Chapter 2

3 years before.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Leo Bulmer, one of John’s mates, “What’s that about?”

John was already running out of the pub through the pouring rain in pursuit of his wife. He reached the car park in time to see her in her brother’s car at the car park exit, as it waited for a gap in the traffic. He arrived at the window.

Banging on it he shouted “What are you on about?” since she would not wind the window down, but her brother in the back seat did so.

“John,” he barked. “Fuck off! You heard Carol. Don’t come near the fucking house. Your stuff will be on the front fucking lawn in an hour. Get this: you come near Carol again and you’ll fucking suffer.”

Gary, her brother, was a bricklayer, huge and very muscular. John was in no doubt what he could do to him, the smaller man. John was six foot tall, but much slimmer.

“But Gary,” he whined, “I don’t understand!”

At this there was a gap in the traffic and the car moved off.

“You know what you fucking did!” Gary shouted. “Bugger off!”

Gary had a very limited vocabulary (and verbs come to that).

John stood at the side of the road getting soaked, dumbstruck. Both Carol’s brothers were big men with a reputation for violence, and no one would want to tangle with them. How could he reach her?

He returned to the pub drenched, and, shaking his head, sat down with his mates. Bill handed him the rings.

They bombarded him with questions, but all he could say was that he didn’t know what he’d done.

“She was a a bit quiet yesterday afternoon, and she was asleep when you came for me this morning,” said John. “I thought she was miffed that I was out all day today, but she said nothing!”

John had been out all day with these mates demolishing a greenhouse and erecting a new one for Bill’s parents.

An hour later he arrived at their house in the pouring rain to find bags and boxes, sodden with the rain on the front lawn. Bill Trenchard, his best mate, who had offered his spare bedroom, helped him load the car, and they had everything moved in two trips. His paperwork and his laptop were ruined and he was frustrated.

He knocked at the door but got no answer, and his key would not open the door. He knew she was in the house, and begged her, shouting through the letterbox, to talk to him. No reply. In the end he gave up and returned to Bill’s car.

He sat in Bill’s living room disconsolate. “Married two years and suddenly she turns nasty. I can’t think what I ever did to make her that angry. I mean, wanting a divorce? Chucking my stuff out in the pouring rain?”

Those two years had been without doubt the happiest years of his life. Carol was fun, happy, chatty, and great in bed: very loving. Nothing was out of bounds in the bedroom.

The only minor niggle was that in her job as a buyer for the clothing chain she worked for, she would have to be away from home for one or two nights of some weeks, but their reunions were ecstatic.

What had happened? Had someone poisoned her mind? Had she found someone else on her travels and was using some misdemeanour of his to justify breaking with him?

Over the next days he tried to phone her at work; his calls were not put through on her orders. He tried phoning the house; she put the phone down. He emailed her; no reply. He wrote a letter; no reply. Then he got angry and repeatedly phoned home; she put the answer-phone on.

Then he got what he thought was a breakthrough. She phoned him.

“Carol,” he began, “I don’t know–”

“Listen,” she snapped, “If you persist in ringing me, or trying to talk to me you’ll suffer for it. You’ll get a letter from my solicitor. If you want to communicate with me, do it through her.”

“But Carol,” he begged, “please talk to me. Tell me what I’ve–”

The phone was dead.

His next ploy was to get his friends to ring her. They too got the brush off or she cut them dead. Some had heard from Carol’s girlfriends what Carol had told them, and they abused John over the phone for what he had done, questioning his parentage. Others simply refused contact. Only Bill and Tom stayed true to him.

He tried her girlfriends, but they also abused him over the phone or told him to get lost, in those or similar words. Their common refrain was that he knew what he’d done. A few gave a clue, asking him how he could cheat on such a lovely girl and so soon after they were married. Only Bill and Tom refused to believe it.

So he knew he was accused of seeing another woman, but he knew he hadn’t. Why would he need to, with such a wonderful wife? He wrote to her protesting his innocence and asking for proof.

That was when he got the visit from Gary and Lee Irwin, her brothers.

He woke up in hospital with a cracked rib, severe bruising to his genitals, and a body full of bruises. He remembered what Lee said before the beating began.

