The Better Mousetrap (5 page)

‘Sorry? I don’t—’

‘Typical bloody Carpenter mentality,’ Mr Tanner barked, jabbing with his cigar. ‘You go around playing cat’s cradle with the lives of everybody on the planet, but it’s all OK because you’re saving people’s lives. And yes, there could be problems as a result, but you’ve got your little bit of rock that tells you it’ll all be fine, so— You know what? That’s not just stupid, it’s a special, rare kind of stupidity that’s so crass it’s practically Liberal Democrat. And one of these days, when it all hits the fan—’ He shrugged. ‘I’d kill you if I thought I could get away with it, but there you go. Enough of that. So: to what do I owe the unwanted pleasure?’

Frank didn’t answer straight away. He was hurt. Sure, he’d expected a certain degree of hostility, but this was more than he’d bargained for. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d see it that way.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘Figures.’

Frank sighed. ‘I only came here to give you some money.’

Mr Tanner froze. Misleading term, in context. Rather, it was as though someone had pressed the pause button and stopped the world for a moment.

‘Money?’

Frank nodded. ‘I figured that, well, it was partly my parents’ fault that you lost the business and everything you’d worked so hard for all your life, and that really didn’t seem very fair to me; and I’ve been doing quite well at this insurance thing I’ve been telling you about, and to be honest with you I don’t really need all that money, it’s not like I’ve got very much to spend it on, and if I did, all I’ve got to do is go out and earn some more, so I thought—’ He hesitated. This was embarrassing. ‘Would ten million be any good?’

Mr Tanner’s lips shaped the words ten million, but no sound came out.

‘Dollars,’ Frank amplified.

‘Pounds.’

‘All right, pounds. Would that sort of help you get back on your feet, make a new life for yourself, that kind of thing?’

(Mr Tanner was thinking: yup, he’s a Carpenter all right. Bit like what you’d get if you took an atomic bomb and brought it up to be a devout Quaker. Sooner or later you’d get melted pavements and silhouettes on the walls, but it’d have all been with the very best of intentions.)

‘Yes,’ Mr Tanner said; then he added, ‘It’d be a start, anyway.’

Frank frowned. ‘A start.’

Mr Tanner nodded, several times. ‘A gesture. It’s the thought that counts.’ Frank took out his chequebook, opened it, patted his top pocket. ‘Excuse me, have you got a pen?’ Mr Tanner gave him one. It was a plain black biro, with extreme tooth-marks where someone had been chewing it.

‘Sorry, what’s the date today?’

Mr Tanner pointed to the desk calendar.

‘Ah, right,’ Frank said. ‘Only, I lose track - Will just “D Tanner” be all right, or—?’

‘That’ll do fine.’

Tearing noise. The top left-hand corner had come off, the way it does if you don’t tug at it just right. Frank handed the cheque to Mr Tanner, who studied it carefully for a moment, then laid it on his desk and weighed it down with a heavy, old-fashioned stapler.

‘My pen,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

‘Can I have my pen back, please?’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Not to worry,’ Mr Tanner said, taking the pen from Frank and putting it away in a drawer. ‘Easily done. Um—’ He paused, and a battle seemed to be taking place behind his eyes. ‘Want a receipt?’

‘What? Oh, no, don’t bother about that.’

‘Um.’ It was as though an invisible dentist was pulling all Mr Tanner’s teeth. ‘Thanks,’ he grunted, then swallowed. ‘Yes, well. Thank you.’

Frank smiled. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Only, it’s sort of been on my mind a bit lately, and—’ Mr Tanner had noticed something. He moved the stapler an inch to the left and glanced down. ‘I see you bank with—’

‘That’s right,’ Frank said, pleased that the subject had changed. ‘Dad always thought very highly of them, and I don’t know about finance and stuff, so when I wanted to open a bank account I just kind of took his advice. He said you used to bank with them back in the old days.’

Mr Tanner grunted. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I ever liked them much myself. Good deposit rates, mind, and their charges aren’t bad. But I didn’t think they did private accounts. Just businesses and so on.’

‘It was sort of a favour. Dad told me the chief cashier was an old friend.’

‘Mphm.’

Well, then, Frank thought. I’ve done what I came to do, and clearly he doesn’t like me very much. I’d better go.

He stayed.

‘So,’ he said awkwardly, ‘you’re still, like, in the trade.’

‘It’s the only thing I know,’ Mr Tanner replied. ‘And it’s a living. Not like the old days, of course. We had a pretty good client portfolio at JWW, and a good team, even if they were all bastards of one kind or another. We used to make some serious money.’

