GUILT TRIPPER (6 page)
Authors: Geoff Small
Light filled the
hallway. Judith just about managed to conceal herself in the darkened bathroom before
Bob marched out of Danny’s bedroom towards the front door, talking manically.
“It’ll be worth it
to see you finally coveting cash and stripped of your self-righteousness. We’ll
be morally indistinguishable and I won’t have moved an inch either way. You
know what this means don’t you?” He turned to face Danny, who was now wearing
an old white dressing gown, with pink streaks where it had been washed with
coloured clothes. “It means I’ve won. I was right and you were wrong. We are
all instinctively loners…self-interested individuals.” He rubbed his hands in
glee. “Do thank the old lady downstairs for letting me past her as she came
through the main entrance door.”
Danny turned from
shutting the door to find a deeply hurt Judith standing in front of him.
“You used me,” she
complained plaintively.
Ashamed, Danny looked
down at the floor. “Yes, I did…and I’m truly, truly sorry.” Then he walked
away, unable to look at her. As he entered the lounge, he passed Fin on his way
out, but neither so much as acknowledged the other’s presence. The latter told
Judith he was going to give her and Danny some time alone together, before
retiring to his own bedroom.
Having taken time to
recompose herself, Judith went into the lounge, where Danny was stood on the
balcony in his dressing gown, looking up at the stars. She slumped down on the couch
and stared at the faded area on the knees of her jeans, arms crossed, kneading
her pink, lamb’s wool V-neck jumper with her fingers. After a couple of minutes,
Danny started talking, but remained with his back to her.
“The only reason I
drove a cab was to keep Bob and Ingrid under surveillance…the bloody thing
wasn’t even mine. I just borrowed it from a pal when he wasn’t working. I only
took fares if, like you, they furthered my ends, and so I was usually out of
pocket by the time I’d paid for fuel. But I didn’t have any other vices and
watching Ingrid was my passion. It was more of an escape than anything — just a
few of hours away from the apartment and mum. I was supposed to be her full
time carer, but I don’t know if I’d have coped without that time to myself each
day.” When Judith looked up, Danny was still out on the balcony, but facing her
now. “Please, try not to consider me a freak. It’s just really hard giving up
on somebody you love. Not a minute’s gone by without my regretting having used
you. I might have had a hidden agenda to begin with, but I grew to enjoy your
company immensely and felt we could probably be very good pals. So please, please
try and forgive me Judith. Be my friend, then at least something precious will
have come out of this ridiculous obsession of mine.”
The puzzle of “Must
say sorry to Judith” had been solved. Danny had obviously been genuinely
contrite about using her and, as such, she found it easier to consider
forgiveness. But a much darker issue still needed addressing.
“I can bring myself
to understand you spying on Ingrid, even your reasons for not telling her about
what Bob did, if I try hard enough. But blackmail? How can you justify
something as calculated as that?”
“Homelessness.”
“What?”
“While that arrogant
bully’s swaggering round the city with several million in the bank, Finley and
I are being evicted, so the landlord can get more lucrative tenants. We’re
being deprived of the fundamental human right to a home, while unproductive
people like Bob, with their three houses, are hogging all the money.” He
stabbed out with his forefinger to stress the point. “All I’ll be doing is
taking our rightful share of the cake.”
“Profiting from
violence against society’s most vulnerable though? Surely that’s against
everything you stand for?”
“Even Castro’s had
to make moral compromises…and, anyway, like I told you at the wake, since my
ma’ died I don’t have any ideology. Ideology’s what’s been paralysing me all
these years.”
“But what if he does
it again, only next time he kills somebody?”
“There’s nothing we
can do to prevent that short of becoming murderers ourselves. Remember, I never
actually saw Bob do anything, and, it’s so long after the event, my evidence
would be dismissed as sour grapes over Ingrid. The only thing we’ve got on him
is an informal confession. So, if we play it by the book he remains free and
unpunished. If we take his cash though, he’ll at least be paying for what he
did in some way…we can transubstantiate it through good acts, just like the
government claims to do when they confiscate the proceeds of criminality.”
Every so often,
exploding fireworks could be heard in the distance, on the outlying housing
schemes, beyond the motorway.
“So how have you
reached a figure of seven hundred and sixty grand then?” Judith asked,
intrigued.