“We fucking told you to keep away from Carol. You didn’t fucking listen; you’re fucking annoying her.” Lee had an even smaller vocabulary than Gary, but then he was a lot less intelligent, which was saying something.

That was all, then the beating began, one holding him while the other laid into him.

He was kept in hospital for two days while they ensured that the rib was not broken or had pierced his lung. He was not concussed nor had he suffered any brain injury. When he got back to Bill’s, the divorce petition citing unreasonable behaviour by virtue of adultery was waiting for him.

When the breakdown of a marriage is due to ‘unreasonable behaviour’ because of adultery, it is not necessary for the petitioner to cite with whom the adultery was committed, so he got no enlightenment there. He had had enough.

The next day he hobbled into work, explained his situation to the MD, Georgina Valilee, and asked for a transfer. Georgina contacted the CEO, Sir Maurice Callaghan, who consulted HR, was told of his potential talents as yet untried, and took the opportunity to develop them, transferring him immediately to the London headquarters, giving him moving expenses and settling him in a company flat until he could find a place of his own.

Initially on his departure for the Capital, Bill forwarded his mail, and gave him what news there was. Apparently no one knew who had attacked John. Carol’s brothers were at a family party, it seemed, and the whole family testified they had never left it. John sighed. Perhaps he was well rid of them. Her family never liked him and the whole lot of them were liars and hated the police. He had always thought Carol was different.

He employed one of the company lawyers and the divorce went through. He tried to get an answer to his questions, but beyond ‘you cheated with a tart’, there was no further elucidation. So at last, John gave up trying.

The house they owned was newly bought, heavily mortgaged and there was no equity in it. Carol earned slightly more than he did at the time, and so there was nothing to pay since they had no children. They had no savings. That ended the happiest time of his life, and yes, he was bitter, very bitter about it.

So began three years’ exile. He did return to the North to visit his parents regularly if infrequently, but they lived out in one of the satellite towns well to the south of the Manchester, and he kept clear of his old stomping ground near the company offices.

He enjoyed his visits to his parents. His older brother Philip worked in Dubai, and his younger sister Grace had emigrated to New Zealand, so he was the only child of the marriage with whom they had regular physical contact. Of course he went home for Christmas and Tom and Bill often joined him at the parental home. He always asked them if they had learned anything about Carol’s accusations, but there was no news.

His mother and father had always left him to live his own life, and so when they asked about the divorce and he said he had no idea why Carol had accused him of unfaithfulness and had divorced him, they supported him and asked no further questions, for which he was grateful. His mother hugged him and smiled and that meant a lot to him.

The day after he arrived in London the phone in the flat rang at seven thirty in the morning.

“John Colshaw.”

“Good morning, John Colshaw, this is Paula Grantham.”

It was the CEO’s personal secretary. He had met her on a number of occasions when he attended meetings at Headquarters. She seemed unremittingly cheerful, a happy woman doing a job she loved and at which she excelled. She was middle aged and was renowned to know more about the huge organisation that was FHD than anyone else.

“Good morning Mrs Grantham,” he resounded politely.

“Paula, please, John,” she said with a laugh in her voice. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other now you’re working here. Now I hear from my sources that there is a certain expression that you dislike. I will attempt to avoid it, OK?” and she laughed.

“Touché,” John said. she laughed louder.

“I trust you have settled into the company flat,” she said more seriously. “Sir Maurice Callaghan will see you tomorrow morning at ten. I trust you can attend?”

“Yes,” said John. “Have you any idea why? I wasn’t expecting to meet the CEO. I thought it would be Steven Matterson, or Simon Phelps.”

“You must have heard that our esteemed leader keeps his plans to himself. You’ll discover all tomorrow. Patience, dear heart! See you tomorrow, all right? Another laugh, and realising her mockery, had to laugh as well.

Next morning he presented himself at the twelfth floor of Hubbard House in the City ten minutes early.

“Morning John,” Paula greeted him. “Coffee?”

“Thanks,” he replied, surprised at this treatment of a ex-Department Head of one of the many company divisions.