‘Before my parents—’

‘—Buggered it all up, yes. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You think it’s just me bearing a grudge. Fine. Well, when your mum and dad joined the firm, there were seven partners. Let’s see, now. Your dad killed Ricky and Theo, he locked Judy up in the Isle of Avalon - bad place, that, you really don’t want to know about it - and, oh yes, he turned Humph Wells into a photocopier, which was probably the nastiest trick of all, because you know what people in offices do to photocopiers. Oh, and if your dog chews up the VAT returns I’m going to turn it into an egg and jump on it, even if you did just give me ten million quid.’

‘What? Oh Christ. Bobby—’

‘So you see,’ Mr Tanner went on (he was smirking now, and seemed rather more relaxed, maybe because he felt he’d got the moral high ground back), ‘it wasn’t just a clash of personalities or nasty bosses bullying the poor downtrodden workers. He ruined me. Couldn’t have done otherwise, like I said, him being a fundamentally decent human being, but you know, that really doesn’t make it any better, somehow. We had to sell the business in the end. Jack Wells retired, Cas Suslowicz went a bit funny and as far as I know he’s working in local government somewhere. Connie Schwartz-Alberich - did your father ever mention her?’

‘No.’

‘After his time, probably.’

Frank shrugged.

‘Screw her, then. As for me, well, you can see where I ended up. Not exactly where I’d have expected to be in five years’ time, as they say in the motivational interviews.’ He sighed. ‘But there we go. Life, and all that stuff.-‘

‘I’m—’ Frank hesitated. He felt very sorry for Mr Tanner, but he couldn’t help remembering that this was the man who’d terrorised his parents, leaving them scarred for life. He didn’t seem so bad-but maybe suffering had mellowed him, or at least drained away his strength. ‘Well,’ he said briskly. ‘The money’ll help, won’t it?’

‘Money?’

‘The ten million.’

Mr Tanner went quiet for a moment. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that. For one thing, I’ve got debts. From the old days.’

‘Ah.’

‘Our former landlords, for one thing.’

Frank frowned. ‘Dad told me you leased the building from your mother’s family.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Surely they’d understand about—’

Mr Tanner laughed. ‘Did your dad tell you about my family? Our family.’

‘Um. Well, he said your mother’s a very friendly, outgoing sort of—’

‘You leave my mother out of this.’

‘He’s her son’s godfather, isn’t he? Her other son,’ he said, immediately wishing he hadn’t.

‘That’s right.’ Mr Tanner’s eyes had grown small and sharp. ‘Little Paul Azog, my half-brother.’

‘Azog,’ Frank repeated. ‘That’s a Russian name, isn’t it?’

Mr Tanner grinned. ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘Actually, it’s goblin.’

‘Go—’

‘Mphm.’ A smile flashed across Mr Tanner’s face. ‘That’s what our family is, on Mum’s side. Your dad didn’t tell you that, did he?’

‘Um.’

The smile was so broad that it crinkled the corners of Mr Tanner’s eyes. ‘Goblins,’ he repeated. ‘Little hairy buggers with great big claws and teeth. They live in holes in the ground, and they eat people.’

‘Goblins.’

‘On my mother’s side,’ Mr Tanner said. ‘My dad’s family are from Adelaide.’

‘Right.’ Frank breathed in deeply. ‘Well,’ he said, in a rather subdued voice, ‘that’s - well, I have to say, that does come as a bit of a—’

‘Could be worse,’ Mr Tanner said.

‘Really?’

‘Too right. Could’ve been from Sydney. So, now you know. And yes, the money‘11 come in handy, pay off a bit of the back rent. Maybe now my uncle Bolg and my auntie Freda won’t come after me one dark night and tear out my ribcage with their fingers. Weight off my mind, that, though you never can tell with family. I’m just grateful it was Mum’s side I pissed off. Dad’s lot are a real load of bastards. But,’ he went on, ‘if you think for one moment that it makes us all square, no hard feelings, cards at Christmas and why don’t we ask cousin Dennis round for a barbie on the lawn, forget it. Not going to happen.’

Frank bit his lip. A substantial part of his brain was still processing the goblin thing. What was left floundered in a pool of well-meaning guilt. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ he said. ‘If there’s ever anything I can do—’

‘Actually.’ Mr Tanner leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘there is.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure.’ Mr Tanner nodded. ‘Piece of cake for you, as a matter of fact. Right up your alley. All you need to do is go back through that Door of yours to the day your old man was born, and cut his throat. Better still, save you all the mess and bother, go back a bit further and make sure his dad never met his mum, or they had a bloody great row or something. Then your dad wouldn’t ever have happened, I’d still be a partner in JWW, and you wouldn’t flaming well exist.’ He grinned cheerfully. ‘I don’t call that a lot to ask, do you? And like I said, we’re family.’

