A Half Life of One

8/8/2019 A Half Life of One

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A Half Life of One

Chapter 1

Nick Dowty sat huddled alone in the empty office surrounded by ghosts.

The clamour of unanswered phones bombarded his brain like shrapnelbouncing off a tin roof. Below him the factory lay silent, no angry whine ofmachines tearing steel, no familiar judder from gantry cranes shifting tentonne blocks of solid metal onto the machining centres.

It was eleven o clock on a bright Tuesday morning in the middle ofJanuary but it felt like hed been there all day. Time moves slowly inexorably slowly on death row. This was the seventeenth year he hadruled over his tiny empire from the comfort of his familiar leather swivelchair. He stared out with unseeing eyes over the snow-covered golf

course. The bank manager was due at any moment. Nick had spent thewhole of the previous week trying to make sense of the Decembermanagement accounts. Despite his best efforts hed totally failed toconstruct a plausible escape plan from his companys precipitous plungeinto losses. They were in deep trouble and for the first time since hedstarted the business all those years before he hadnt been able to conjureup another plausible strategy to keep the business alive. The last strategicreview they had conducted with the help of highly paid consultants hadbeen implemented only two years previously. That solution to lowerprices and diversify away from their overdependence on one customer -

hadnt worked. Now the situation was even worse. The scale of the losseswas suchtheir debts were so great Things were so bad it was hard tothink straight any more. All that was left was to throw himself upon themercy of the bank. He closed his eyes. He was desperately tired but sleepwas impossible. There was no escape from the nightmare he was living.

From down below in reception he could hear the angry buzz from thesteady stream of creditors demanding to be paid. Lorna was doing her bestto placate them but he knew there was no cash to pay them. It was just amatter of time before they breached the companys flimsy defences. Anyminute now the electricity could be cut off and the building would grind to ahalt. Eventually even the phones would fall silent. Starved of cash, theoxygen of business, the company was rapidly dying. The bank was his lastchance, he had nowhere else to turn. He knew that this meeting was goingto be the stage for the most important performance of his life. If the bankmanager swallowed the flimsy story he was about to spin, his thin tale ofdistant hope and uncertain redemption, they still had a chance. He closedhis eyes and tried to shut out the noise of those bloody phones. They didnt
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have a job on their books, hed fired half his staff, there was nothing moreto be done, and yet still it was bedlam in here.

Starting a business was like going to war, he thought to himself. Easy tostart but almost impossible to stop. The creditors were the enemy, like

religious fanatics they never gave up. The phones were like gunfire, a non-stop bombardment, assaulting your senses, driving you mad. Nick wouldgive anything for five minutes peace and quiet.

He was still slumped in his chair when Alan Tait, the senior businessdirector from the bank, walked into the room, smiling self-consciously, hisright hand extended in apparent friendship. Nick had dealt with him eversince he had founded the business. Over the years they had becomeprofessional friends.

No chance of a game today, Alan Tait said, nodding at the view throughthe picture window as he deftly avoided direct eye contact.

Nick stood up and grasped the familiar limp, damp hand, suppressing ashudder as he did so. It was the kind of grip you would expect anundertaker, or maybe a priest here to administer the last rites, to have.Not in this weather, Alan.

Sit down, Nick. You dont have to stand on ceremony with me.

Nick lowered himself back into his leather reclining chair and stared up atthe bank manager as he stood over by the window surveying the view hewas about to repossess. It was the first time anyone had ever told Nickwhat to do in his own office, his own little kingdom. Suddenly, everythinghad changed.

Still, the forecast is good, continued the bank manager, smilingpleasantly, The snow might have gone by tomorrow. Something to lookforward to.

Nick was looking forward to the future with as much pleasurableanticipation as he did when he leaned back in the dentists chair. MaybeIll get a round in at the weekend. If I get time.

Alan Tait smiled sympathetically. You look like you could do with a break.

Yeah. This business grinds you down all right. Firefighting the wholebloody time. I feel like Ive been doing it all my life.


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Its been a tough year.

Youre not wrong there.

Nick waited. He knew from innumerable similar meetings over the yearsthat they would quickly reach the limit of their ritual small talk. Whathappened next was what counted. Although he was in a tight corner hehad done his best to prepare for the fight, drawing on all his experience tomarshal his depleted defences. He knew he could offer some genuinereasons for the grim numbers. Orders cancelled at the last minute. Costoverruns due to the increase in the price of steel. More work beingswitched to India and China by cost-conscious multi-national oilcompanies.

Despite the recent gloomy trading performance he had rehearsed his taleof an exciting future a thousand times in his head. Another new strategy.Even lower prices and higher volumes. More emphasis on marketing.Additional investment in new, cleverer machines. He sighed. The scenariowas depressingly similar to many others he had recited over the years.Years when he had struggled to build up the company from nothing, to turnhis dreams into reality. He sometimes thought that it had only been hisdogged faith in the future which had kept the company alive for so long.

Alan Tait opened his briefcase and took out a buff-coloured folder. Ive

studied your management accounts for December, Nick. As you rightly sayin your commentary theyre pretty bad. Disastrous in fact. No cause for anyoptimism at all.

Its the Chinese, Alan. Theres no way we can compete with their prices.Weve tried to fight back by cutting overheads. Its not enough. We needmore investment. Ive made the case in my Business Plan. Smartmanufacturing is the only way we can compete against foreign labourcosts.

Alan Tait shook his head slowly. Youre way too highly geared as it is,Nick. You dont see an upturn here in the North Sea?

Theyre spending more but its all being made abroad.

Alan Tait nodded. Its the story of British manufacturing.

I should have seen it coming.


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No one saw it coming, Nick. People never do. History teaches us nothinguntil its too late.

Nick swivelled round in his chair and gazed out across the snowy blanket

that had completely obliterated the familiar bumps and hollows of theadjacent golf course. He had battled so long to keep the business afloat.There was a time when he would have killed anyone who got in the way tosurvive. Not now. He had fought himself to a standstill. Suddenly he feltoddly detached from the fate of the company that had once been his wholelife. If he had been a soldier he would now be lost behind enemy lines,reeling from acute battle fatigue, on the point of surrender. There was onlyso much a person could take, no matter how tough you thought you were.He said, The signs were there for anyone who dared to look. What I didntforesee was the speed with which the big oil companies would stop

spending locally. Work from the North Sea has just dried up. Everyoneshurting. None of our competitors have got a job in their workshops.

Unfortunately, that doesnt do you much good.

No, I guess not. Ive seen it bad before but not like this. Its worse than86. Much worse.

You wonder where its all going to end.

Yeah. The Chinese have eaten our lunch.

Whatever, Nick. Anyway, we need to get down to business.

Nick frowned. He could smell the bad news coming and it made him gag.This was the moment he had been dreading for weeks, years maybe.Sure. What do you propose? His throat was so dry he could barelywhisper the words.

The bank manager coughed. He looked embarrassed. Nick felt his insides

turning to ice. Although he knew what was coming he still wasnt preparedfor the speed at which his world was collapsing. I know why youre herealright, Alan.

The numbers say it all, Nick. The bank has already given you time to sortthings out but youre still overstretched. Your overdraftits growing biggerevery day. The bank cant let it go on.


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Nick noted how the conversation had suddenly taken an impersonal turn.The bank manager was already distancing himself from the bad news thatwas about to follow. He smiled wryly to himself, despite the gravity of thesituation. The games these people played. He said, Ive always beenoverstretched, Alan. Thats the nature of this industry. Those machines out

there in the workshop cost a small fortune. This is a capital intensivebusiness. When the customer gets busy youve got to put in extra capacityif you want to stay on the merry-go-round with them. If you dont theyll goelsewhere. The irony is that the more successful we are the deeper in debtI get. Now the merry-go-round has suddenly stopped spinning.

A flicker of irritation darted across the bank managers eyes. I dont wantto get into a debate with you, Nick. Suddenly they were no longer oldfriends. No longer equals. This thing has gone beyond my level. The guysin head office are deeply uncomfortable with the extent of your borrowing.

They want to get as much of their capital back as they can while theresstill some residual value left in those machines.

Theyre worried about the machines?

Thats right.

And the people? Are they worried about the people who are going to bethrown onto the scrapheap? What about them?

Theyll find other jobs. They can re-train as plumbers or electricians.Theres a skill shortage in this country even if we dont have anymanufacturing industries left. Theyll probably be better off in the end.

Nick clenched his fists and stared defiantly at the bank manager. Thatsso short-sighted. In six months time it will all be different, Alan, I promiseyou. This is a great little company weve built up. That hasnt changed justbecause weve had a couple of bad months. As soon as they start lookingfor oil again in the North Sea well be making money hand over fist. Youlleven be asking me out to lunch again.

