Consent Read online

  And she was nearly right. Head office hired me for three days and I was supplied with a list. Many people I found in a few minutes on social media, and induced them to deliver me their details with simple lures. Wiser ones I had to get through friends. One was dead. Most of the rest were hidden only by the effort it took to search through public documents or the electoral roll. They were not exactly catburglars, as Amelia guessed. It was just their way to run.

  At the end of a week, forty-one out of the fifty names had addresses next to them. I was a pretty good private investigator, it turned out. On my own initiative I approached a handful, and was at first startled by how easily they yielded. You just explain the situation, usually, and like a ripe tomato the money drops. A few were even grateful, I would say. They told stories that were too long about being slow with paperwork, but you could see their relief to leave behind the worrying, even if it made them poorer. My firm smile was never as bad as what they’d dreaded. That’s how it is with the inevitable. It gets remembered in advance and as a result makes bathetic entrances. Think how tamely even death is met by the old. Some of the debtors got almost chirpy. You’d see the brave buds of hope on them again. It was terribly happy and terribly sad, especially knowing that I’d sell their details to their other creditors.

  I was asked to go to head office to help Amelia with her presentation and answer questions. It worried me, but I agreed. And she did a fine job in there. No way was her proposal rejected for any flaws in its performance. The one thing she lacked, which you’d expect maybe, was street smarts. She didn’t understand that she was saying to her superiors, I’ve thought of something that you should have thought of first. Plus I’ve admitted that my attention wandered. Several times I was caught staring at my laptop and through the glass. She looked like she’d stepped from a commercial, Frances with her work clothes and her incidental beauty, her command over the crowd. No question but she caught the eye. After a while what occupied me more, though, were the men and women she was speaking to. They smiled in the projector light, smiles held ready to burst into cheers or laughs. Men in their fifties gazed like boys. She wasn’t winning them over with words or technique. These people were already won. They knew her. They trusted her. I’d never seen anything like it. I wondered what made her special. I wondered how it must feel to be so loved, and by so many, to have people wanting you all to themselves. Some staked their claims by heckling. I couldn’t hear what was said but you could see when Frances met them with ripostes, when with embarrassment. Both ways the room was charmed and the cheers and laughter broke, ruffling our meeting.

  The guy who was in charge told us he was sorry about the distractions, but I think he meant that it was I who ought to be. I don’t like being admonished and in a loud plain voice accepted his apology. Then I excused myself, folded my laptop, and took it to the toilet. I must have lingered too long in the crowd afterwards, because when I returned the meeting was over. Amelia stood alone by the door. They said thanks for coming, she said without a smile. Days later when she confirmed the bad news by phone she was angry. Really angry. I’d not heard her even grumble before. It worried me how she’d take this setback, but by then I was busy with other worries, as you will see.

  *

  Did Frances stir my nerves in a new way? They always do, but I’d never gone so far. Mainly I think that things between us developed, although the fact that I don’t know is interesting. I know I often had second thoughts early on. Now she is such a part of me that our first encounters feel ancient and unalterable, even though they only happened weeks ago.

  These are my initial notes.

  l20s/e30s, slim, straight br hair, av height, attractive, mgmt conslt (esp IT, tech and telecoms?), generally liked, Consent, prob long hours, def well paid, graduate, confident, low socmed activity, no w ring

  That’s it. I must have been tired. I usually write more. Yet there I was at her station early the next morning, waiting. I waited a long time, being loyal and being used to it and knowing the moods. When she arrived she didn’t come straight to the platform, but began queueing at the cafe outside. I saw her through the fence. Had I been standing closer to the rails she’d have been hidden by the crowd. Soon afterwards she took a phone call, and as I made my way down she left. I took out my own phone and pretended to be talking to a wife about a nanny while Frances led me to a late-Victorian terraced street. Speed bumps, small trees, dog turds, tight mortgages. No houses were grand, but hers was among the loved, its windows clean, its tiled path swept and weeded. I walked on until I was nearly out of sight, then stopped to hunt irritably for something in my bag. She entered the house and quickly re-emerged with a single brass key, bare and glinting, that she slotted away beneath the dustbin before heading back the way she came. I thought about following, then watched her go.

