Chapter 7: Troubles

Having no idea what the envelope might contain, I neatly sliced it open with a knife. Inside was a single sheet of paper with typed instructions for me to be at a certain address at 8pm Saturday ‘or else’.

I immediately suspected Ms Barratt. I headed to her office but found she’d left for the weekend. The only way I could find out what she wanted was to turn up as ordered. I decided it might be better on balance to go. If I could sort out whatever her problem was, it might be less damaging for the company.

I still had about an hour to kill before I needed to set off for my squash match, so I started drafting a structure for the large module. Unlike its little sibling, it contained a lot of internal logic and calculation so it would take a lot longer to code and test. I wanted to do the work, so I’d have to hope Kevin Nicholson didn’t come through with a load of documentation for me to read.

My squash match against Barkley started as our previous match had finished, with Barkley just having a slight edge. Then it dawned on me that, although he was fast around the court, he was poor at changing direction through ninety degrees; backwards and forwards to left and right, and vice versa. I started to mix things up, sometimes slipping in a softer shot or a wristy shot that would make Barkley have to change direction. I didn’t do it too often because I didn’t want him to know what I was doing, and I slowly pulled level then crept ahead, where I stayed until the end of the set.

Barkley was not happy, and started the next set by thrashing the ball extra hard. I continued my tactics and again pulled ahead. Barkley got more and more upset, trying to hit the ball harder and harder, but that just made things easier for me to disguise my soft or wristy shots. By the end of the set, I had a reasonably comfortable margin.

After the deciding point, Barkley threw his racquet violently across the court, hitting the wall hard. I decided offering my hand for the traditional end-of-match shake wouldn’t be a good idea. I filled out the scorecard and offered it to Barkley to sign. He marked the card with a large cross, then dropped it on the floor and stamped on it.

As usual, when a match ends in two sets, there was time for a friendly knockabout before the dreaded knock on the door to inform that time was up. I decided not to offer and Barkley had stalked angrily off court anyway. I gave him a head start before following.

Outside the court I encountered the Club Secretary, Darius Pitcher.

“We’ve had complaints about Barkley’s behaviour so I decided to watch your match,” he explained, as I handed him the abused scorecard. “Thank you for keeping your cool and not responding to his provocation. We now have sufficient grounds to take disciplinary action against him.”

“I don’t understand it. He was fine the last time I played him.”

“He’s been trying to get into the top league for a while but always seems to come up short. He loses his temper when he loses a match. I expect he beat you last time.”

“Yes, he did.”

“While I’m here, what’s the story with your match against the Indian girl, Samine Ashrief. I know you played it but I haven’t received a scorecard.”

I grabbed a blank scorecard, wrote Sami and my names on it then filled it in as a walkover to Sami.

“I don’t understand,” said the Darius. “You played Ms Ashrief but you haven’t filled in any scores.”

“We finished exactly level when we got the dreaded knock on the door, the exact same number of sets and same number of points. We agreed to a rematch but she hasn’t been able to play for family reasons. I know we’re both vying for promotion but it would mean more to Sami. I just play to meet new people and get a good run around.”

“This could be a problem,” said Darius, indicating the scorecard. “Ms Ashrief has to sign the scorecard too, or the result won’t be accepted.” Then he paused before continuing, “You’re right about one thing. if you get promoted to the top league, it’s no big deal. But because there are so few good women players, if Ms Ashrief gets promotion to the top league, County will take a serious look at her for women’s county matches. And if she continues to progress, she might even make the national team.”

“I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep this scorecard and if Ms Ashrief hasn’t played you again before the scheduled end of the league, I’ll contact her and ask her to come in and countersign it. But she’s now two games behind schedule whereas you’re fine.”

“Thanks,” I said, meaning it.

Fortunately the talk held me up and Barkley had gone by the time I got to the men’s changing room, so I didn’t have to worry about more histrionics while I showered and changed. He wasn’t in the bar either, but there wasn’t a chef working that evening so I picked up a Chinese takeaway on the way back to my new flat.

Saturday I went into the office to work on the large module, partly because I wanted to and partly because I needed the distraction from thinking about what Ms Barratt might have in store for me for that evening.

I finished drafting the structure by lunchtime, although I knew I might have to tweak things as I wrote the code. The vending machine in the cafeteria had two Cornish pasties left and I took both of them since I was feeling hungry and didn’t know what sort of meal I might end up with that evening.

The afternoon I spent coding. It was hard going at times because I wasn’t sure what Mr Shah had intended in some instances. I made a list of questions to ask him during the spec review. By the time I had to finish, I’d made a significant inroad into the module’s code, making it difficult for Ms Altropolina to assign it to anyone else.

I reached the address specified on the sheet of paper just before eight. I rang the doorbell. It was indeed Ms Barratt who answered, wearing an all-encompassing robe, giving no clue as to what, if anything, she was wearing underneath. She looked dishevelled and I could smell alcohol on her breath, which tallied with the half-empty bottle of wine I saw on on her coffee table after she beckoned me in. Her flat was clean and tidy and nicely appointed, like you might expect from a successful young professional.