Alan Tait didnt smile. Its too much of a risk, Nick. Who can say where theprice of oil will be in six months time? If Japan falls back into recession andChina cools down it could quite possibly go lower. If the chancellor slapson another windfall tax. Who knows? Im sorry, I really am. The sad truth isthe bank isnt in the risk business. Anyway, its too late. The decision hasalready been taken.


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Nick had been determined to stay cool but the dam holding back hisemotions finally burst. Jesus, Alan, what kind of a risk is it for the bank?Im the one taking all the risk. Im the one whos borrowed all the bloodymoney. The banks got me by the fucking balls. Ive put my house on theline for the bank. That shows how much faith Ive got in the business.

Weve got some great people here. A fantastic team. Im proud to workwith them, theyre like my family. Despite that Ive made cutbacks. Lastweek I paid off six people. Six of my friends. Ive slashed our capitalspending. Weve all taken a pay cut. Ive even put one of the big machinesup for sale. With any luck thatll bring in three hundred grand. Ive alreadytaken all the tough decisions. All I need now is a bit more time and this willall work itself out.

Im sorry, Nick. Like I said the time for action is past. Youve been in thelast chance saloon for too long.

Nick was getting desperate. Thats it? After all these years? Thats it?

The bank manager didnt move.

Please, Alan, Nick pleaded.

Nick, Ive just told you its too late for all this. I warned you six months ago.You should have acted tough then. He glanced at his watch. I told youthis would happen if you breached your loan covenants. The liquidators will

be here shortly.

Liquidators?

Within an hour.

Not the receivers? Youre not even going to keep the business going whileyou look for a buyer?

Its not worth the effort. All they want to do is flog off those machines for

whatever they can get and cut their losses. Look, its not just you. Youcant push water uphill. Manufacturing in this country is dying on its feet.Everyone else is in the same boat. If you want my opinion the wholebloody countrys going to the dogs. The bank wants to sell off the assetsfor whatever it can get and wrap things up as quickly as possible. Dontwaste your energy trying to fight them.

Nick absorbed the bitter news through his skin, as if he had been drenched


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in cold water. He shook his head. Its a criminal waste and you bloodyknow it, Alan.

Im sorry, Nick, I really am.

You know what really pisses me off? I came so close, thats what. I nearlymade it. One more contract and I would have been right up there with thebest of them. One more contract and you would still be licking my arse.

But Im not, am I Nick.

Nick sighed. In his heart he knew it wasnt the bank managers fault. Alanwasa man whose advice and opinions he had come to respect over theyears. He was only the messenger. Come to that, maybe this disasterwasnt even the banks fault. The world was changing. George Bushs war

on terror. Al Quaeda. China booming. The Russian oligarchs. Who knewwhat was going on in the world?. Shell overstating its reserves. A butterflyflapped its wings in Saudi Arabia and the price of oil was all over the place.You couldnt build a secure future on chaos. Dont be sorry, Alan. I wasexpecting it. Most small businesses are only a few months away fromfailure, even the successful ones. A couple of months of losses andsuddenly youre staring into the abyss. Its the game were in. I knew therisk I was taking running my own company. I dont blame you.

The bank manager moved slowly towards the door. He looked genuinely

unhappy at the turn of events. Its always sad when something like thishappens to a well-run company like yours, Nick. Especially when its due tocircumstances beyond your control. The bank manager seemed reluctantto leave, as if he was fascinated by the sight of a still-twitching corpse.What will you do now?

Me? I dont know. Get a job I guess. If anyone will employ me at my age.Maybe if I can persuade Maureen to leave her teaching job we can sell thehouse and make a fresh start somewhere else. Go abroad perhaps.Somewhere where they still make things.

The bank manager coughed. He peered down at his feet, looking distinctlyuncomfortable. About the house, Nick. Dont forget you put it up assecurity for all those loans. You must understand it belongs to the banknow. Its no longer yours to sell.

Nick went white and his heart seemed to stop beating. He couldnt believewhat he was hearing. It couldnt be true. Theyre going to call in my


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guarantee? I thought that was just a token gesture. A bit of paper.

Theyll let you stay there for a bit of course. Maybe a couple of months.But after that theyll want vacant possession so they can put the house onthe market. I know it seems harsh but that was the deal you agreed at the

start of all this.

Jesus. I never thought theyd do that. How am I going to tell Maureen?She loves that house. Thisll kill her. You cant do it, Alan.

Alan Tait shrugged. He stared at Nick with a blank, pitiless expression onhis face. It was almost as if he was enjoying Nicks distress. Revenge foryears of licking his clients arse.

Nick glared at the bank manager, a man hed once considered a friend.

This reminder that their home Maureens pride and joy no longerbelonged to him was the bitterest outcome of all. He cursed himself for thecavalier way he had gambled with the family home, an act of incrediblefolly based upon his hubristic faith in his own ability. Hed gambledeverything on making a success of the business. It was rapidly dawning onhim that having lost the battle to save his company his world was about tobe plunged into turmoil, a civil war with horrific untold consequences. Heswallowed hard. I cant wait to tell Maureen, he said dryly.

Im afraid thats not all.

Nick frowned. Oh. What else?

Youve given personal guarantees as well.

But I havent any money. Everything I have is tied up in the business.Jesus, they cant get blood out of a stone.

Theyll take it out of your unemployment benefit if they have to. AndMaureens still working, isnt she? Shes a joint signatory. Theyll go after

her too. And if you get another job theyll take the repayments out of yourwages. Theyre going to be on your back for a long time.

Ill fight them.

You cant win, Nick. Theyll sequestrate you. They wont show any mercy.

So Ill be bankrupt?


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Im afraid so.

Nick turned and stared again over the frigidly beautiful white undulations ofthe empty golf course. It was a landscape suddenly devoid of life and

hope. Its a hell of a price to pay for trying to make something of myself.Trying to provide for my family.

You have to face the consequences of your actions, Nick. You gambledand lost. Look, dont quote me, but my advice is to get yourself a goodlawyer.

Nick shook his head in disbelief. When he finally spoke again he couldntdisguise the bitterness in his voice. Twenty years ago I started withnothing and thats exactly what Ive ended up with. No, less than nothing. A

mountain of debt which Ill be paying off for the rest of my life. He sighed.To think I could have been a fucking teacher or a civil servant orsomething working for the state. An ordinary guy without any kind ofambition whatsoever. Instead I took a chance and ended up a fucking idiot.A bankrupt fucking idiot at that.

The bank manager shrugged. Ive got to go. He turned and walked brisklyout of the office. Their friendship was over.

Nick turned back to the window and stared out for the last time at the view

he had come to know so well. Everything looked so serene in the wintersunshine. Beautiful but bleak with no trace of life of any kind. It could havebeen the surface of the Moon. He closed his eyes and leaned back in theswivel chair. He had never felt so tired before and yet at the same time hefelt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time inyears someone else had made a decision for him. At long last he didnthave to think for himself any more, didnt have the future of his businessand everyone connected with it depending on him calling all the rightshots. It was like being a kid again. With the death of his dream his oldworld had vanished.

He knew that it wasnt going to be easy to start a new life at his age but ina funny sort of way he was already looking forward to the challenge.Starting off with a blank canvas. His metamorphosis could even be a lot offun. He was still young at heart, had more energy and drive than manypeople half his age. Then there was all that hard-won commercialknowledge, wisdom even, that he had accumulated over the years. Thathad to be worth something. All he needed was to find someone to give him


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another chance. He was certain he could make a go of things second timearound even if it meant working for someone else.

First though, before he could start thinking about himself, he had to tell theremnants of his staff the bad news. He picked up the phone and asked

Alex Robertson, his workshop foreman, to come up at once.

Bad news, Alex.

Alex Robertson was in his sixties with a hard, expressionless face hewnout of the granite of bitter experience. Hed learnt his trade in the shipyardson the Clyde and later with Rolls Royce making Spey jet engines atPrestwick. Theyd worked together for over eight years through good timesand bad. Whats up? the old man demanded gruffly.

Its the bank.

Oh, ay. What do those buggers want from you now? Dae they nae ken yecanny get blood from a stane.

Theyve pulled the plug on us.

Ah. Some thought it was close right enough. Can you not fight them? Tellthem things will pick up.

Ive been telling them that for months. They dont believe me any more.Maybe theyre right.

The bastards.

Im sorry.

The old man shrugged. I was kind of expecting it to tell you the truth. Weall were. The factory floor is like a graveyard out there. Theres not a job inthe shop. How long have we got?

Theyre closing the place immediately. I knew they might withdraw theirsupport but its still a shock.

Aye well, shit happens.

Its the guys out there in the workshop I feel sorry for.


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I wouldnae worry about them. Theyre always screaming for skilled men.Theyll be all right.

I guess. What about you? What will you do?

Me? Och, I need a break anyway. Ill take the wife off to Tenerife for a fewmonths till the winters past. After that? Who knows? Maybe Ill get a jobcollecting trolleys in a supermarket.

Ill see you there.

They both laughed. The old man frowned. Seriously, what about yourself,Nick? What does this mean for you?