‘I don’t really think I could do that,’ Frank said, in a very small voice. ‘It’d be - well …’

‘Doing the right thing, if you ask me. I expect your dad’d see it that way.’

‘Yes,’ Frank said. ‘But I’m not him. Besides,’ he added, ‘that really would upset the fabric of reality and all that stuff. You said yourself, Dad saved the human race and things like that. If he hadn’t—’

Mr Tanner waved his hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I didn’t expect you’d agree. That’s the thing about having a really low opinion of human nature, you aren’t disappointed. No, you bugger off and enjoy yourself, don’t worry about me. I’ll get by somehow. I always have. And you told me yourself, you only prevent disasters and right wrongs if you’re getting paid. Wouldn’t want you working for free, that’s not how we do things in the business. Talking of which,’ he added with a yawn, ‘you may have all the time in the world but I haven’t, so unless there’s anything else you want to talk about—’

‘No, that’s—’ Frank stood up. ‘It was, um—’

‘Likewise,’ said Mr Tanner.

‘- Meeting you, and I really am very sorry. About all the fuss, I mean. And if ever there’s anything else I can do; look, here’s how you can get hold of me.’ He took a card out of his pocket. Mr Tanner made no effort to take it, so Frank put it on the desk. ‘Just leave a message with Mrs O’Brien, she, um.’ He seemed to have run out of words. ‘Well, cheers, then. I’ll go now.’

His hand was on the door handle when Mr Tanner said; ‘Just one other thing.’

He turned round quickly. ‘Yes?’

‘You’ve forgotten your dog.’

‘Ah, right.’ Frank sighed. ‘Come on Bobby, here boy. Oh, you stupid animal—’

Three seconds of dead silence. Then Mr Tanner said: ‘Don’t worry about it, they needed replacing anyway. I’ll just have to keep the window open for a day or two.’

The nastiest thing that anybody had ever done to his parents, Frank reflected as he left Mr Tanner’s office, had been meant as an act of kindness. Typical; it had been the sort of present men would die for-quite a few had, over the years - but its only effect, apart from what it said on the tin, had been to make Mum and Dad utterly miserable. In fact, it had probably been the final straw that had prompted them to wall themselves up in their own separate and unreachable tangent of space-time. Good intentions, Mr Tanner had said. Well, quite. The six-lane superhighway to hell is paved, tarmacked, cat’s-eyed, signposted, street-lit, hard-shouldered and contraflowed with good intentions. As a Carpenter, he didn’t need some goblin to tell him that.

(Goblins, he thought. Goblins.)

It had been a Christmas present from Uncle Benny, the only one of his dad’s old work colleagues who’d kept in touch. He only remembered him vaguely, as a short, terrifying man with a doormat beard, thick spectacles and a strange laugh. Dad had tried to tell him the backstory once, something about how Uncle Benny had helped him save Mum from the Queen of the Fey, whoever the hell she was. (Dad had tried to explain, but he’d tuned out. He’d only been six at the time.) Uncle Benny used to visit them for a while after he’d retired from the trade. But then he’d given them the present, and after that they’d made it clear, in their kind, tactful, extremely offensive way, that he wasn’t welcome in their house any more.

What he’d given them (gruff, kind-hearted, stupid Uncle Benny) was the gift of eternal youth. It had come in a cardboard box, Frank remembered, like the ones they package computer programs in. There were instructions inside, in seven languages, and a small brown bottle of pills. Mum and Dad had taken two each, after Mum had read the label carefully to make sure they didn’t contain synthetic additives or GM ingredients. And that was that.

Irreversible, the leaflet said.

The problem was, Mum and Dad had never quite mastered the knack of being young. Youth hadn’t fitted them: too tight in some places, baggy in others, and the sleeves came down to their knuckles. They knew it was something you were supposed to enjoy, a taste you were practically obliged to acquire, like alcohol or extra-mature cheese, and they’d done their conscientious best, but they’d failed, both of them. Middle age suited them much better. It had calmed them down, created a demilitarised zone in the middle of their frantic, hair-trigger relationship in which all the little misunderstandings and presumed slights and routine acts of thoughtlessness didn’t really matter all that terribly much. Making them both seventeen again, for ever and ever and ever, was probably the cruellest thing anybody could have done to them. Silly Uncle Benny.