“Take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the easy chairs, before she busied herself making the drink for him.

They chatted, he asking how long she had been the boss’s secretary, and she asking him about his work in the ‘frozen north’ as she put it.

At ten o’clock precisely, Paula’s intercom buzzed.

“Go through,” she said. “Take your coffee,” she added as she saw him putting his cup and saucer down. “Sir Maurice will have his own.”

This was one surprise after another, and John was now intrigued about his future. He tapped on the door and entered the functional almost spartan office of the top man.

“Come in, come in, John,” invited Sir Maurice Callaghan with a broad smile, as he came round his large antique desk and held out a hand. John shook the proffered limb.

Sir Maurice Callaghan was of medium height, slightly overweight with a florid face and striking white hair, which he had sported since his mid-twenties after a serious car accident. His eyes were dark and gave him the appearance of astuteness, and indeed he was astute, very. He also had a reputation for ruthlessness in business. For him the company came first. Even his wife accepted that fact and appreciated the wealth and social status it brought. That said, the couple were still very much in love.

“Good morning, Sir,” seemed to be the obvious thing for John to say to this imposing figure, which he did.

“It’s quite a while since we met, John. I think we chatted at one of the conferences. I was interested in one of your improvements in property alarm sensors. Kept you talking too long if I remember, then my wife and her cronies wouldn’t let you go. Three years ago?”

“Yes, sir,” John agreed, surprised at Callaghan’s memory. it was at some party, John remembered. He hadn’t expected the invitation by the leader of their international company to the man’s table, after all he had only been a lowly departmental head of one of the smaller divisions, but his improvement had made the company a lot of money. Georgina Valilee had made sure he received recognition for it, hence the invitation.

“Take a seat,” said Sir Maurice, gesturing to the chair at the desk, while he returned to his place on the other side. John sat down and waited. He felt like a small boy summoned to the Headmaster’s office.

The CEO had a thick file in front of him, and John could see there was some sort of document on the desktop computer.

Sir Maurice opened the file, glanced at the monitor screen, and smiled at John.

“So, John,” he began. “You’e had some trouble in your personal life, involving some physical violence to your person, and asked for a transfer away from the North of England Division.” It was not a question, so John simply nodded.

“Georgina Valilee told me the whole thing, so we don’t need to dwell on it, as it must be painful for you since I believe you can’t get to the bottom of why your wife is divorcing you. Well, it’s an ill wind as far as the company’s concerned...”

He paused as if marshalling his thoughts.

“Now. Your request rang some bells here, and Mr Phelps was prompted to examine your file to find an alternative post away from the North of England office, suitable for you to best benefit the Company. He was so surprised by what he found that he brought the matter to me.

“I too am surprised that you are still where you are: you should have been transferred here long ago. As you know, copies of your appraisal meetings come to us, and also the MD’s regular log reports in which you figure quite prominently.

“Your abilities are wasted as a Departmental Head. You motivate your team, you are diplomatic, you give credit to those who deserve it, often when you could take the credit yourself, and from your discussions with Georgina you have a keen perception of divisional weaknesses and quite a flair for assessing remedies.”

John was somewhat embarrassed to find that discussions he thought were informal chatting between Georgina Valilee and himself had been relayed to Headquarters, and he felt uncomfortable with the praise being lavished upon him, but Sir Maurice was moving on.

“Your problem is that all your experience so far is within the rather narrow confines of the Electronics and Computing business in the Northern Division, lucrative though that is. You need wider experience if you are to progress in the company, and I can assure you that the company has an keen interest in your making progress. So your rather fortuitous move here means we can rectify that rather narrow experience and give you an insight into our more diverse interests.

“I take it you would want to progress beyond being a mere Head of Department?”

“Well, yes, Sir, of course.”

“Are you prepared to travel whereever we send you?”

John was trying to keep up, and the question rather threw him.

“Er, travel? Yes, I can travel. Anywhere.” He thought wistfully that he no longer had a wife to tie him down, though he dearly wished he still had.

“Good. Now normally I’d leave the details to Simon Phelps, but your file has tweaked my interest, so I’ve decided to organise things personally. We are going to give you a wide experience of our many concerns so you can begin to see where you might fit into the wider picture. Most of our managing directors have worked in more than one place.

