Dying on Principle Page 3

  ‘Absent friends!’

  At this point one of them phoned.

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Chris!’

  Aberlene got up at once, ostentatiously touching her watch and tiptoeing to the door.

  ‘Can I call you back in two minutes, Chris? Home or work?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Two minutes, then.’

  Aberlene was smiling when I put down the phone. ‘Your Chris is still around, I gather?’

  ‘He’s not my Chris. He’s a friend. I’m very fond of him, but he’s just a friend.’

  ‘Not the worst of starts for a relationship,’ she said. ‘And he’s very good-looking. And a nice body.’

  I hesitated. I’d never found him at all attractive, not sexually, but I didn’t want to argue.

  Grinning in apparent defeat, I saw Aberlene to the door, wondering only as I opened it what she was doing for transport. But a car was parking opposite, and I recognised the features of the principal cello, Tobias Friedman. So Aberlene had got herself a handsome bloke, had she? She grinned, touched her lips, and ran off like a joyous child.

  It was never easy to phone Chris, not because I didn’t like him but because I did. I liked him too much to enjoy the knowledge that he was in love with me.

  But we spoke easily enough when I got through. He’d been engaged first try, so I stacked the dishwasher – an extravagance to celebrate my temporary upgrading for this new job – and made a coffee before returning to the living room. He started by asking about the job, quite detailed questions, in fact. But he didn’t follow up any of the things I touched on. Then I asked about his life: he offered me news of his car and garden. But he was clearly holding something back.

  ‘You might as well spit it out, Chris. I can almost hear you purring. Hey, you’ve got a conviction in that rape case – yes?’

  ‘Hole in one! I was wondering if you might care to have dinner with me one night. To celebrate,’ he added, as if he had to justify the invitation. Which in a sense he did. Although we saw each other regularly, I always tried to ensure that it was in ways that didn’t demand either the expression or the rejection of great emotion. We’d been up to the Hawthorns several weekends to cheer West Bromwich Albion up the ignominious Second Division, and if he needed a woman for some police do, I’d sometimes go along. I’d bagged him as an honorary member of our college’s indoor cricket team. But the inequality in our feelings always lurked, sometimes rising quite painfully.

  ‘Of course!’ I said, without, I hoped, any obvious hesitation. ‘My treat.’

  ‘Bugger that! Mine. Not every day we nail a bastard like that.’

  ‘I’ll buy the booze then – champagne!’

  ‘We’ll argue about that tomorrow.’

  ‘We won’t argue at all.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up. Eightish?’

  ‘Eightish. How smart? And don’t tell me I always look nice, or I’ll wear my gardening jeans.’

  ‘You do always look nice – but how about smartish? Suit for me, if that helps. Hell! There’s another call waiting to come through.’

  ‘How on earth d’you—?’

  ‘Got one of those clever BT thingies. Look, it could be important. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you, Chris; take care.’

  I went to bed considering the adjective ‘smartish’. Not a girlie dress, of course; he knew better than to expect that. How about silk shirt and trousers? I could drop them into Harris’s at eight tomorrow morning and collect them before they closed. I set the alarm and picked up Pride and Prejudice.

  There are some cyclists who are accidents waiting to happen. They carry too much, often children perched on little plastic seats, or wobble from lane to lane, or fail to use lights when they’re needed. I do none of these. I’m psychotically virtuous when it comes to cycling – helmet, fluorescent jacket, lights, everything. And I’ve battled in and out of town in rush-hour traffic for at least ten years. I’ve had lots of near misses, true, with apparently blind motorists, but this morning’s little dice with death unnerved me more than it should have done.

  I’d made it to the High Street by eight fifteen, and, armed with a cheerful promise that everything would be ready by four, had set off back. I chose as usual a back-street route, and had just turned right past the local junior school – yes, I’d stopped for the lollipop lady, I remember that now – when I found myself knocked to the edge of the pavement, landing on a dustbin liner. Fortunately for me, it was full of rubbish and gave when I landed on it. Less fortunate, perhaps, was the fact this it contained fishbones, and I had to whiz home as fast as my wobbly legs would take me to change and shove all my clothes in the machine.