Danny’s eyes suddenly
blazed with excitement; something she’d never expected to see in this dour man.
“I can only speculate,
but, according to one of Fin’s newspapers a couple of weeks back, sales of The
Squeaky Kirk’s back catalogue have gone through the roof since Bob’s arrest.” He
rummaged in his dressing gown pockets. “I’ve got some figures somewhere.” Producing
a crumpled paper cutting, he came back inside and handed it to Judith. On it
was a list of the band’s seven albums and the corresponding worldwide sales
tallies from July to the beginning of October that year, totalling six hundred
and thirty eight thousand copies. “If each CD sold for a tenner, there’s been a
turnover exceeding six million quid, twelve and a half per-cent of which goes
to Bob as the composer. That means roughly seven hundred and sixty grand for
our charity.”
“Oh! That’s not so
bad then — have you decided which one?”
“Too bloody right I
have.”
“Yea?” Judith was
starting to warm to Danny again.
“It’s a place up in
the Highlands. Kids from underprivileged parts of Glasgow go there to learn
about art and literature. Then they go on to complete their education at
universities away from their hometown, so that they escape the hopeless
environments that would otherwise stunt them. Hopefully, though, they’ll return
some day to pass their learning on. It’s a beautiful wild place where they can
fish, hike and sort their heads out in peace.”
“Arr, that sounds
really nice Danny. Where is it exactly?”
“I’ll tell you when
I’ve found a suitable location. We should be able to get somewhere big enough
with more than seven hundred grand, shouldn’t we?”
“What? You’re going
to run your own private school?” Judith exclaimed. “You’re going to select who
can and can’t attend?”
“Like I say, I’ve
learnt to execute my principles within the context of the world in which I
actually live. Rather than just moan about the poor provision of services, I’m
actually going to provide alternative one’s and hopefully, become a model — a
beacon for others. It’s not the way I want it, but the fact is, the poor are
going to have to learn to educate themselves, because it’s more than apparent
that the middle classes aren’t going to do it for them. Just as the Rochdale
Pioneers had to open their own schools in the Nineteenth Century, we, the
‘underclass’, are going to have to do the same now. After all, if you’re not
prepared to look after your own, you can hardly expect strangers to.” Just
then, Fin walked tentatively into the lounge. “Fin, nip out and get a meal for
five from the Chinese,” Danny shouted. “You can take it out of my disability
money!” Fin looked delighted. Not only was his brother talking to him, but it
seemed he might actually be about to eat something too. “And get yourself some
beers and a bottle of wine for Judith — we’re celebrating.”
After a jovial meal
around the coffee table, Judith nodded off on the White’s couch. Next morning,
she was woken at around eight by a whistling, clean shaven Danny, whose baggy
black suit looked ridiculous on his thin body. Taking pity, she frogmarched him
into the kitchen, sat him on a stool and set about his curly mane with a pair
of scissors. She was just brushing his brown locks from the linoleum when the
buzzer went on the intercom. Danny told his visitors to come up then inspected
his haircut in the hall mirror before opening the door. Bob, still in white,
marched straight past him to the lounge, shadowed by a dumpy, gnome-like lawyer
with a pointed ginger goatee beard, wearing a green and brown tartan suit. Danny
and Judith tagged along.
Fergus Baxter
slammed a briefcase on the glass coffee table moodily, sitting at the very edge
of the couch to open it. The others, all nervous, remained on their feet. He
produced a cheque and held it up in the air for Danny to take.
“A hundred and fifty
thousand pounds?” Danny turned imploringly to Bob. “We agreed on all your
royalties since July. What’s going on?”
“You’re much better
off this way — believe me,” Baxter interrupted.
Danny rustled in his
suit pocket then handed the paper cutting to the lawyer, who read the text and
sniggered.
“I was under the
impression you were more intelligent than to believe the newspapers.” Noting
the anger in Danny’s eyes, though, he held a pacifying, vertical palm out. “Royalties
come in dribs and drabs Mr. White, whereas with a lump sum — invested properly
— the interest alone will be more than a match.” Baxter pinched his ginger
goatee between two fingers several times. “It’s also less suspicious.”
“I don’t see how me
receiving his royalties is any more conspicuous than the transfer of a hundred
and fifty grand from his account to mine.”