Ms Barratt handed me a small glass jar. “Fill it,” she ordered, “or I’ll tell everyone what you did.” At least she wasn’t slurring her words.

“We’ve been through this loop before. Even I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done that was so dreadful, and Ms Altropolina knows as much as I do. Anyway, what to you want me to fill it with?”

“Your stuff.”

“You need to be more specific. What stuff do you mean?”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I want you to wank into that jar.”

“No. And I’m leaving,” I said, turning for the door.

“Wait! I’ll pay you ten pounds.”

“Ms Barratt, if you were to use it to impregnate yourself, it could cost me tens of thousands in child support.” That was a conservative estimate. Taking into account the money my parents had left me, it could be a lot more.

“I’d never do that you you,” said Ms Barratt, who now seemed to be having difficulty speaking. “Please, I’ll pay you twenty pounds.”

“Tell me what you want it for.”

“I can’t,” sobbed Ms Barratt, shaking her head.

“Goodbye.”

I opened the door and left, but as the door was closing behind me, I could just make out a plaintive, “Thirty pounds.”

The encounter was so disturbing that I walked aimlessly around for a while to clear my head. Eventually my concentration was broken by the smell of fish and chips. I had ended up outside a fish and chip shop. Naturally it also sold chicken and chips, sausage and chips and even chips with curry sauce but everything seemed to come with chips. So my evening meal was cod and chips, eaten from paper packaging as I slowly walked home.

Back in my new flat, my first thought was to call Jardine: perhaps she could give me some insight into Ms Barratt’s behaviour. But since it was after ten, I decided it was too late. Besides, I’d be seeing her the next day anyway.

After a disturbed night’s sleep, perhaps because of my late meal or perhaps because of Ms Barratt’s strange behaviour, I decided the best antidote was to go into work again and immerse myself in coding. That seemed to work, because I felt more at peace by the time I broke for lunch. The vending machine in the cafeteria hadn’t been restocked so there were no more Cornish pasties, and the remaining sandwiches looked unappetising.

My plan B was foiled when I found the local sandwich shop didn’t open on Sundays. Plan C didn’t fare much better when I discovered the consequences of not having done a supermarket shop that week. So I dined on what meagre leftovers I could find in the fridge that didn’t need heating up.

I was ready and waiting by three o’clock. A blue box van arrived and parked in my parking spot so I went out to greet its occupants. There were three of them squeezed into the van’s front seat and I recognised all of them; with Jardine were Celeste and Claudine. Nightmare? I’d been a client of all three of them. Did they know that and was I in trouble?

Claudine and Celeste each greeted me with, “Good to see you again,” and a kiss on the cheek. Then Jardine grabbed me in a tight embrace and thrust her tongue down my throat.

“Jardine! You floosie!”

“Get a room!”

I couldn’t speak while my mouth was occupied by Jardine’s tongue, but I could certainly respond to her in kind so I wrapped my arms around her and lost myself in the intensity of our kiss.

“Ding ding, end of round one.” That sounded like Claudine. It interrupted our concentration and, panting, we pulled apart.

“We’d probably better...,” said Jardine.

“Yes,” I agreed.

I led the girls up to my new flat and showed them inside. “All the old lady’s clothes are in the master bedroom,” I said, opening the door for them.

Never having seen it before, Celeste and Claudine oohed and aahed at the extravagance of the room’s floral decoration.

“Is that the new mattress?” asked Jardine, noticing the bare mattress on the bed.

“Yes. The management company had the old one replaced free of charge because of the stains. I asked for medium soft and they were able to deliver Friday afternoon.”

Jardine tried out the mattress. “This is nice,” she said approvingly. Then, “What happened to the bed linen? It went so well with the room’s decor.”

“I suspect the cleaning company removed it for hygiene reasons. The bed linen for the second bedroom was taken too even though it looked unused. Would you like to help me choose a new set for this room.”

Jardine’s intended reply was cut short by Celeste, ““Would you two lovebirds care to baptise the mattress another time?” she asked. “We’ve only got the van for a couple of hours or so.”

I pointed out all the locations where the old lady’s clothes currently resided and the girls produced a supply of black bin liners and started sorting the clothes.

“We need to rethink,” said Claudine. “These clothes are amazing. They’re good labels but they’re entirely unsuitable for the homeless. I could ask my sister to sell what the girls don’t want on the internet and make a cash donation to the homeless shelter. That way the money could be spent on warm, waterproof clothing or blankets, things the homeless would find far more useful.”

Jardine and Celeste looked to me for approval. “Sounds good to me, but what will your sister get out of it?” I asked.

“Would twenty percent to cover her time and costs be reasonable?”

Jardine and Celeste nodded their heads so it sounded fair to them. “Okay,” I agreed. “Let’s do that if your sister is agreeable.”