“So, over the coming year you will spend three months in each of the divisions in the British Isles, including Ireland but excluding the one you’ve just come from, each followed by a fortnight here, during which you will make a report.

“Paula will have all the details for you as you leave. Ostensibly you will be attached to the MD in each division as a training exercise, to learn about the very differing concerns we have and what markets we are interested in. Some are national, and some international.

“In the second year, you will tour the three European Divisions ostensibly on the same basis, and in the third year I’ll decide, based on your performance and our needs, which of our divisions worldwide you should visit.

“John, did you pick up a word in there which interested you?”

John thought fast. He had been trying to keep up with the programme he was being offered, but there was one word that didn’t seem to fit, that tweaked his interest, and he thought he knew what it was.

“Ostensibly,” he said hopefully, and waited. Sir Maurice Callaghan beamed.

“Exactly. What I’m really interested in is what is going on under the surface in those divisions, the morale, ethos, developmental directions, emphasis on management style, any problems with administration, relationships, general efficiency – a more forensic examination.

“All the reports I have about you show this sort of perception is a particular talent of yours. Anything you can pick up to improve our overall performance you will put into a private second report for my eyes only. You understand what I’m saying?”

“That’s some task,” John said. “A real challenge, but fascinating. Yes, I understand. It has to be kept a close secret, covered by my more general report.”

“Good. Paula will have a file for you as you go to each division. Take a fortnight or so here to settle in and familiarise yourself with the whole project, and you will have the run of Headquarters to clarify anything obscure. I need to emphasise that your ‘second report’ work is between you and me alone and will remain so. You understand?”

John understood. He was surprised that he was to by-pass the two most senior of the deputies, Steven Matterson and Simon Phelps, and he wondered why, but said nothing.

In that first fortnight, to his surprise, he quickly made new friends in London, mainly colleagues and their friends. He looked for a suitable flat, but the rents made is eyes water and realising he had some months left in the company flat, kept putting off making a decision.

He worked hard at work and at home, and was invited to parties, pubs and clubs at the both weekends, but he missed Carol, and the injustice of the divorce still rankled, though it did not stop him enjoying the outings which kept him busy and occupied.

It was at the party on the first Friday that he met Tracy. Tracy was a black haired, hazel eyed beauty, a figure in perfect proportion to her five foot nine inch height with long legs. She complemented John’s six foot one inch. She was a Personal Assistant to the Section Head involved with overall world-wide sales.

She boldly asked him out, told him which restaurant to book and which club they would go to afterwards. While they ate, she was impressed with his listening, his questions and his humour. He was amused and interested by her direct authoritative approach; she was a woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to get it.

He seemed genuinely to want to know her better. She was also impressed with his dancing, and when they pressed together in a slow dance, she was impressed with the evident reaction of his sexual equipment.

As the taxi arrived at her place, which she shared with three other girls, she invited him in, saying, “I would invite you in for ‘coffee’, but we all know that means for a fuck. I don’t normally fuck on a first date, but in your case I’ll make an exception.”

John had an immediate fleeting thought about Carol, at which his spirits plummeted as they usually did on such a thought. Carol was gone, and he had not had sex for some weeks, and Tracy was powerfully attractive, so he threw caution to the winds and decided to follow her directions wherever they might take him.

He was introduced to the other girls, two brunettes and a dyed blonde, who were sitting around in their nightwear, some of which hid very little of their sinuous bodies.

“This is Sharon,” Tracy said indicating the slimmest of the three, whose legs, up as far as her skimpy undies were on full view. She made no attempt to cover up. She gave a half wave.

“This is Viv,” she indicated the curvy brunette in silk pyjamas, though which nipples made sharp points.

“Hi!” came the greeting.

“And finally, Abigail,” she gestured to the blonde, who leant forward obligingly to shake his hand, allowing full view of her unencumbered generously pendulous breasts.

John felt he had gone to heaven.

“Come on,” urged Tracy, as he lingered to gaze on the sights. “Time for bed.”

Chapter 3 »