Nick thought for a moment. Thats a good question. Ive got all this shit

with personal guarantees and stuff. Then theres the house which I put upfor security. I just never believed it would come to this. I really dont knowwhat the future holds to tell you the truth.

Sounds like your arse is oot the windae and the crows are pecking at it.

Despite himself Nick smiled. The old guy had a quaint way of putting thingsinto perspective. You could say that.

How has Maureen taken it?

Nick frowned. He never discussed business with his wife, tried to shieldher from the pressures of running a small business. She knew things hadbeen difficult lately but this development was going to come as a majorshock. He dreaded the thought of breaking the news to her. She doesntknow yet.

The old man winced. Ouch. Thisll come as a bit of a shock then.

Thats putting it mildly. Im worried sick about what shes going to think.

Aye, its tough on her right enough.

Nick bit his lip. Telling her would be the hardest thing he had ever done.He felt sick at the thought. You better go and call the men together.

Nick?


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What?

Im nae much given to speeches butweel, I jist want tae say youre thebest boss Ive ever worked for, and Ive worked for a few in ma time. Youdinna deserve this.

Nick felt a lump forming in his throat. Alex was a hard man whod had ahard life. He did not hand out compliments or condolences - lightly.Thanks, Alex, its much appreciated. Okay, before I burst into tears youbetter get everyone together.

The old man went off to assemble all the men in the canteen so that Nickcould break the bad news. He stood up and looked around the office forthe last time. The place had often felt like a prison in the past as he battledto keep the business afloat but he would still miss it. He crossed to the

mirror in the corner and patted his hair and straightened his tie. He wasshocked to see how much older he looked. His eyes seemed so dull, helooked utterly defeated. He felt a lump in his throat. The phone rang.Hello?

Hi, dear. Are you free to talk?

It was Maureen. She almost never phoned him at work. He wondered ifshed somehow heard the bad news already. Hi. Whats up?

Nothings up. Im just phoning to remind you about tonight.

Tonight?

The dinner party. I knew youd forget. The Murrays and the Binneysremember. I invited them months ago. Ive got a rack of lamb from thebutchers. Youd said youd pick up some nice wine on your way back.

Nick sighed. That was all he needed. Forced to perform in front of hiswifes oh-so-successful friends in the present circumstances. Keeping up

the pretence when all he wanted to do was crawl under a stone and hide.Not to mention the expense. Spending money they no longer had.

Nick, are you still there?

Sorry. Yeah.

Whats wrong?


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Nothing. Im tired, thats all. Im having a tough day.

You will remember the wine wont you?

Yes. He wondered how he was going to pay for it. Hed have to chancehis arm with one of his credit cards. With any luck his Visa card might allowhim to go even further over his limit. Just long enough for him to get out ofthe off-licence with a bottle or two of half-decent red - like a bank robbermaking his getaway.

And you wont be late.

No. Hed be early in fact. There was nothing for him here any longer.

Okay. Well. See you soon.

Er. Maybe this was the right moment to tell her the bad news. Get it overwith.

What is it, Nick?

Ernothing.

Are you all right, Nick? You sound very strange. Croaky. Are you getting a

cold or something?

I expect so. My throat is sore.

Wrap up well in that case. Wear that scarf I bought you.

Okay.

And Nick.

What?

Cheer up, will you. These parties are hard enough as it is.

I dont know why we bother.

Because its our turn, thats why. Dont be so antisocial.


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All right. Sorry. See you later.

He put down the phone and tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. It wasthe middle of January, they were only half way through another toughwinter. The future looked bleak. The office suddenly seemed cold as if they

had already turned off the central heating. He started shivering. It wasntjust the cold though. He realised he was scared. More scared than he hadever been before. Some times in life you are on your own. Like whenyoure sitting in that dentists chair. Or going bust. Or dying.

As he sat in his office for the last time he realised he was indeed totallyalone.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

In the event Nicks much-abused credit card proved resilient enough tosupport the purchase of several bottles of fairly expensive claret. He was,he decided, in the mood to get drunk. Very drunk. Paralytic in fact. Welland truly smashed out of his head. Why not? Tomorrow he would besober. And bankrupt. Time enough then to face the consequences.

Youre early! exclaimed Maureen, beaming, And youve brought thewine!

Ive brought lots of wine.

Oh dear. I dont like that look in your eye. Youre not going to get drunkare you, Nick?

I think its a distinct possibility, Nick reached up for the bottle of gin in thecabinet beside the cooker. Want one?

Its too soon for me. Listen, dear, go easy will you. You know what yourelike when youve had too much to drink.

Nick tasted his gin and tonic, looking thoughtful. Witty? Entertaining? Thelife and soul of the party?

Maureen made a face. Argumentative. Boring. A royal pain in the butt.

He took his drink through to the lounge and settled down with the local


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paper. It occurred to him that hed probably be featuring in it soon. If not onthe front page at least in the Public Announcement section where theliquidators would publish the winding up notice. Fame at last. Or notorietyat least. Soon everyone would know. All his friends. His fellowbusinessmen at the Chamber of Commerce. Public degradation would

inevitably follow. At the very least he would be the talk of the village. Ritualhumiliation manifested in scandalised whispers and knowing sidewaysglances from the other side of the street. And why not? He deserved hisfate after all. Hubris. No question about it. Positively arrogant. So confidentin his own abilities that he had been blind to what was really happening.He turned to the back page of the paper. Scotland had lost another homefriendly and the coach was being excoriated again. He took some comfortin the knowledge that there was always one person in the country who wasin deeper trouble than he was. Sometimes he thought this countrypositively luxuriated in failure, wallowed in a sort of inverted jealousy.

By the time their guests arrived he was onto his third gin and alreadyfeeling light-headed. While the three women stayed and chatted in thekitchen the men stood with their backs to the big open fireplace, drinks inhand. They were all around the same age, early fifties, and had beenfriends since their university days. Alastair Murray had worked for thecouncil all his life and was some sort of director of strategy in the planningdepartment. His rise had not exactly been meteoric but there was no doubthe was now considered a success. Raymond Binney, on the other hand, ashort, tubby man with an unnaturally smooth complexion that was

positively waxy, was a primary school teacher who spent most of hiswaking time meticulously planning for his early retirement.

Hows business then, Nick? said Alastair Murray, sipping his sherryappreciatively. Still making millions?

Not exactly. Its tough out there right now. Very tough.

Wheres the Merc by the way? asked Raymond Binney, squintingsuspiciously towards the driveway, I dont see it anywhere.

The liquidator had taken the Merc. Its in for a service, lied Nick. Hedspun the same story to Maureen earlier, having caught a taxi home.

That car must cost you a fortune to run, continued Raymond, lookingenvious. Makes my Polo look a bit downmarket I must say. Still, at leastIm not harming the environment quite as much as you two.

Alastair Murray drove a big grey Audi of which he was inordinately proud.


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He beamed delightedly at the insult. Got to keep up appearances, hemurmured, Especially in my position.

Youre right, Raymond, agreed Nick, It is irresponsible. My next mode oftransport will be a bike.

They all laughed but Nick wasnt joking.

At that moment Maureen announced that dinner was ready and usheredthem through to the room that she usually used as her study but whichdoubled as a dining room whenever they had guests.

That looks good, said Raymond, admiring the spread.

This wine is delicious. Mm. You cant beat a really good French wine.

Some of the newer Spanish wines are pretty good too.

Not a patch on this.

This lamb is meltingly tasty, said Claire Murray, licking her lipsappreciatively. There was a general murmur of assent. Everyone knew thatMaureen was a brilliant cook. Nick took a deep draught of the wine. Herskills would be fully tested over the coming months. How many variationson bread and dripping did she know, he wondered.

I dont know where you find the time to cook like this, said Isobel Binney,In our house we seem to live on ready meals the whole time.

Theyre all right, said her husband defensively, Sainsburys are prettygood. Anyway, thats how everybody eats these days.

I think Markies are definitely the best when it comes to pre-preparedmeals, said Alastair, Always have been. You pay a bit more but its worthit.

I wonder what Somerfields ready meals are like, wondered Nick gloomily.

We cant afford Markies any more, said Raymond Binnie, Not on mysalary. Itll be even worse once Ive retired. Bread and water probably.

Alastair snorted derisively. Youll get a good pension. Teachers do allright. Even better than the Local Authority.


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Nicks pension was his investment in the company, which was nowworthless. He swallowed hard. Hed be relying on Maureen in the future.She was a teacher too but shed left the profession for several years tobring up their son her pension wouldnt amount to all that much. Besides,

he wasnt sure if thered be much left after the bank had taken their cut tohelp towards repaying the loans theyd guaranteed.

Nicks the one whos going to score, said Raymond Binnie, making aface, Hell sell out his business for a fat profit and go and live the high lifein Spain or Monaco or somewhere. Isnt that right, Nick? I tell you, I wishId started my own business instead of going into education. Id havebuggered off to the south of France long ago.