  No witnesses, of course. Though there was a dash of red paint on my mirror, when I came to peer at it later.

  I arrived in the common room rather later than usual, but still in time to grab a cup of coffee.

  ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ said a couple of people whose names I still didn’t know.

  Polly, the union rep, came over, flourishing a clipboard. ‘Here, you’re in NATFHE, aren’t you, Sophie? Would you like to sign this?’ She waved a petition and produced a biro from her pocket.

  ‘Better read it first,’ I said.

  ‘Better read this first,’ she said, and passed me a sheet of paper.

  George Muntz College of Further Education

  FROM: Mr D. M. Blake, Principal and Chief Executive

  To: All staff

  RE: USAGE OF STAFF ROOM

  In the current post incorporation economic climate it is incumbent on us all to make sacrifices to ensure the financial viability of the Corporation. It has therefore been agreed that the usage of the staff room will now be limited. Staff will be able to obtain coffee from the machine in the Student Canteen, which will hereafter be known as the Canteen. The staff room will be known as the Conference Room, and will be bookable only through the Chief Executive’s Secretary, Mrs I. M. Cavendish. Staff are further reminded that to make liquid refreshments in individual study rooms is a violation of the Corporation’s Code of Conduct and will result in disciplinary action under the Corporation’s Disciplinary Code, copies of which are available for inspection.

  ‘What’s all this about a corporation?’ I asked at last, holding the document ostentatiously between my fingertips.

  ‘That’s what the colleges are, technically, since April,’ said Polly. ‘Come on, Sophie, your old place has been incorporated too. Didn’t you get a wonderful glossy folder inviting you to sign up for a new contract? We got them on 1 April – honestly! And a load of people signed, too. Fools.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t.’

  ‘NATFHE have tried to black it. It’s a killer. I can’t believe they’ve not tried it on you people at William Murdock. Tell you what, I’ll show you a copy when I have a moment. But just now I’m more interested in this business.’ She flourished the petition.

  ‘Can they really act unilaterally? There wasn’t any consultation, I gather?’

  ‘Apparently. And look at this.’ She pointed to Blake’s title. ‘“Chief Executive”, indeed.’

  ‘I gather his secretary doesn’t correct his English,’ I said.

  ‘Cavendish? She might be into the other sort of correction!’ snorted a tall, thin man. Ben, that was it; he was head of engineering.

  I signed the petition, of course, and padded off to teach. The Waste Land, indeed.

  The way Dr Trevelyan eyed me when I met her on the stairs of the Computer Wing I might have been the original Burglar Bill, complete with mask, a hooped shirt and a bag marked SWAG. As it was, I was merely pursuing my lawful avocation and arriving promptly to teach my dead-end class of the week, elementary word processing. Why they should have landed me with that I wasn’t quite sure – to stop me missing Meat Three and Beauty Two, perhaps. Certainly there are few less enjoyable things in the world than facing a group of thick middle-class sixteen-year-old girls. Never mind, if anyone was going to be re
duced to tears, a fate which according to rumour regularly befell the visiting teacher I replaced, it was not going to be me. I knew that and, better still, the students knew that. Today we sorted out how to employ the spell-checker and thesaurus, not an easy task when the girls concerned couldn’t even work out which of the alternative spellings to choose.

  When I returned to civilisation an hour later, it was to find workmen fitting a new touchbutton lock to the room I’d used illicitly yesterday. Melina was Blu-Tacking large notices forbidding unauthorised access. And a couple of WPCs who worked at Chris’s station were bowing themselves away from Dr Trevelyan. I fell into step with them.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ I asked.

  ‘Hi, Sophie. You heard we got a conviction in the Bridges case?’

  ‘Yes, last night. I’m getting Chris drunk tonight,’ I said.

  ‘You know what drink does,’ said the second woman – Helen, I think.

  ‘Quite,’ I said.

  ‘Poor bugger! When are you two going to—’

  ‘We’re friends,’ I said firmly. ‘You can buy a friend a drink. Any road up,’ I pursued, turning Black Country to emphasise the change of subject, ‘to what does George Muntz owe the pleasure of your company?’

