Authors: Graham Hurley
The obvious culprit, of course, was Gilbert but this was a conclusion
I tried very hard to resist. He
’
d given me the flat key back. If he
’
d got in
again that could only mean he
’
d taken duplicate copies. Even the
prospect of a break-in - some stranger off the street - was preferable to
the thought of that.
I went out to the back garden, standing in the chilly half-darkness,
knowing the cats must be out their somewhere but not having a clue
why. After a while, still calling their names, I patrolled up and down
my thin little oblong of grass, pausing from time to time, listening
very
hard
for that scrabbling noise - claws on wood - that would signal their
return. I kept at it for ten minutes or so, willing them to return from the
gloom, but when nothing happened I turned back to the house. As I
did so, I caught a flicker of movement in one of the upstairs windows. I
peered up, angry now, convinced I could see Gilbert
’
s thin frame. He
was standing several paces back from the window. He had something
in his arms, something cat-shaped. He was looking down at me. And I
swear he lifted a hand, giving me a little wave, before he turned away.
Thirty seconds later, angrier still, I was up at his door. I banged
hard, waiting for a response. Nothing happened. I banged again, and
then again. I called his name, then shouted it, only stopping when the
sound of my voice came back to me. I stood there for a full minute,
appalled. I like to think I
’
m extremely even-tempered. My friends tell
me I have exceptionally low blood pressure. Yet here I was, semi-
demented, wound up by some lunatic who - for whatever reason - had
chosen to kidnap my best friend
’
s cats.
I knocked again, more gently this time, then gave up. Back in the
flat, I double-bolted the front door then sat in the front room for the
best part of half an hour, wondering who to phone. What would I tell
them? How could I explain? Overhead, I could hear footsteps pacing
up and down. Gilbert often passed his time this way, always walking
the same pattern, across first, then up and down. The footsteps were
often accompanied by mumbling, and little yelps of pleasure or
surprise, and to begin with this pantomime had amused me. It went so
well with the image I had of the man: the gentle, introspective
musician, the wandering solitary, with his furrowed brow and his
endless silences and his mysteriously work-free life. The neighbour-
hood enigma, I wanted to think. So refreshing after the strutting black
youths and sullen white faces that occupied the bulk of Tottenham
Green.
Now, though, the footsteps had become infinitely more sinister.
Nikki
’
s cats were up there. A duplicate set of keys was up there. And
just now I couldn
’
t think of a single goo
d reason why my oh-so-per
fect
neighbour wouldn
’
t turn out to be as predatory and single-minded as
the nightmare loners who made the front page of the
Sun
.
I shivered at
the thought, hearing him pace his exercise yard, then I retreated to the
kitchen where I downed the remains of a half-bottle of whisky. By
midnight, savagely drunk, I was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling,
searching yet again for an answer. Maybe I should buy a blowup
mattress and decamp to Doubleact. But if I did that, I thought grimly,
I
’
d simply be swopping Gilbert
’
s attentions for Brendan
’
s. Either way,
wouldn
’
t it be nicer to be left alone?
Next morning, the cats were in the hall. I heard them when I went to
fill the kettle. They were completely unharmed, happy even, and it was
several seconds before I realised that their anti-flea collars had
changed colour. Yesterday they
’
d been red. Now they were purple. I
picked Pinot up, giving him a cuddle. Why swop collars? What was
Gilbert trying to tell me?
At work, mercifully, there
’
d been another crisis. The next show we
were due to record had
been
built around a prominent Tory politician,
who
’
d resigned from the government when one of his mistresses went
to the
News
of
the
World
with a lurid tale about an abandoned love
child. The politician
’
s name was Morris Fairweather. He was way out
on the right wing of the party, an intimate friend of a couple of cabinet
ministers, and what gave the story legs was yet another outbreak of
Tory moralising on the sanctity of traditional family values.
Brendan summoned me to a council of war. Fairweather had
just announced he was refusing all further interviews including -
catastrophically - his billed appearance on
Members
Only
.
A couple
of the writers were in Brendan
’
s office and one of them handed me a
draft copy of the script. Most of the gags were hopelessly predictable,
schoolboy puns involving Fairweather
’
s member, but there were one
or two deft touches, centred on our new backbencher
’
s penchant for
bananas dipped in yoghurt. Details of the latter had been passed to
Doubleact by some hack on the
News
of
the
World
,
though Brendan
wasn
’
t saying how much he
’
d paid for the material.