Nick looked rueful. If only it was that easy.

Everybody laughed, including Maureen. They all thought he was rolling init. Little did they know. Nick drained his glass and poured some moredrinks. Working for the public sector was a doddle compared to working foryourself. They had no idea. Jobs for life. No worries about getting paid. Nofighting for business. Plenty of holidays. A big fat pension at the end of it allguaranteed by the government. Fuck them, he thought to himself, fuckthem all.

It cant be that hard, said Alastair, Youve done it for long enough.

Everybody laughed again, the mood round the table was buoyant.

Nick felt his hackles rising. Thats total crap, he said angily, Youve neverhad to sit across the table from a fucking VAT official whose got you by theballs because youre in arrears when some fucking customer cant payyou. Those guys in the pubic sector dont give a toss for your problems.Pay up or well close you down. Thats their mantra. Never mind all thepeople that will lose their jobs. Or the fact that youll lose everythingbecause the bank have forced you to put your house on the line as

security. Alastair, you wouldnt last five fucking minutes in the privatesector, youd get eaten alive.

Nobody laughed. Alastair coughed. He looked embarrassed and annoyedat the same time.Maybe you shouldnt take on work if you dont think youll get paid.

Nick shook his head in disbelief. Get real, Alastair. This is the world of


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work Im talking about. Not the public sector. We dont have the luxury ofpicking and choosing our customers. Nor do we have a guaranteed incomestream . If we need more money we cant just turn round and put up taxesor raise the rates like you guys. Christ, right now well take anything youcan get. Its fucking dog eat dog out there.

Theres no point doing work for someone if youre not going to get paid.That doesnt make sense.

You never know if youre going to get paid. Even the biggest companiescan go tits up these days. Or find a reason for not paying you which is justas bad.

It all sounds very unpleasant, said Claire Murray, pushing her half-finished plate away from her, Suddenly the Health Service doesnt feel so

bad after all.

Nick looked at her balefully. Unfortunately we cant all work for the publicsector. Someones got to go out there and create the wealth to pay yourwages. Fucking mugs like me in fact. Jesus, I wish I had taken the easyway out and become a fucking teacher.

Nick, please, your language, said Maureen, looking distraught. She knewthat for some reason Nick had toppled over the edge. Something musthave happened at work which she didnt know about. Something very bad.

Fear made her feel faint.

In the event Nick retreated into his shell, his mind silted up with the falloutfrom his companys collapse. The evening gradually petered out,suffocating itself on a familiar chorus of complaints about kids who refusedto cut their financial umbilical cords, grandparents who refused to fadeaway gracefully. Their guests left just after nine, subdued andembarrassed. Rising unsteadily from the table Nick dragged himself off tobed while Maureen tidied up in the kitchen. When she finally joined him hewas snoring gently, out to the world. She climbed into bed and turned her

back on him, sliding as far away from him as possible, clinging to the edge.At times like this she hated him, wished shed never married him. Anotherperformance like tonights and she really would leave him. Hed had hischances. It was always the same. Whenever he felt under pressure hetook it out on her and anyone else who came within range. That bloodybusiness he ran was the problem. Had been for years. It meant more tohim than she did. Was the only thing he really cared about, if the truth wereknown. She wished hed never started it. Wished he had become a bloody


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teacher.

She wiped away a tear in the dark, and eventually, after an hour or moreduring which she tossed and turned, her brain whirling, she fell into a fitfulsleep, balanced on the edge of the world, staring into the void, utterly

exhausted

Chapter 3

Nick charged about the kitchen frantically attempting to put the eveningmeal on hold. He glared at his watch for the twentieth time in twentyminutes. Bastards, he hissed loudly, Bastards, bastards, bastards. Theywere ten minutes late already and the frozen petits pois were soft andovercooked even though he'd strained them in cold water and put them toone side on the draining board. Hes bought them as a special treat, after

much prevarication, down at the local Spar shop. They should only havebeen blanched for a minute or so to make them al dente which wasabsolutely the way they were supposed to be. Then served immediatelywith a nob of butter (or marge in their case) and a twist of coarsely groundpepper. Now they were ruined, and with them the meal, and with the mealhis attempt to create a safe haven for his family in a dangerous anddemented world. He cursed himself for his own stupidity. He shouldnthave put a heat under the peas until he actually saw their headlightscoming up the farm track. It was always a mistake to rely on other people.He screwed up his eyes in despair. He could weep at his own stupidity.

"You're late," he snarled when they finally lugged their baggage into thekitchen, "Why didn't you phone me on your mobile? These bloody peas areruined."

Maureen hoisted a heavy bag of shopping onto the table, in the processcovering over the place mats he'd arranged so carefully. "We got stuck intraffic," she said calmly.

"Don't put that bag there," he snapped, furious at the way they werespoiling all his painstaking preparations for a perfect meal. He couldn'tunderstand why Maureen was always late. She seemed to have no senseof punctuality whatsoever. Not like him, he was never late. In the timebefore the business had gone bust he was famous for his punctilioustimekeeping. Whenever he made an appointment with one of hiscustomers he always made a point of being early so as not toinconvenience them in any way. Equally he was careful never to be soearly that he became an embarrassment. It was just good manners, that'swhat it came down to in the end. It was obvious really. That was what


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made civilisation work when you thought about it. But Maureen just didn'tseem to bother or understand. She seemed to drift through life without acare in the world. She didnt notice how much she hurt him, how much herlack of consideration for his efforts devalued his struggle to be a good andcaring husband. Sometimes he even thought she did it deliberately just to

annoy him. Only it did more than annoy him. It drove him crazy. Rightround the bend. Sometimes she made him so furious that he wanted to killher. Really wanted tonot just a figure of speech.

"And shut that bloody door," he yelled at Martin, "You'd think you wereborn in a bloody field."

Martin, his son, was sixteen years old and acutely conscious of theunfairness of life. He slouched wearily back through the hallway and shutthe inner glass door, a long-suffering look on his face. He was used to his

dad's temper tantrums. When they were really bad they were scary, butmostly his dad just made a fool of himself. It was something he hadlearned to make allowances for.

Maureen smiled bravely at her husband. "I bought you a present."

She held out a new canister of Gillette shaving foam for sensitive skin. Helooked at it in dismay. He didn't want to appear ungrateful but he resentedher spending money on luxuries. Especially since he was trying so hard toeconomise himself. Christ, he'd given up breakfast because they couldnt

afford it. He always bought the cheapest, most disgusting sandwich pasteshe could find for his lunch just to save a few pennies. Whats more he nowonly shaved every second day, unless he had something special on.Which had only happened twice in the four months since the business hadfailed. He stared at the canister of shaving foam. What really annoyed himwas that no matter how frugal he was it made no difference. She stillleaked money from their joint account. She might have been a lotterywinner the way she splashed out. Hardly a day passed when she wasntfrittering away their overdraft on food and shoes, shirts, bras, schooluniforms, council tax demands, telephone bills, electricity bill reminders

and now fucking shaving foam. Christ, if it wasnt for the fact that he mightone day actually have to attend a job interview again he would have growna beard by now. Shaving foam. SHAVING FUCKING FOAM!! And whywas she trying to be nice to him anyway? He didnt want presents. Hedidnt want to be patronised or bought off like some rich mans mistress.Like a kept man. He just wanted her to come home on time and eat thebloody meal he had slaved all afternoon over for Christs sake. Just keepher side of the marital bargain. Was that too much to ask? Was he being


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unreasonable? Simply by being punctual they could have had perfect peasten minutes ago but now it was all ruined. Completely and utterly ruined.With a supreme effort he stopped himself from throwing the peas into thewaste bin.

He took a deep breath.

He felt dizzy with anger and had to hold onto the side of the cooker to stophimself from falling over. Another deep breath. When he closed his eyeshe saw stars. His heart was pounding. He was sweating profusely. Anotherdeep breath. He staggered across to the sink and poured himself a glassof cold water. Water was free, it came from their own well. How long canyou live on water? Thirty days and thirty nights? If they got any poorer hisfasting would reach biblical proportions.

While they hauled their bags through to the sitting-room he graduallycalmed down. He stared down at the small pyramid of overcooked peas inthe colander and shook his head, despairing at his own stupidity, the wayhe got everything out of perspective. He knew Maureen meant well. Hermotives were good. It was just that her direction was all wrong. Spendingmoney on luxuries they didnt need. As if she was some bleeding SalvationArmy general offering charity to a bloody down-and-out or something Ifonly she would listen to him insteadreallylisten and get some sort ofhandle on the mess they were in. Instead of throwing money they didnthave at a problem they werent addressing. Try as he might he couldnt

make her see what she was doing to him by her crazy spendthriftbehaviour. She had no insight whatsoever into the panic he was feeling,the waves of desperation in which he was daily drowning.