  ‘Couple of computers nicked, that’s all. Fourth or fifth time this year. Happens all the time in places like this.’ Helen’s radio crackled. ‘Better be off,’ she said.

  ‘And next time we see you, make sure you’ve let poor Chris get his leg over!’ yelled – was it Sharon? Karen? – as they left.

  It was a very surly bunch of men and women who forgathered in what was now officially the canteen for their lunch and machine-made coffee or tea. It was not, however, as surly as the group of students whose regular tables we’d appropriated. The young man who had the doubtful pleasure of being student liaison officer managed to stop one or two youths jostling us, but we were jeered and catcalled as we left. Many students waved brightly coloured pamphlets at us as we went: one made a dart out of his, which I retrieved. The George Muntz Students Charter. No apostrophe – perhaps it was Blake’s handiwork. The contents certainly made it clear that the students were entitled to their rights, with the clear implication that if anything went wrong it was the fault of the idle and unintelligent staff. Outside the canteen were blackboards announcing ‘Emergancy S U Meating’s’. Perhaps the booklet was not to be laid at Blake’s door.

  I spent the afternoon at the word processor, attacking the minutes I’d been volunteered into. The printer behaved immaculately. Melina must have brought it back. Very efficient of her, of course, and I should have been grateful, but now I came to think of it I’d rather she’d waited till I was in the room. Perhaps it was the morning’s attack of management possessiveness, not to mention the students’ tantrum, that made me want to guard my territory, no matter how temporary my ownership.

  I toyed with the idea of phoning up Dr Trevelyan and moaning. Or dashing off a stiff memo, since these were apparently in vogue. But on the whole I thought I’d speak to Melina herself, and hope for an apologetic explanation.

  Suddenly I’d had enough of Muntz for the day. It was nearly five and I had to get into Harborne for the evening’s outfit.

  Despite the heavy traffic, my journey was entirely incident-free. Until I got into Safeway, that is. They have a convenient trolley shelter with cycle provision, too. All I needed from Safeway itself was some bread, which of course I could have got in a corner shop. But it always seems a bity iffy to take advantage of a store’s generosity to my bike without paying backhandedly. With only a few minutes before the cleaner’s closed, I sprinted in and ran straight into Melina as I hurtled past the biscuits.

  ‘Thanks for bringing my printer back,’ I said.

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said. She looked around, almost furtively. ‘Sophie, I need – can I talk to you?’

  ‘’Course,’ I said. ‘Pop up to my room tomorrow. I can always say I’ve got another computer fault.’

  ‘I really meant now.’

  I glanced at my watch. ‘I’m sorry. I really have to dash. Tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘See you – any time tomorrow morning,’ I said over my shoulder.

  I made it to the cleaner’s with one minute to spare.

  4

  Chris collected me by taxi: he obviously intended to accomplish some serious drinking. He was not the sort of policeman to enforce the law while not bothering to uphold it.

  When he tried to get out and escort me, I waved him back again. A spring shower was hurling rain almost horizontally, and there was no point in two of us spending the evening in soggy trousers.

  The driver chose the Harborne High Street route into town, which meant passing George Muntz again. Perhaps living so close to the shop wasn’t such a good idea after all. As we turned along Court Oak Road, the driver pulled over sharply. An ambulance was coming the other way, lights flashing, making a great deal of noise.

  Putting the engine into gear, the driver sighed heavily. ‘In the midst of life there is death,’ he observed.

  Nothing we could say to that, really.

  Chris had booked us into the Mondiale for dinner. He probably thought he was choosing a sophisticated city-centre hotel with a fine restaurant which collected crossed forks, rosettes and stars as other places collect closure notices from the Environmental Health Inspectorate. I, however, knew it less for its fine cuisine than for a couple of profound personal humiliations I hoped Chris knew absolutely nothing about. Certainly I wasn’t going to spoil his enjoyment of this evening by any allusions to the past, and I hoped he’d not destroy mine by any allusions to future use of the hotel’s bedrooms.

