The office is empty. Particles of old skin and paper dust dancing, tiny, in the blind-slatted sunbeams. None of the computers seem to be on. I cough, and Ian opens his door.

‘Ah. Fiona. Could you come in here a minute, please?'

‘Look, I'm really sorry, Ian,' I'm saying before I even get through the door, but he's just holding up a hand. Sitting back in his chair, holding up a hand and looking older than I'd ever seen him before.

‘Fiona. Graeme and Norman were called down to the Jackson site yesterday evening. After the, ah, public demonstration at the site yesterday afternoon, once we'd finally got them out of there, our partners in the Jackson Group asked me to make sure that the protestors hadn't, ah, caused any structural damage.'

My brain flickers over it. He's telling me this because someone left my notes down there. Anya. Anya did it. Maybe she did it deliberately, maybe she just didn't think, or care, what it meant for me. She just didn't care. Shit. Shit.

Ian is still talking.

‘While they were at the site there was, there was an incident, Fiona. One of the ceilings of the hall collapsed, and they were underneath it.'

‘Oh. Oh god.' Words are coming out of my mouth. ‘What, where. Are they –'

‘Graeme was relatively unscathed. He's been treated for shock and a few minor cuts and bruises. He acted with considerable bravery and foresight at the time, you know. It was Graeme who contacted the emergency services. It was Graeme who managed to pull Norman out.'

‘Ian,' I say. ‘Ian, how's Norman.'

It's taking him a gigantic effort of will even to make his mouth shape the words.

‘Norman was caught underneath a great deal of falling masonry. His legs were trapped. It's not certain he'll ever have the use of them again. He, ah, he hasn't yet regained consciousness, but his family are with him, and the doctors have described his condition as stable.'

‘Stable,' I repeat. Stupidly.

‘Fiona, I had to tell Moira this morning. Myself. As you know, they're, ah, very close, and she is – naturally – very upset. She hasn't really been herself today.'

‘Surely you sent her home, though,' I say.

‘Moira, ah, Moira may be in shock too. I believe she's still in the building – she seems to have, ah, locked herself in a stall in the ladies' bathroom. I didn't feel it was appropriate – I've been waiting for another female member of staff to come in.'

‘Of course.' I say. ‘Of course.'

The Ladies is so quiet I wonder if Ian is mistaken. One of the two cubicle doors was bolted, though, and when I stand very still I can hear faint scrabblings of tissue from behind the door.

‘Moira?' I'm using her own soft voice back to her. ‘Moira, it's Fiona. Do you want to open the door to me?'

Silence. I imagine Moira perched on the lid, staring at
nothing, maybe not even hearing me. But then the lock clanks back, its noise a shock in the still.

‘Oh hen,' Moira is saying. ‘Oh Fiona, hen. Oh.'

I put my arms around her strange flat body. She still has her fleece jacket on, handbag strapped across her torso. She collapses onto me and I lean against the cubicle wall to hold the two of us up.

‘Come on,' I say. ‘Let's get you out of here, just for now. Come on. We'll get you home, Moira. I'll call your husband, eh? Have him come and pick you up?'

‘Nobody told me, but,' she says. ‘Nobody called me last night to tell me. Well why would they, really, eh? Why would they, hen? I'm not his family. I'm not his wife.'

I take it all in again, their fourteen years of working at the same desks beside each other, the quiet ways they looked out for each other, the reverence in their voices. That it would never occur to them.

You give people in shock sweet tea, usually, so I guide her through to the one decent armchair in the staff kitchen and fold her into it. I pull down her outsize teacup with its stupid wispily-sketched design and we wait, in silence, for the kettle to boil. Moira looks at the cup on the counter and moans, flops forward in her seat.

It's only after she's come back round that I realise I'd automatically set out Norman's World's Best Dad! mug too. Stupid. Stupid.

On

Anya hadn't answered her phone all day. I'd even risked calling from the work line after a while, in case she was deliberately avoiding my mobile. Nothing.

Actually, she might not have even been at the Base, now I thought about it. It could have been any one of Suzanne's volunteers who'd done it. It could have been Suzanne herself.

Suzanne answers the third time I rang. ‘What? Oh yes, I heard about that, yes. Your colleague. The poor man.'

‘Suzanne, I'd like to come and talk to you about it. Today, please. Anya too.'

‘Today isn't a very good day. Not for either of us really. What with everything. You know. I take it you've seen the papers?'

SLEAZY STUDENT'S DOUBLE LIFE
AS £500-A-NIGHT VICE GIRL

By day she's a boffin... by night she's a-bonkin'! Brainy blonde Anya Sobtka thought she'd found the perfect way of raising money for her PhD –
by working as a vice girl
.

We can exclusively reveal that the Polish exchange student, 27, who has been living in Scotland for four years, has been buffing up her income as a high class hooker.

By day, she works as a PhD researcher in Strathallan University's Politics Department.

By night,
the only politics she studies are
sexual
.

The sleazy swot's actions in the recent disturbances against the Jackson Group's new city-centre development brought her to public notice.

A spokesperson for the police has confirmed that Sobtka has been twice cautioned in recent weeks for disturbance of the
peace and making a public nuisance of herself.

Our reporter endured the filthy language and obscene images on Sobtka's website, where she poses as ‘Sonja, a sexy Swedish girl who's up for anything' and claims to ‘specialise' in ‘fetish fun'.

He arranged a ‘date' with her in a
luxury city centre pad
– a far cry from the stories of starving student bedsits.