When Maureen returned to the kitchen he held out the canister of shavingfoam. "Thanks," he said gruffly, "But shaving soap would have done just aswell."

Maureen sometimes felt she could do nothing right as far as her husbandwas concerned and this display of ingratitude was typical of his mean-

spiritedness. She hid the hurt look on her face as she turned away andtook off her old anorak. "Why do you always have to be so bad-tempered?"she said, struggling with only partial success to keep the intense irritationshe felt out of her voice, "It's not our fault we're late."

"It's his bloody fault for not shutting the door," Nick shouted back, glaring athis son, immediately on the defensive. He was perfectly aware that latelyhe had become increasingly bad-tempered and petty and stupid but he


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couldn't stop himself. It was just that by being late they inadvertentlybelittled his efforts to make himself useful and valuable to them. He knewall this but it didn't stop him becoming angry and bitter.

Maureen sighed. "I'll take it back if you like and change it for shaving

soap."

He shook his head. Now she was the one who was being petty, turningtheir poverty into a battleground. It was bad enough that he had to fight theoutside world, the massed forces of impending economic disaster, of highprices and artificial demand, of structural unemployment, of imports andbalance of payment deficits and a sheaf of threatening letters from thebloody bank manager and the credit card bloody usurers without her actingas some sort of fifth columnist trying to undermine his position from within.A bloody war on one front against the massed ranks of their creditors was

as much as he could handle at the moment, and he wasn't even sureabout that.Silently he served up their meal and they took it through in the sitting room.They ate with their plates balanced on their laps, in front of the television.He had already eaten - yesterday's corned beef leftovers fried up with afinely chopped onion and a clove of garlic - but he sat with them forcompany and watched the news for the fourth or fifth time that day.

The peas are all right, said Maureen, by way of gentle reproach.

Theyre great. Just the way I like them, agreed Martin, wolfing down thepeas which he had mashed into a lumpy, gelatinous mass topped withlashings of tomato ketchup.

Nick was too weary to argue about the peas. To tell the truth he didntreally care about the food any more, nor about the people eating it. He wastoo tired to care. He knew he was losing the battle against imminentbankruptcy and in a way he almost welcomed defeat, would be glad whenit was all finally over. What did it all matter anyway? So you fucked up yourlife. Whose fault was that? Was it the hand you were dealt or was it the

fact that you had screwed up your chances on your own because you weretotally feckless? Either way he had reached the stage where he wasprepared to face the consequences, whatever they might be. Making onemore supreme effort, in an attempt not to appear churlish, he said toMaureen, "How was work?" It was the same question he put to her at thistime every night.

"Fine," she said, as she always did.


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That was it. During the remainder of the meal she never took her eyes offthe television. End of conversation. They might as well have beenstrangers at different tables in an empty caf in a nameless city. It was sodispiriting. Just by being there she made him feel lonely, much more lonely

than when he was on his own. A situation made worse by his discoveryafter the business had folded that she was his only friend. All the rest,colleagues he had worked with for years, had deserted him. In quietdesperation he turned to his son. Martin was a tolerant child. Nick felttolerated by him. Theirs had never been an equal relationship but recentlythe balance had changed and now he increasingly felt like the juniorpartner. He was the one who needed support and understanding. Hewatched Martin cramming food into his mouth. He had always tried hard tolove the child more than anything else in the whole world. He had wanteddesperately to ensure that his son had a happy childhood. The fact that in

so many ways he had failed him as a father was the worst thing of all. Insome ways their relationship had been a history of failure, a mutualinability to communicate their love for each other, even, on mostoccasions, to communicate. He had always tried to give the boyunconditional love but the reservoir from which he drew this most basicemotion had been too shallow a result maybe of his own unhappychildhood.

He sighed.

Being a good father nowadays was an almost impossible challenge, bothmaterially and spiritually, when there was so much that was out of yourcontrol, so much more that could go wrong, so many material distractionsthat made you irrelevant. Just like any father he had wanted give his sonthe best possible start in life the start he had never had but the realitywas that it took money, a commodity that was now in very short supply.Thank God theyd paid this years school fees in advance before thebusiness went bust. At least that gave them a few months breathingspace. What would happen after the summer holidays was anybodysguess. Martins higher education was a looming problem that seemed

insoluble. A bright kid a very bright kid he wanted to go to University tobecome a doctor. His teachers all said he had it in him. No-one arguedwith that. The problem was how they could possibly afford it. Just thinkingabout the cost brought Nick out into a cold sweat. It was a classic case ofCatch 22. Maureens nominal salary meant that they wouldnt get a grantto defray the costs. Nominal because of their joint personal guaranteeswhich meant the bank was threatening to take almost half her income. Youdidnt have to be an accountant to work out that what would be left would


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fall far short of what was needed to pay for Martins university education.And it went without saying that Nicks chances of getting a job at his agethat would allow him to pay off his huge business debts and leave enoughto cover the fees and their living expenses were virtually non-existent. Itdidnt help that to study properly Martin would have to live in town either

Aberdeen or, his preferred choice, Edinburgh, supposedly a moreprestigious university in the medical field.

Nick bit his lip.

The truth was they should never have moved out into the country the waythey had ten years before. That was yet another one of his bright ideas. Asfar as he could remember now he had harboured some sort of romanticnotion that his son would benefit from a bucolic upbringing out in themiddle of nowhere, away from the temptations and the ugliness of the city.

As it turned out, entirely predictably, Martin hated the countryside. All hisfriends were in town. He even continued to go to school in town, travellingin and out every day with Maureen. In his eyes the countryside was barren,boring and, above all, naff. Real life was lived in the city. The answer, ofcourse, would be for them to up sticks and move back into town. Whichmight indeed be the eventual outcome once the bank repossessed thehouse and they were forced to look for rented accommodation. Alwaysassuming of course that Maureen would agree to move back into townwhich was by no means certain since she loved the countryside so much.In the meantime though they were stuck here, in the middle of nowhere, in

limbo. Making an effort to hide his inner turmoil Nick fixed a smile upon hisface and leaned across to his son. "What about you, Martin? How wasschool today?"

"What?" said Martin, not taking his eyes off the latest pictures on thetelevision news, graphic images of further atrocities committed during theso-called peace in Iraq.

School. You know. That place you go to every day. How was it?

Martins gaze remained fixed on the television, a forkful of bloody-lookingpeas suspended in front of his open mouth. Nick regarded his son withdistaste. He knew he was supposed to love him more than anything in thewhole world. And of course he did. In a way. Inasmuch as he loved theidea, the concept, of having a son. Unfortunately the reality fell a long wayshort of the ideal. The reality was a person whose table manners left a anenormous amount to be desired, creating a hole in his affections the sizeof Denmark.


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Martin!

What? Oh, fine.

Fine? Fine? Is that it? Is that all theyve taught you to say after all theseyears? Fine!

Martin turned and regarded his father with open-mouthed, barely disguisedcontempt. Chill out, dad. Its school. Thats all it is.

Im trying to make conversation. You know, quality time. With my family.

Leave the boy alone, said Maureen, without looking up.

All right, dad. Fair point. How was your day?

Fine, said Nick, before he could stop himself.

Martin sniggered and turned back to the television.

Within seconds the vacuum enveloped them once more. It was at timeslike these that Nick felt most desolate. Maureen continued to peruse thepaper and Martin, who had cleared his plate in a matter of seconds, wasalready bounding up the stairs to the fastness of his bedroom for the night.

The highlight of their day breaking bread together - was already over andnow there was nothing left to say. He got up and started clearing away thedirty dishes. He knew he couldn't go on this way. There had to be more tolife than this, even for someone who had failed as badly as he had.

Suddenly Maureen spoke. Have you had any news on the job front,Nick?

He froze, paralysed by the direct brutality of the question. Er

Any replies at all?

Replies? He was immediately on the defensive, tiptoeing around thisthorny subject.

No interviews coming up or anything?

Interviews? He felt exposed, unable to recall precisely the previous gloss


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he had put on his job hunting progress.

How many jobs have you applied for this week?

This week?

Nick, you need to start bringing in some money soon. We cant survive onwhat I earn. Not with the bank taking

I know, I know. The trouble is nobody seems to be hiring at the moment.Not people my age anyway. If I was twenty years younger it might bedifferent. Lots of other people my age are in the same boat.

What about the employment agencies?

Nothing.

The Job Centre? Were you there today?

Nick hated the Job Centre. An hour on the bus and then into a building thatfelt like something out of Eastern Europe, full of strange and frighteningpeople. He found the whole process degrading, humiliating.

Did you go today, Nick?

I was busy doing things to the house. This was true. He had kept himselfbusy doing all the things Maureen had been nagging him about for years.Broken towel rails, a noisy central heating pump, loose tiles in thebathroom, a leaking tap. The list was endless and despite his efforts hadgrown longer since he became unemployed. Sometimes he imagined thehouse was afflicted by some sort of sick building syndrome. Maybe it had avirus. The unemployment virus. The antidote for which he had yet todiscover.