  *

  The next thing I remember is the smell of the house. That essence of her. This is crazy, I know, but it was familiar. Like coming home after a long trip. I stood in the hall for some minutes taking it in. I’d never been into a subject’s home before. I suppose it was an epiphany or something. I’ve been trying to describe it for a while, and I’ve taken breaks, but I don’t think I can get there on my poetical resources, so I’ll just say this: it was less like a dream come true, more like paradise remembered. Does that make sense? Oh well. Sense-making isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

  In the front room I found bookshelves and scanned the spines. Most were good quality novels, including many classics. Here and there I spotted crumpled works of theory, which I took to be old university texts. At first I held back from touching anything, but soon I was leafing through them all. Young Frances had written her name inside a history of the Great Depression, pencilling the margin with neat little remarks. If the shelves were arranged with any system, I could not perceive it. Some sections were alphabetised. All the Kafka was together, next to Keynes and Doris Lessing, but then came Margaret Atwood and a pristine foot of Proust. It was perhaps the wreckage of a system not yet put back in order after redecoration, or a move.

  Clearly no children lived in the house. Only womenswear hung in the hall. Upstairs there was a bathroom, a loft hatch and two bedrooms, one large, where more books were piled against the wall. The kitchen at the back of the house was neat and tidy, the garden rather overgrown. Drips on the window marked where the kettle had fogged it, and a teabag lay tepid in the bin. Beneath it I recognised the paella packet. The green curry was still in the fridge, the Chablis in the door, about a glass down, beneath a squad of sauce jars. There was also milk, eggs, a gnarled ramp of cheddar and a packet of capsicum headlights missing the red.

  After opening one cupboard I opened them all. They were not very full of ingredients, but did contain a large amount of crockery, much of it quite old and fancy, and in all far more than two housemates could need. Counting it up, I found two whole dinner services for eight, one a reproduction willow pattern, the other red and white with a gold band. The way all the pieces were just shuffled together in stacks suggested that neither set was kept for best. Combined they would lay the little kitchen table four times over. It was absurd. No one would buy a new set for a house already equipped with the other, so one or both was probably inherited, and valued, and when they came together neither woman had given ground. It might have been a point of wry dispute between them. It might be a cold war. Certainly if either of them really valued her china she could care for it much better in a box until it was ready to preside in the family home for which it was surely intended. Instead it looked like something was being asserted behind the cupboard doors. You imagined Frances using her plates, then her housemate retaliating.

  *

  I was back upstairs when I heard the front door open and shut. Then I heard nothing. I had quite lost track of time.

  I edged on to the landing and peered through the bannisters, then sprang back, grasping the rail to steady myself. She was in the hall, collecting the junk mail. I hurried into her room
, put an ear to the floor and listened. I wasn’t really thinking. You blunder around urgently in a crisis because your body is full of adrenaline and above all you want to act. You have to notice this and take yourself in hand. You have to gather up your choices. The sash windows in her room were locked, and in any case offered only a public drop on to the tiled path below. I wanted to run – just run – and there was little to stop me, but even if I was not seen she would surely hear and call the police. I wasn’t wearing gloves or anything. On the other hand waiting in her bedroom for a better opportunity risked a confrontation, the worst outcome of all.

  Slowly I stepped back on to the landing. The scent of smoke was in the air. The bathroom window was probably too small to escape through, and she might visit the toilet while I tried. She’d be unlikely to visit the other bedroom though, the housemate’s. Moreover the window in there was large enough for me to crawl through, once the lock was undone, and the drop would be on to grass. Of course I would then have no escape but the neighbouring gardens, where my problems might multiply. On the other hand if she passed the other bedroom on her way to the toilet, I’d have a clear run to the front door.