Baxter smiled,
cynically. “My client tells me you’re a painter, Mr. White — and a very good
one too. So good in fact, that nobody would be shocked to discover somebody
paying a hundred and fifty grand for some of your collection.”
“No!” Danny turned
to Bob again. “Don’t you dare use him to flatter and bamboozle me. You instruct
him to do as we agreed!”
“If we could all
just calm down a second,” Baxter appealed, so reasonably it was eerie. “Once
news gets around that your paintings are valued in six figure sums you’ll
literally be printing your own cash, for a year at the least.”
“And I suppose it’ll
be tax deductible for you, won’t it?”
Baxter shrugged his
shoulders.
Danny looked down at
the holes in the threadbare carpet, slowly shaking his head in anger before
looking up again. “I’ll have to confer with my friend.” He flicked his head for
Judith to join him back in the kitchen. “So what do you think?” he whispered to
her.
“I thought we were
supposed to be punishing him for what he’s done to that poor girl?” she
exclaimed indignantly, while straining to keep her voice down. “To me it seems
he can’t lose. He’ll be able to claim tax back if he’s bought your paintings,
and by artificially creating such a lucrative art market, he may even go on to
sell them at a profit. Which means you get less than you originally asked and
he ends up even richer. How’s that making amends? I mean, who’s blackmailing
who here? On top of that, he’s dragging you into the mire with him. Your name
will be synonymous with his forever.”
Danny put his hands
to his head, before dragging them down his face, stretching his eyes and
alabaster skin with his fingers. He sighed.
“You’re right, he
mustn’t get everything his own way. But me and Fin need that cash or we’re
screwed. I’ll compromise and meet them half way: three hundred and sixty
grand.”
“It’s seven hundred
and sixty grand or nothing Danny. You’re the blackmailer for God’s sake, not
the other way round.”
They marched
purposefully back into the lounge, interrupting Bob and Baxter’s whispering
huddle on the couch.
“Err,” Danny went to
speak but Judith raised her voice over his.
“It’s like this,
fellas: Danny’s been more than reasonable already. Anyone else would have bled
you dry. So it’s seven hundred and sixty grand or he’s going straight to the
police.”
Baxter looked to
Bob, before plucking another already written cheque from his case. Along with
this he arranged some paperwork out on the coffee table to be signed: receipts for
the purchase of paintings at seven-hundred and sixty thousand pounds — a figure
which, it was now obvious, they’d been willing to pay all along. Once Danny had
signed everything, Bob clapped his hands together.
“Ok! Let’s have a
gander at some of your paintings then Daniel.”
Swept along by these
events, Judith found herself following the men downstairs and climbing into the
back of Baxter’s beige Jaguar with Danny, who gave directions for the
Southside. After a few miles, Danny said, here, and they pulled up next to some
garages, behind a concrete high-rise apartment block, as wide as a football
pitch is long. Everybody climbed out and huddled in the drizzle, while Danny lifted
one of the rusty metal doors, revealing at least a hundred paintings, leaning
against one another like unwanted deck chairs. Bob immediately strode across to
a six-foot high, seven foot wide canvas propped up against the back wall. Painted
in a classical style, it was a study of Ingrid, lying asleep in a white silk
nightgown, on top of a bed.
“You’re welcome to
everything except the sleeping scene,” Danny shouted, urgently.
“No, that’s the best
one. I’m having it in honour of our deal,” Bob countered, triumphantly.
“Oh no…I’m not
letting you steal everything from me!”
Bob affected a
perplexed look. “How’s seven hundred and sixty thousand pounds theft?”
“I shouldn’t be
giving you anything…I’m already sparing your liberty!”
“Can’t you see I’m
giving you an opportunity to get out of all this with your dignity intact? Danny,
you’re a good man, and I don’t want to see that destroyed. If people like you
turn out bad, what hope is there for the rest of us? You’re not a blackmailer,
you’re a painter. Now sell me some friggin’ paintings!” Bob smiled slyly.
“Take it...take
anything you want.”
Danny handed Bob the
garage key and marched off. Judith thought it best to leave him be and pottered
about for a couple of minutes, until the others were distracted enough for her
to slip away unnoticed — she certainly had no intention of getting into a car
alone with them.