Finding a job is more important than faffing around the house all day.

I fixed the leaking tap in the bathroom.

Nick, youve got to get a job. I dont give a damn about the tap in thebathroom.

This was the first time Maureen had really pressed him on his search foremployment, the first time she had refused to be fobbed off by his


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vagueness. She was obviously getting seriously worried about theirsituation. He had always found it impossible to tell what Maureen wasthinking. She was deep, very deep. But the fact that she had beenbrooding on his failure to find a job was unnerving. If she was worriedabout his unemployability that was a very bad sign indeed. He said, Ive

been thinking about having another go at running my own business.

Maureen looked aghast. No way, Nick. Absolutely not. I couldnt gothrough that again. I just couldnt.

No, listen. Ive learnt a lot over the past few months. I wouldnt make thesame mistakes again, believe me.

What kind of business?

I dont really know. Anything. Ive got the whole world to choose from. Icould do anything.

What about capital?

It was typical of Maureen to get bogged down in detail. Ive got intellectualcapital. I wouldnt need money.

We need money now.

He gave up. Since she obviously had no faith in him any more there wasno way he was going to convince her that he could still rescue them fromtheir plight. He would show her though. Once he had thought of something.Consultancy maybe. Corporate trouble shooting. Management temping.Anything in fact. Any bloody thing at all.

While he was washing up in the kitchen Maureen came through to makeherself a cup of tea. The draining board on which he was piling the cleaneddishes was already dangerously crowded. He stacked another panprecariously on top of the pile, hoping that Maureen would notice his

predicament and give him a hand instead of just taking him for granted,treating him like some sort of nearly-invisible domestic help. Maureendidn't seem to notice his problem with the dishes as she glanced throughthe mail. Through gritted teeth he muttered, trying to suppress his anger,"It might help if you dried a few dishes."

She didnt look up, "Just leave them to drain. They'll dry themselves."


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This was perfectly true but he had set himself the task of clearing up thekitchen immediately. He was determined to show her how it would alwaysbe left neat and tidy under his regime. Her refusal to co-operate in his self-imposed pursuit of perfection infuriated him. He grabbed a tea towel fromoff the chair on which she was perched and ostentatiously started drying

the dishes himself.

Maureen appeared not to detect the intended symbolism of his action."What was in the mail today?" she asked.

His heart sank. That morning he had inadvertently opened a letter from thecredit card company which had exploded in his head like a letter bomb,destroying in one blinding flash the illusion that he was safe at home. Hehad been so upset that he had forgotten to hide the rest of the mail whichnow lay unopened on the window sill. There were several obvious bills

and, worst of all, an unopened letter from the bank. Momentarily panicovercame him and he had to restrain himself from running out of the houseand being sick. "I haven't had time to open it," he lied, lamely.

You havent had time?

He laughed sheepishly. He was feeling faint again and he held on to theedge of the sink to steady himself. I just never got round to it.

Maureen worked her way through the pile of bills, occasionally frowning,

but saying nothing. He watched her furtively out of the corner of his eyewhile he cleared the draining board. He could feel the tension in the roommounting as the pile of letters accumulated at her elbow. With each newenvelope she opened he became more and more anxious. Each dish hedried felt as fragile as antique porcelain in his shaking hands. He didn'tunderstand where all the bills came from. He had bought nothing in the lastmonth so she couldn't blame him. Just existing these days, just breathingand living on bread and water, seemed to cost a fortune. There seemed tobe no way of avoiding bills while you were still alive no matter how hardyou tried. Which was a bloody good reason for being dead, he thought, not

for the first time.

He dried the last plate very slowly, watching her as she read the letter fromtheir bank. He saw her turn pale. "What is it?" he asked, his heartthumping.

"It's the bank. They want to speak to us urgently. We've gone over our limitand they've put a stop on the account."


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It was the news he had been dreading for weeks, the worst he had everreceived. "Jesus," he groaned, feeling as if the ground had opened upbeneath his feet, as if he was sinking into quicksand, "Jesus ChristAlmighty."

It says weve ignored all their previous letters and if we dont respondtheyll have no choice but to place us in the hands of their debt recoveryagents. What letters? We havent had any letters from them, have we?

What the fuck are we going to do?

First youll have to talk to them. Then youll have to get a job. We cant goon like this.

I cant get a job, Maureen. I keep telling you. Ive tried. Im too bloody old.

He slumped into a seat at the table and cradled his head in his hands. Hisheart was thumping so violently against his chest that he could hardlybreathe. He had known that on their hugely diminished income they werebound to run out of money eventually but he thought they might havesurvived for a few more weeks. Time for something to turn up, for a miracleto happen. They were living beyond their means, that was the problem. Hehad warned Maureen continually about spending money but she wouldn'tlisten. The shaving foam was a typical example. Now they had dug

themselves into a hole and there was no way out. They were going to loseeverything. In a matter of days the bailiffs would arrive. First their furniturewould be carted off. By the end of the month they would be out on thestreet. After that the best they could hope for was bed and breakfastaccommodation in some ghastly place full of DHSS claimants. Then if theywere lucky a council house on a crime-ridden housing estate whereteenage gangs and drug addicts roamed the streets and people weremugged and burgled and threatened by neighbours from hell on a dailybasis. And still they would be left with massive debts hanging around theirnecks. Debts that they would be paying for the rest of their lives. "Christ,"

he groaned again, "I knew this was going to happen. I fucking knew it."

Maureen flinched. Theres no need to swear, Martin, she chastised himsoftly.

Her apparent calmness infuriated him. It was all very well to adopt areasonable and rational approach to their problems but that didnt actuallyhelp in the slightest as far as solving anything was concerned. Her


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demeanour was as much use as someone staying calm in front of a firingsquad. What he wanted was solutions, not sweet reasonableness. Whatare we going to do?" he blurted out, speaking rapidly, his voice rising ashysteria swept over him, "What the fuck are we going to do? Is thereanything we can sell? If only I could get a job? What about your parents?

Will they lend us money? We could sell the furniture. I've got an oldinsurance policy somewhere. What about the house? We'll have to sell thehouse, that's the only thing left."

"We can't sell the house, you know that. The bank wont let us. Have youspoken to the lawyer again?"

He said hes still looking into it. He didnt sound very optimistic. Christknows how were going to pay his bill, thatll be the next thing.

What about going bankrupt? What did he say about that?

Well still be stuck with those personal guarantees. Whatever happenswere going to lose everything.

Maureen stared at the pile of bills. Well have to do something.

Nick thrust his right hand to his mouth and bit hard into his knuckles. "Whyhas this happened to us? he moaned, Why us, God? I mean it's not evenas if I spend any money. I mean you can't accuse me of being profligate

can you? Can you?"

Maureen continued to stare down at the pile of threatening letters. "Ivenever accused you of anything," she whispered.

"I mean I don't spend any money do I? I don't drink or gamble or go withwomen do I? I don't have expensive hobbies do I? I mean I gave up goingfishing because I couldn't afford it. I haven't had a holiday for years. I don'tgo out with my mates do I? Christ, I haven't even got any mates any more.They're all out there at their golf clubs having a good time, spending a

fortune at the bar and look at me. I don't even smoke because I'm toomean to buy fags. When was the last time I went out for a meal, go on, tellme?

Martin, stop it.

Jesus Ive been living on bread and water for the past month. Im starvingmyself to death. Christ, I hate spending money now. I've become the


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meanest fucking man you'll ever meet. And all because I had a bit ofambition, because I wanted to do my best for my family. But I flew tooclose to the sun, didnt I? I had it coming, isnt that right? Go on, tell me, itsall my fucking fault."

Maureen was looking increasingly distressed. "This isn't helping, Nick."

"Nothing's fucking helping, that's the problem," he shouted, hitting hisforehead with his fist. He knew he was getting hysterical but he couldn'tstop himself, there was nothing else left, nowhere else to turn. "I fuckingwish I was dead," he continued, "I wish I had never been born. All thesefucking years for nothing. All that struggle for what? For this?"

Maureen began to grow alarmed as her husband became more and morehysterical. She said softly, "You'll just have to get a job, Nick, thats the

only solution."

Her words sent a chill through him for what they left unsaid. Get a job...orelse, that was what she meant. Or else what? What would happen to him ifhe failed to find work? He knew the answer. She would leave him, thatswhat. Taking Martin with her. Abandon him. The thought terrified him.

Upstairs Martin was playing the Beatles at what seemed like full volume.Once, when he was young, Nick had idolised them too, believed in themsomehow, believed that the world was full of promise and opportunities

and endless excitement. Now he just hated them, hated their fatuouslyrics, their absurd optimism, their hypocritical wealth, hated Martin too if itcame to that, that bastard who thought of no one but himself, the childwhose education had become a monkey on his back, hated Maureen toofor the way she took everything in her stride, leaving him to do all theworrying, making himself sick with worry, hated the bank, the credit cardcompany, those mercenary bastards, the electricity board, the coalman,the garage, the milkman, the newsagent, hated all those other fuckingleeches with their fat prosperous lives and their thin, insistent demands,hated himself too for failing to cope with them, above all hated that bloody

nightmarish racket banging on above his head. The whole fucking thingwas a bloody nightmare.