On arrival, he was greeted by the blonde, who has several piercings, in a negligee.

In our exclusive recording, which can be heard on our web-site, the curvy Pole asks our reporter ‘what do you like?' before going on to list a range of sordid, kinky practices, and confirming that the minimum charge for the night is £500.

At this point our brave reporter made his excuses and left, but not before obtaining a photograph of Sobtka in action
at great personal risk
to
himself
.

We later confirmed that the flat is rented in the name of Anya Sobtka. A spokesperson for the letting agency said ‘We had absolutely no idea that the flat was being used for sordid purposes. We are absolutely shocked.'

A spokeswoman for the Jackson Group said ‘It comes as no surprise to us that an individual who has been so outspoken about the restructuring of a base for prostitutes should turn out to have been acting from self-interest.'

The Jackson Group is a Scottish-run company, who have been operating for fifteen years, and have made a large number of charitable contributions to the city.

A spokesman for Strathallan University, said ‘The University has no comment on this matter at this time.'

Page 4: Prostitute protests leave local man fighting for life
Page 7: City's vice girl shame: is immigration to blame?
The second photograph was captioned, rather unnecessarily:
PIERCED: Polish vice girl Sobtka.

‘It's like a poem, isn't it? Like blank verse,' Anya says, from Suzanne's kitchen table.

‘Are you okay?'

‘Sure. Sure. There were maybe ten people waiting outside my door this morning, with cameras, and the head of my department has suddenly taken a personal interest in my career, as we have a meeting first thing tomorrow morning. But physically, no scars! At least I got a good look at the little fuck, huh?'

‘They won't – they won't throw you off your course?'

‘I don't think they can. I haven't actually broken any law or done anything illegal, and I do not think they want to lose my nice big foreign student tuition fees.' Her smile. ‘But it will not be pleasant, no. I imagine I will be told I have brought the department into disrepute. Certainly, there will be no job for me, no nice reference, now. I expect they will, ah, restrict my student contact time, too. This is not a loss. My students are mostly assholes. Luckily, they did not get a picture of Dan, so his job is safe.'

I must be staring blankly.

‘My boyfriend who looks after the incalls? Although I wonder if we may have to have an uncomfortable conversation with his parents some time.'

‘I'm amazed you're being so, eh, strong about it.'

‘It is like I told you,' she says, shrugging. ‘I have had a feeling that this was coming. I am an immigrant and I am a working girl, and I am not quiet and I do not let them pretend I do not exist, so they will punish me. They do not like it when you stick your head above the, ah…'

‘The parapet,' says Suzanne.

‘So. It is not as though I am a celebrity. It is not Britney Spears who charges £500 a night. This will be gone by next week. For now, Suzanne is being very lovely and Dan and I can sleep on her sofa.'

‘Oh, I've got a spare room! You can come and stay with me,' I say, the words spilling out too quickly.

She looks at me for a fraction of a second longer than is easy.

‘No, it's okay. You have your daughter.'

‘She won't mind!'

‘Fiona. You have not seen the scrum outside my flat. These people are animals. You do not want them to know your face, or your daughter's face. Trust me. You are safer staying out of it. Although, thank you for your offer.'

‘It's nice you've come, really,' says Suzanne, ‘but I think you might need to be careful. You could lose your job if you're pictured with us, think.'

They are managing me as though prearranged, encoded meaning flickering between the two of them. I can feel it.

‘Well. Not really much of a job, is it. Working for them.'

Suzanne's face sets, because she hasn't caught the sarcasm.

‘Everybody needs a job. Especially with that lovely wee girl.'

The judgement in that nips the air for a couple of seconds.

‘Right. So, what you're saying is, I
shouldn't
have jeopardised my livelihood to help your campaign out with some inside information? Because right now, I'm feeling exactly the same way.'

Anya has turned away, so she doesn't see that I'm saying this right at her.

‘You volunteered to help us,' she says, with a shrug. ‘And it was the right thing to do, dear.' Suzanne has switched back to mothering.

‘No, it wasn't. Because what seems to me to have happened is that I gave you information which you have used to cause structural damage – maliciously – to the building once you'd conceded defeat. That damage has left a man who I have worked beside for three years hospitalised and possibly unable to work again. As you can imagine, I'm not feeling very good about this.'

‘You think we did that? You're swallowing the line those murderous bastards at Jackson Group have fed the press, huh? This is what you think of us? We are not the ones who disregard human lives, Fiona.'

She's flicking through the paper, rustling it angrily. The
story of Norman's accident is thrust in my face, the word ‘HOOKER' in the screaming headline accidentally right above his photograph, and I have to swallow an impulse to burst out laughing at Norman's own personal hell. Anya's furious face is up close, her spit on my cheek as she talks, her accent stronger than usual.

‘So, either your buddies in Jackson Group have this fantastic, sharp PR team, or they have perhaps been expecting something like this to happen?'

A finger with chipped black polish directs me to the final paragraph.

A spokeswoman for the Jackson Group said ‘We are deeply saddened by this incident, and our thoughts and prayers are with Mr Black and his family at this time. We are also working with our partners RDJ Construction to examine whether this might have been the result of deliberate structural damage occurring during yesterday's protest. Mr Jackson urges parties involved with the ongoing campaign against the development who might have any information about this incident to come forward immediately.'

‘They got that into an edition of the newspaper that came out last night.'

‘That doesn't mean anything. That doesn't mean it wasn't you. Maybe you didn't do it deliberately, but you still might have done something.'