‘
It
’
s an exclusive,
’
he kept saying.
‘
They
’
re holding this stuff back
for next week. We
’
ll be first on the street.
’
I told Brendan he was fantasizing, exactly the wrong thing to say.
Deep down, I was beginning to suspect he was as committed and angry
as I was, though serious money and a couple of double spreads in
TV
International
had somewhat blunted his socialism.
He had Fairweather
’
s address and phone number. He scribbled
them both down and handed them across.
‘
Go and see him. Talk him round. If it
’
s the fee, you can go up to
£1200.
If he wants it paid offshore, tell him it
’
s no problem. Just get
him here for the show.
’
He paused.
‘
If you do that, I
’
ll be over the
fucking moon.
’
‘
Thanks.
’
‘
I
mean it. Salary bonus.
Plus a c
ompany T-shirt. And that
’
s a promise.
’
I gazed at him, grinning. Brendan
’
s idea of a salary bonus would
probably meet Fairweather
’
s bar bills for a couple of hours but that
wasn
’
t the point. The point was that Gilbert, abruptly, was yesterday
’
s
news. For today, at least, I had something else to sort out.
Fairweather lived in a big house in Holland Park. When he came to
the door, knotting the belt of a terrycloth dressing gown, he looked
like a puppy someone had left out in the rain. He was short, fat, and
spoke with a broad Lancashire accent.
‘
Julie? I
’
m in the shower. Make yourself at home.
’
I
’
d phoned ahead. He
’
d said to come for coffee. It was nearly eleven
o
’
clock. I sat on a huge sofa, watching a pair of goldfish circling a tank.
Trapped, I thought, trying very hard not to dwell on Gilbert again. At
length, a woman appeared at the door. She was my age, maybe
younger. She was blonde and tousled. She looked gorgeous.
‘
Has he offered you coffee?
’
I settled for black, no sugar. Fairwea
ther reappeared, buttoning his
shirt and tucking the bottoms into a pair of pinstripe trousers. He was
immensely blunt and immensely friendly. He had ten minutes, and
then he had to go. I glanced at the woman. With great good humour,
she was trying to run a comb through his thin strands of greying hair
and to my shame I began to think seriously about what they
’
d been up
to for the previous hour or so. By now, I
’
d nearly finished my pitch
about the programme: how important it was for us to deliver on last
week
’
s big on-screen promotion, how good an opportunity it would
be for him to set the record straight.
‘
We
’
ve got five million punters waiting to hear your version,
’
I
suggested, remembering a line of Brendan
’
s.
‘
Surely that can
’
t be bad?
’
Fairweather was halfway through his second cup of coffee. With his
jacket on, the transformation was complete, just another businessman
hurrying to work. He kissed the woman and gave her a hug and then
threw me a sharp look.
‘
What
’
s it to you whether I say yes or not?
’
he asked.
The accent took some of the sting from the question but even so, its
directness made me miss a beat or two. I was still flannelling about our
precious audience profile when he cut in. He
’
d heard all this before. He
had a doctorate in bullshit. What he really wanted to know about was
me. How come someone so young, so freshfaced, so obviously
healthy
,
was working with a bunch of drunken deadbeats like
Doubleact?
I beamed. Freshfaced is a wonderful word. No one had said that
about me, ever. I just don
’
t mix in that kind of company.
‘
Well?
’
I opened my mouth then closed it again. I felt like one of his goldfish.
‘
It
’
s a start,
’
I stammered.
‘
That
’
s all.
’
‘
You like it there?
’
‘
No, if you want the truth.
’
I frowned.
‘
Actually, it
’
s getting better.
But no, the answer
’
s still no.
’
‘
And they
’
ve sent you round? To do the business?
’
‘
Yes, that
’
s my job.
’
‘
Good.
’
He winked at me, before turning for the door.
‘
See you at
the studio then.
’
‘
You
’
re coming?
’
‘
Of course I bloody am.
’
I heard him hurrying down the hall. The front door opened and
closed and a shadow ducked into the BMW at the kerbside. Seconds
later, he
’
d gone. I looked at the woman. She was piling the coffee cups
onto a tray.