Maureen suddenly started crying, something that only ever happened atthe very worst times in their lives, like the night their baby daughter haddied eighteen years before. The sight of her heaving shoulders as she satat the table cradling her head in her hands scared him, the whole bloodybusiness scared him. He didnt think he could take much more. He stood


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up.

"Where are you going?" sobbed Maureen looking up at him, her blue eyesalready turning bloodshot.

He struggled frantically into his old Barbour, the one she'd given him as aChristmas present years before, in that fairytale time when they couldafford presents, and money was no object, or at least of no great concern."I'm going out for a walk," he gasped, fumbling frantically with the zip thatno longer worked properly, tearing at it, tears of frustration in his eyes,using all his strength, tearing the fabric, tearing his muscles in frustration,"Jesus, I can't take any more of this. It's driving me totally totally fuckingcrazy."

He stormed out into the crisp, starlit night, slamming the door behind him.

As the sound of his footsteps crunching on the hard snow died awayMaureen closed her eyes once more and slumped forward, her foreheadresting on her clenched fists. After years of putting up with him and all hisunpredictable emotional demands and endless dramas she had finallyreached that point where she knew she couldnt take much more either.

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Maureen and Martin had gone by the time he woke up. He hadnt heardthem go. Usually he got up and made them breakfast before they set off.This time, following his frosty sojourn beneath the stars, he had slept asdeeply if he had been drugged, his brain enveloped by a blackness thatwas unilluminated by the usual dreams and nightmares.

Downstairs the phone was ringing. He ignored it. He climbed out of bedand pulled on his thick towelling dressing-gown. The house was so coldthat his breath condensed in front of his eyes. He checked the upstairsrooms but the house was definitely empty. He bitterly regretted notapologising to Maureen for his behaviour the night before. He couldimagine how she must be feeling after he had stormed off in a temper, as iftheir dire predicament was somehow her fault. Which of course it wasnt.Not directly at least. He bit his lip. He hated it when he was the cause ofher unhappiness.

He peered out of the bedroom window into the murky dawn light. There


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was no sign of any activity on the narrow farm lane leading up to thehouse. He was safe for a while longer.The phone stopped ringing. He padded downstairs to the kitchen in hisslippers and switched on the radio. John Humphries was giving a haplessminor official in the department of transport a grilling about the

underground. A woman with a husky voice read out the headlines. Helistened with distaste to the perennial diet of bad news: another suicidebomber wreaking havoc in a crowded restaurant in Israel; an entirelypredictable man-made famine in southern Africa; the same old tawdrypolitical intrigues at home. He was unmoved by other peoples problems.The Thought for the Day enraged him with its banality. At least the weatherforecast was good which cheered him up a little. Cold but sunny. He lovedthe sun. When the programme ended he switched off the radio, unable tocope with the intellectual content of the discussion programme thatfollowed. The house fell silent again, louder this time. The echoing

emptiness threatened to overwhelm him. He went through to the sitting-room window and stood at the picture window and watched a flock of bluetits at the end of the garden feeding on the stale bread he had put out forthem the day before. He envied their boundless energy, admired theirsingle-minded sense of purpose, their uncomplicated, ruthless pursuit ofthe next mouthful. Beneath the birdfeeder that hung from the old apple treethe daffodils were flowering at last, illuminating the shadows with boldsplashes of colour. He comforted himself with the knowledge that with theimminent advent of warmer weather the garden would spring fully into life,dazzling them all with its beauty, at least for a while. He sighed. Although

the scene from the window was truly beautiful, at the end of the day it wasno more real than looking at a landscape painting in an art gallery.

The phone rang again, shattering the silence.

He closed his eyes and tried to blank out the noise. He recalled how thephone had once dominated his life in a good way. Wheeling and dealing,organising and cajoling, pleading and threatening. The phone was theinstrument that had driven his business forward in his dealings with theoutside world. In the months that had dragged by since his company had

folded he increasingly missed the warmth of human contact, the stimulusof surviving in a challenging environment where time flew by, where allyour energies were focused on solving tough but soluble problems, whereyou were part of a team fighting to win orders with all the fervour of thebirds fighting for food at the end of the garden. Not an outsider looking in atlife, detached from the action, existing in a sensory vacuum. These dayshis mind was occupied by the all-pervasive sense of dread that came fromthe knowledge that his world was about to implode. He was under assault


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from a host of faceless enemies, an aerial bombardment of letters andphone calls. He shivered in chilled recognition that there was nowhere torun, that he was trapped within the bleak, featureless landscape of hisshrinking imagination, populated only by fear.

When the phone fell silent he opened his eyes and gazed out beyond thehedge at the bottom of the garden across to the snow-capped easternCairngorms poking up into the shining blue horizon about twenty milesaway. He gazed at the picture-postcard view as if he was in a trance. Afugitive could hide out in the hills and never be found, although at this timeof the year he might well die of exposure. He looked at his watch. It wasstill only eight thirty and there was a whole day stretching out ahead ofhim, a whole day with nothing to do but dwell upon his misfortune.

Mechanically, in slow motion, he returned to the kitchen and cleared away

the dishes he had left on the draining board the night before. It wasimportant that the house looked tidy, it helped to buttress the remnants ofhis crumbling self-respect . He rammed a load of dirty clothes into thewashing machine and set it running, another of the household duties thatMaureen now left to him. To postpone the looming vacuum of his pointlessday he began to prepare the evening meal in advance of the far-off returnof his family that night. He peeled enough potatoes for three and cleanedand chopped up half a cabbage. He found a tin of corned beef in the backof the cupboard over the sink and left it unopened beside the cooker inreadiness. When he had finished all his preparations he took a small heap

of scraps and leftovers out to the bird table in the back garden. He alwaysfed the birds even if it meant going short himself. The birds depended onhim, and he wasnt going to let them down in the way hed failed everyoneelse. It was at this point in his day, with no chores left to do that hisimagination often ran riot. Invariably he pictured what would happen if hiscreditors were to suddenly descend upon the house. Whenever he did so asense of dread would grip him for the rest of the day.

He was boiling the kettle when he remembered that there was one thingstill left to do.

Maureens words of a few days earlier sprang into his mind. Arrange thevisit to the bank manager. This wasnt his former business bank managerwho now only communicated to him through his lawyer. Maureen wasreferring to their personal bank manager, an even more scary individualwho held their immediate well-being in his finely-manicured hands. Just thethought of picking up the phone to that granite-faced individual wasenough to bring him out into a cold sweat. He decided to put the terrifying


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call off until tomorrow at least, or maybe even the day after, or even untilthe electricity was actually cut off and they were tossed out onto the streetsand there were no alternatives left. As usual his decision to do nothing lefthim with a massive guilt complex and simply exacerbated the all-pervadingsense of anxiety and unease that continually haunted him these days. The

feeling of impending disaster was now so suffocating that it madebreathing difficult and somehow mechanical. In this near catatonic state heonly stopped his vital organs giving up on him by dint of willpower alone.

He looked at his watch. Nine fifteen. The postman was due at any minute.This was the most tense time of the day, just before the regular cascade ofthreatening letters and failed job applications came crashing through theletterbox. As the weeks had passed he had developed a routine designedto lessen the unpleasantness. After he had checked the view out of thefront and back windows he sneaked back upstairs to the safety of his

bedroom. Hidden in the shadows he hoped he would fool the postman intothinking that the house was empty just in case there were any recordeddeliveries or warrants or whatever it was they sent you when you defaultedon your bills. By standing on tiptoe he could just see out of the windowfrom the back of the room. He waited anxiously for the postman's van toappear at the bottom of the hill. As usual he prayed silently that the vanwould pass the house without stopping and that for just a little while longerhe would be unmolested by human contact. That was how he lived now: inconstant fear of the final showdown. Day by day. Hour by hour. Minute byminute. Every second that ticked by was another merciful postponement of

his final reckoning, another endless day on death row. And every time thepostman passed by without stopping meant another day's grace free fromthe wrath of the bank manager, the insistent demands of the tax man, thethreats of the credit card company. It was just a shame that the mail wasntthe only way they were able to get at him. As well as the ultimate threat ofan actual visit there was always the latent danger from the telephone. Theycontinually tried to get to him that way now, and whenever the phoneexploded into life his nerves were sent jangling. Hed considered taking thephone off the hook but he was worried in case that might actuallyprecipitate a visit. It was better to let them keep trying, even though the

constant ringing was driving him mad. He knew he was being cowardlyand stupid but he simply couldnt take the risk of picking up the phone. Ifhe did and it actually turned out to be his Bank Manager as hadhappened a couple of months before when their financial situation wasonly just starting to become uncomfortable he knew that this time hewould just die. His only consolation was that this particular instrument ofpersecution wouldnt survive for much longer the phone bill reminder wasalready way overdue which meant that they would be cut off any day now.