  So I waited there. If I peered through the hinges I could see the front door, but I made myself wait. I would be out in five seconds, but I made myself wait. It wasn’t long before I heard the approach of footsteps, lively and unsuspicious footsteps it seemed to me. They passed by up the stairs. Peering again, I saw Frances in her bedroom. The door was wide open but the curtains were drawn. She was in her underwear, dropping the last of her work clothes into a laundry basket. She put on blue jeans, a white lace camisole and a cerise cardigan, then passed my door again on the way back down.

  Hours I waited this time, ever on the tip of running. The housemate was called Stephanie. Her name was written on a large number of bank and other documents scattered on the desk at my side. Apart from these, a small wardrobe and a futon, the room contained nothing but sewing equipment and the things that Stephanie was making. Not curtains or fine dresses, but outlandish big-eyed costumes for the most part, with slots for your real eyes. Those that were not hung on hooks were jumbled in piles. Many were just fragments. Green feet or purple tails. There were glue tubes and bits of tape and cotton reels and putty everywhere. On the hook nearest me hung a rather impressive Loch Ness monster, made out of blue velour, my notes say. A cat slept on a pile of offcuts. I unlocked the window, just to be ready.

  You know there will be tight spots, doing what I do. I take risk seriously and arrive prepared, but you soon accept that you can’t prepare for everything. Some of my best thoughts have been on my feet. Sometimes it’s exciting. Not this time. Far too much at stake, and too long to think about it. I gave real consideration behind that door to where my life would go if I got out. I promised myself I’d end the project altogether. Although part of me wanted to be caught. I could feel it. When I imagined her strolling in to borrow something of Stephanie’s, and finding me, and thinking on my feet … I did not feel fear only. I’d taken things too far with Amelia. Then with Frances I’d taken them further. Now look. This part of me had been waiting for the rest to turn hubristic since the beginning, and the next hours were to be our gleeful denouement. But you can’t think like this. That’s the voice of obedience. That’s what scares people into line. All through these years of my transgression it’s been with me whispering, This won’t last, This won’t last, This won’t last … It makes it hard to plan.

  Twice I heard Frances enter the kitchen, but each time held back. When she switched on the television, I opened the door to run, then closed the door again. At last she climbed the stairs, more slowly this time. I heard the bathroom lock engage, the extractor fan begin, the tap crash on. This was my chance, but still I waited. You have to take a calm hold of yourself, as I say. Frances could emerge at any moment. The tap stopped. Then I knew she was in the bath from the echoing sloshes. She would go nowhere quickly. Plus when she began I’d be alerted by the ripping of the water. My chance was ample, now that it had come. I opened the door a nudge, then fully. There was no rush. I approached the bathroom, listening. Her clothes lay on the floor just inside her room. They were still warm.

  Her phone rang and I started with fright. She began talking. It was Stephanie. I was halfway downstairs, then stopped again. She was lying in the bath, behind a closed door. She was engaged in a phone call with the only other occupant of the house, who must therefore be at least some minutes away. I heard everything clearly, even on the stairs. How could I not listen? Or not be curious? Why would I pretend? I’d cursed my mischance for a long time, but here it revealed a jewel. I did listen.

  Poor Frances. By no means did I want her to undergo the stress of finding me, on top of her other stresses, but I was glad to be there. And I don’t know. Not everybody would have noticed it, but I also believe I heard a renewed brightness. The day before, and on the phone this morning, she’d sounded cheerful but as though she was trying. I was sure of it. There was something open in her voice now, and a readiness there. It was subtle. A fresh spirit of inquiry maybe. A project of her own.

  I must get back to her.

  The alarm clock cannot be ringing, but she looks and it is. There was a plan to go in early, she remembers. There was a plan to be ready for anything today.