  While we strolled through the white marble foyer, past the elegant little fountain and into the white and gold restaurant, I inspected him. He looked very spruce in a lightweight suit which I’d not seen before, and he nodded his approval of my silk outfit. I’d managed to wash my hair, which always gets rid of the irritations of the day. If I were to mention them later, I’d regale Chris with the funnier side. He didn’t deserve any more stress than his job already inflicted on him. His face was more deeply drawn than his age merited – he was thirty-nine now – and he’d acquired a slight, scholarly stoop. When he put his half-moon glasses on to read the menu, he looked like an academic suddenly come into an inheritance. His fingers fidgeted a thread from the tablecloth.

  He caught me looking at him, and grinned. ‘Worry cotton – I left my beads at home. And you may think I’m crazy, and for goodness’ sake don’t tell anyone, and I mean anyone, but I’m going to try Alexander Technique lessons. Well,’ he continued, as if he needed to justify himself, ‘my back gives notice from time to time, and I’ve started to get indigestion. So I thought, why not give it a try?’

  ‘You’ll end up even taller!’

  ‘Yes, I was reading about this guy who started off all hunched and ended up over six foot. You might try it yourself – grow a little bit. Can’t be much fun being as little as you.’ His eyes disappeared in crow’s feet.

  ‘They don’t make diamonds the size of pieces of coal,’ I said tartly.

  ‘Logs of wood,’ he corrected me.

  ‘Pieces of coal in the Black Country!’ I was ready to bristle. Then I softened: ‘OK. Maybe I’ll try it. Give me a report.’

  What my offhand comment concealed was a huge desire to sing and dance on the table. When I met him, Chris epitomised conventionality, and I suspected that one of the reasons he found himself attracted to me was what he perceived as my anarchic streak. It was good to see someone as rigid as he unbending, and if I helped in the change, I saw no reason to be ashamed.

  Another change I positively claimed to have wrought in Chris was his attitude to food. He used to refer to me derisively as a foodie, but could now tell a sugar-snap from a mange tout with his eyes closed. Accordingly he now gave the menu his full attention, and left me to do the same.

  Hors d’oeuvres for both of us,
and by chance we both chose guinea fowl. Although the waiter passed him the wine list, we shared the decision and the responsibility: was red too strong for the guinea fowl? No? Valdepenas, then. And champagne, of course, while we waited.

  ‘Right,’ I said, settling my arms on the table, ‘tell me how it feels to have nailed that bastard Bridges.’

  ‘Good,’ he said simply. ‘A very sick man, that. Jesus – no, I’m not going to give you all the details, Sophie. But I hope he’ll be somewhere nice and secure for a good long time, and yes, I wish they could actually cure him. You’re making me too bloody liberal,’ he added grinning.

  ‘Will this help with your promotion?’ Since the Sheehy Report had threatened the future of chief-inspector rank, Chris had been anxious.

  He spread his hands. ‘The trouble is, that means leaving Rose Road – all the team there. And taking on whatever I’m offered.’

  ‘Better than being abolished?’

  He nodded. ‘Demoted, at least. Oh, there are some jobs I wouldn’t mind doing as an inspector – though how they’d feel about me still getting chief inspector’s pay, I don’t know! But some …’ He tailed off, as if embarrassed he was giving too much away.

  On the other hand, I wanted to probe further: all too often Chris clammed up if I asked him about his work, and particularly his feelings about it. I decided to risk it, maybe for his sake as much as mine. ‘What’s your worst-case scenario? Back in uniform?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Working with your team all the time – being on the same shift with your mates each time – you can get very close. You can get a great sense of camaraderie. But I’ll tell you what – my God, I feel sick at the thought of it, Sophie – the worst case is being the inspector in charge of the lock-up at Steelhouse Lane. All those no-bail prisoners. Druggies, drunks, people who should be in mental hospitals but who are now the lucky recipients of care in the community. The smell. Never seeing the light of day. Awful! I was there for a month when I started. Nearly left the force altogether. Worse than being a troglodyte. And it ought to be done by trained prison officers, come to think of it: waste of police manpower. Whoops! What, not biting?’ He replaced his grim expression with a charming smile: he’d said enough about himself.