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This particular morning nearly an hour dragged by before he postman'svan finally buzzed past the house without stopping on its way to the houseat the top of the hill. His immediate relief was tempered by the knowledgethat no delivery also meant no invitations to job interviews nor

acknowledgements of his multiple job applications and therefore not evena faint glimmer of hope for the immediate future.

He waited in the corner of the bedroom until he heard the postmans vanroar back down the hill. He stood on tiptoe and watched it disappear fromview at the end of the road. To make sure it wasnt a trick he kept watchuntil his calves ached and his legs were shaking. When he was certain thecoast was clear he shuffled stiffly back down to the kitchen. He knew hecouldnt go on this way. After taking a deep breath he sat down again atthe breakfast table determined to confront his problems head on. He

simply had to come up with a solution that would finally put him out of hismisery. He knew he couldnt go on burying his head in the sand. He wasonly days away from disaster.

No matter how hopeless things seemed he knew had to be positive. Surehe was in a fix but somewhere, somehow there had to be an answer. Theonly possible course of action was to keep on looking until he found asolution, not to give up prematurely or spend his time perpetually castingaround for excuses, or, even worse, waiting for a miracle to happen. Evenif miracles did sometimes happen, they didnt happen to people like him.

No, the only person that could save him now was himself. It was time tofinally recognise that enduring reality.

He made himself a weak coffee and took it through to the sitting room. Thebird table was still alive with chaffinches and blue tits feeding on the scrapshe had put out earlier. He stood and watched them enviously for severalminutes. He was just about to sit down when he noticed something beyondthe skeletal branches of the apple tree that turned his insides to ice.

There was a white Range Rover which he had never seen before sitting at

the foot of the road

Chapter 5

Garry Brown wound down the window of his white Range Rover andtrained his powerful binoculars upon the cottage nestling half way up thehill. Beside him in the passenger seat Rip his Alsatian raised his head andlooked at his master with quizzical eyes, licking his lips in anticipation.


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Garry Brown surveyed the house with professional precision for fiveminutes before he lowered the binoculars, a knowing smile playing on hislips. He had spotted someone moving through an upstairs window. Hemade a note of the time in his notebook. Catching the debtor before hemade a run for it was half the battle. He had only just bought the debt from

the credit card company but the acquisition already looked like it was goingto turn into a profitable investment. He patted the Alsatians head andturned the keys in the ignition. The big car began moving up the hill with allthe finality of a Sherman tank.

As he approached the cottage he dialled Nick Sterlings number on hismobile, knowing it wouldnt be answered. It didnt matter. The object was tocreate maximum confusion in his targets mind, to disorientate him. Heonly wished that he was allowed to use stun grenades the way he used todo when he was in the SAS. Hed bought the debt for twenty per cent of

face value the issuing bank behind the credit card reckoned it was ahopeless case so any result was bound to be a good one.

Garry Brown was a big man and he clambered out of the Range Roveronto the driveway with difficulty. Rip leapt down after him and he tied thedog to the door handle of the vehicle. Let the target see the dog, hethought, grinning. He kicked the dog so that it snarled at him and beganbarking. He didnt attempt to calm it. He had a baseball bat in the boot buthe knew he wouldnt need it here. That instrument was mainly for inner cityuse, and even then most people gave very little trouble once he had

cornered them. Generally speaking you had to be pretty feckless to get sodeeply into debt, not the kind of person who usually put up much of a fight.

There was no doorbell so he knocked loudly on the wooden door with hisbig, calloused knuckles. There was no reply so he bent down and openedthe letterbox. Anybody in? he barked politely into the shadowy void.

There was no response. I know youre in there, he called through theletterbox, I seen you through the binoculars.

When there was still no response he ambled back to the Range Rover.Taking his time he first fed the dog then clambered back into the vehiclewhere he poured himself a cup of coffee from a thermos and took out amutton pie from his plastic lunchbox. While he ate he read the Sun. Hewas well-prepared for a long siege. When he had finished his meal heswitched on Radio One and tilted back his seat and dozed lightly.

He repeated his assault on the door a further four times as the morning


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wore on until finally, just before midday, the door was slowly opened. Agaunt middle-aged man dressed in pyjamas lurked in the shadows of thehallway. His ashen face was unshaven, his shoulders drooping in defeat.His whole body trembled with terror.

You took your time, sunshine, the debt collector said, smiling pleasantly,You deaf or something.

I was in the toilet.

Blimey, you must be constipated all right.

IIve not been well.

You certainly look like shit. Have you seen a doctor?

Ino, not yet. Who are you?

The man flashed a business card. Debt collection agency.

What is it you want?

The debt collectors eyes twinkled. Come on, sunshine, what do youthink? Money, innit. The stuff that makes the world go round.

Im afraid youve come to the wrong place. Id like to help but the fact isIm absolutely broke myself.

The debt collector laughed. I know that matey, thats why Im here. Ivecome to collect the money you owe on your credit card. Or rather, whatyou used to owe. Ive bought the debt, see. Now you belong to me. Hegrinned. A large, toothy, cannibalistic grin.

What do you mean? They cant do that. I dont owe you anything.

Oh yes they can. Do it all the time in fact. You owe the money to me now,pal. Dont look so upset. Its all legal and above board. So, what about itthen? What about the money you owe me? When am I going to get itback?

Im unemployed.

Your wifes working, isnt she?


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My wife? Its got nothing to do with her.

Maybe. Maybe not. Is she working?

Shes working but my old companys bank is already stopping half hersalary.

Youre getting brew money though, eh?

Its a pittance. Not enough to live on.

Good. Very good. Ill have some of that. What about the house?

Its signed over to the bank.

Oh, the debt collector frowned. Whys that then? You owe them too?

I put the house up as a guarantee for my business loans.

Did you? Very silly. Very, very silly. I see it all the time. People never thinkof the consequences, do they? When are they going to take possession?

I dont know. Soon.

The debt collector thought for a moment, a smile playing on his lips. Heenjoyed the challenge of extracting blood from a stone, which was mostly aquestion of thinking laterally and then applying pressure in the appropriateplace. Most of the time you COULD get blood from a stone, even if youended up having to crush it to dust. What about the contents?

I dont know.

Ha! he exclaimed triumphantly, Theres always a way. Thems minethen. Mind if I come in and look around? He looked over Nicks shoulder.

Thats a nice looking fridge. A Smeg is it? Thatll be worth something for astart.

Of course I mind. Theres no way youre coming in here.

The debt collector turned and whistled to his Alsatian. The dogimmediately leapt to its feet and started barking, tugging ferociously on itschain. He turned back to Nick and shrugged his shoulders sympathetically.


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You dont want to have to put up with that all night, do you?

Suddenly feeling that the situation was hopeless Nick stepped back andthe debt collector sauntered into the hallway. He took out his notebook andstarted making an inventory.

Nice piece of furniture, he said admiringly, running his hand across themahogany table in the hall. Should get at least a grand for that in theauction. He whistled when he peered into the sitting-room. Wow. Look atthat. Georgian if Im not mistaken. Thatll do nicely. Right, give me yourcredit card.

Nick fumbled in his wallet and handed over his platinum card, his handshaking. The debt collector took out a pair of scissors and cut it in two. Hehanded one half to Nick. Thats yours.

Youre going to take everything?

I wish I could. Got to leave the necessities unfortunately. The cooker.Somewhere to sleep. I can take the rest. You got any paintings? Anyoriginals? What about antiques? Silverware? Jewellery? Any heirlooms?Books even? Oi, Ill have that DVD player for a start.

Chapter 6

Nick was close to tears as he stood at his bedroom window and watchedthe white Range Rover drive off down the hill through a whirlingsnowstorm. He felt as if he had been raped. Never in a million years wouldhe have believed that a debt collector would have penetrated his house,brushing aside the illusion of safety. The sanctity of his home had beendesecrated, it would never be the same again. He felt degraded, less of aperson, somehow unmanned. He knew he had to get out, to get away fromthe scene of his humiliation before he broke down completely.

He dressed with feverish haste, pulling on his old Barbour as he tumbledout of the house. He felt like a refugee in wartime. Only when he reachedthe foot of the hill did he pause to lace up his walking boots. He was out ofbreath and his stomach was churning as if he had been poisoned. Whenhe bent over he almost threw up. He staggered off southwards, leaningblindly into the teeth of an icy blizzard, his face constantly whipped bystinging snowflakes. He struggled on for nearly and hour until eventuallythe snowstorm abated sufficiently to reveal an unfamiliar cotton woollandscape. He was breathing hard, his heart was thumping. He

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A Half Life of One