  She pulls the cord in the bathroom and the extractor squeals, then jams, then won’t unjam, no matter how she prods it. Soon there will be mould. More mould. She showers with the door and window open, taking her time about it, timorous about leaving the warm water.

  She feels appalling. The wine she finished with Stephanie last night has turned her blood to gravel. They talked things through. Progress was made. In the middle her mother rang and became so savagely protective that she needed transfusing with her daughter’s calm. Frances went to bed strong, with optimism, but now that’s gone like the heat of a clear day.

  In the cold she tries to dress too soon. The clothes stick to her wet body and make a nuisance of themselves. Downstairs Stephanie has finished the milk. At least there is no milk. She settles for black tea, doing her makeup while it steeps. It steeps too long and the surface shines with flakes of tannin.

  On the train she stares out of the window at the city in the sharp dawn sun. Tries reading but can’t. Maybe getting in early is a bad plan. Maybe it will be taken as a statement of something by her bosses. She doesn’t want to appear to be making statements. She wants to appear like this whole business is a trifle to her, a whisked nothing, air. Nonchalance is slippery. The harder you grasp at it the faster it flies away.

  You’re early, the security guard says. He has a way of just announcing his thoughts. It makes him tend to say things – that it is cold, that she is carrying a lot of bags, that she is working on a Saturday – which they both already know. It is honest at least.

  She says,

  Morning. Yes. Lots to do.

  He murmurs in vague sympathy and seeing her begin to rummage for her swipe card, opens the barrier with his own. This overrides the building’s head-count system, which contravenes its fire safety certificate. She says thanks.

  The lift is waiting for her. It’s that early. And the emptiness of the eighth floor is lavish. The carpet bears fresh comb strokes from the cleaners and their night machines. She takes a low table with a view of the door and pretends to be working in a relaxed way. When Tim appears she almost is.

  Morning Fran, he says.

  Hi Tim. How’s it going?

  Good. You’re in early.

  Yes. I thought I’d try and blast through some bits and pieces now things are quiet. Will told you about ComPex?

  Tim is small and analytical, often amused but never laughing, life a parade of human error, him in the grandstand.

  Yes, he says. They undercut us, clearly.

  That’s what I said.

  He looks at her.

  And how are you doing?

  Well, you know, disappointed. I’m pissed off we did all that
work for nothing, but I suppose you can’t always win. At least we know they didn’t hate the pitch!

  I mean after the other thing.

  She suppresses a bloom of fear.

  Tim says,

  The email.

  Yeah. That was a bit weird. I don’t know what to make of it, to be honest, but I’m sure it will all be sorted out soon enough. Will told you then?

  He nods and stares.

  Tim isn’t much liked around the office. He lacks most kinds of politeness, and all the things you would call charm. In the summer he alone wears sandals, and when deep in work he hums. Hard little riffs, they could be anything really, but they persist for hours. People presume that it’s unconscious and say nothing. They share their grievance with exchanged eyebrows and, when he’s not there, mimic him. Tim’s so good on data centres that the rest of the time they have to be grateful, and he rides around in their gratitude like a Mercedes. He annoys Frances too, but the years defending him have formed a soft spot in her. He acts obnoxious, she believes, in order to avoid discovering whether people like him.

  Who do you think sent it? Tim asks.

  I really don’t know.

  Do you have a theory?

  I have guesses. But they are just guesses. I haven’t been thinking about it all that much. It’s not like this person offered any evidence of what they’re saying, so I think we just have to ignore them.

  Celia comes in blotched pink, nails a workstation with one bag and marches the other to the showers. She’s part of a flow of arrivals now. Morning dots the air.

  Once Tim ordered a prostitute to his hotel room when they were on a training residential.

  I see what you mean, he says.

  Monica arrives. She is the fourth team member, from Belgium – from the south, she always adds – and perfectly nice. She never minds when people think she’s French.

  Morning Monica, Frances says. You heard about this email?