19

The Grape and The Grain. Ten to seven.

It’s a miserable day. Not freezing, but cold. Not raining steadily, but heavy intermittent downpours. A blustery wind blows in from the Atlantic, foul-tempered and hostile. I’m wearing office clothes, a mac, scarf and woolly hat. The mac isn’t warm enough or properly waterproof even. I got it second-hand because the good coats cost £40, even in Matalan.

I was here early. Six twenty. Have been walking up and down since then looking in at the warmly lit windows and feeling out of place. One of my boots has a hole in the sole and my foot is sodden.

But in the end, I go in.

It’s a smart bar, nicely done. Dark wooden floor. Scrubbed wooden bar. Lots of heavy fittings: oak casks, brass nautical lamps, a huge glass bowl filled with wine corks and dried hops.

I stand, dripping, in the entrance area as men in suits and women in tailored outfits talk, laugh, fiddle with their phones. A waiter with a stubbly beard and a blue neckerchief approaches. He’s wearing a smile but I have this vision of him simply clearing me away, the way you might if you came into your kitchen and found a dead pigeon or a stray drowned mouse making a mess of your scrubbed limestone floors.

I stand there, dripping, waiting to be tidied. Wet cotton mops and metal buckets.

But I’m not tidied. Vic emerges from behind a raw oak pillar. My face must change somehow, because the waiter swings round, sees Vic. Some look is exchanged, and the waiter waves me over to where Vic has a table waiting.

‘You made it,’ he says.

He clucks around me, a fussy uncle. He wants me to remove my coat, but I keep it on. Take off my hat, but keep it close.

He wants me to choose a drink. Pushes a long wine list at me, tells me to order anything. I ask for water. He tells me again to order anything, meaning that water doesn’t count, so I say orange juice, a small one.

He orders another glass of red wine for him, a bowl of olives, toasted ciabatta slices and olive oil, a selection of antipasti, and my orange juice.

I sit there with my bag on my lap. The bag is wired for sound. So is my coat.

‘Filthy day, isn’t it? I don’t mind it cold, but this is vile.’

I don’t say anything. Maybe shrug. Look sideways.

‘Listen, love, you’re frightened, aren’t you? And that’s my fault. I think I frightened you yesterday. Let’s just get to know each other a bit maybe.’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘OK, full disclosure, we took a look at your laptop when you were out. Checked your room. We like to know a little about the people we work with. That’s how I know you’re thinking of emigrating down under. Get some sunshine, eh? Not like this.’

‘Canada.’

‘Canada, is it?’

‘Or America. I don’t know. Wherever.’

Vic pauses to see if my little conversational spurt will run anywhere. It doesn’t, so he puts his shoulder to the wheel once again.

‘What is it? Need a break? Or just start again somewhere, completely fresh. I’ve always thought about doing that. Just going somewhere else, starting with a clean slate, see what happens. Bit of an adventure.’

Since I don’t respond to that, he says, ‘But it’s tough, isn’t it? If you’re married to an Aussie, or whatever, then it’s hi, Sheila, come in, g’day. If not, then it’s do you have the skills, do you have the money? Fact is, if you’ve got the cash, then anything can happen. If not …’ He shrugs.

My mouth moves but doesn’t actually say anything, so Vic puts his shoulder to the wheel once again.

‘You’ve got your payroll skills. Those are good qualifications, aren’t they? The sort of thing that might help get you a visa. But, you know, is payroll here the same as payroll there? I don’t know how far those qualifications stretch. You don’t have anything like nursing, do you? That’s a good one. Or school teacher. Everyone needs teachers.’

There’s a pause.

I do my share of pausing, but this moment belongs to Vic. He’s using it the way we use silences in interrogation. Dropping uncomfortable facts on the table and allowing them to swell in the emptiness.

I don’t say anything.

A waiter comes with drinks and food and we wait as the table is spread with good things. When he leaves, Vic drops a letter on the table.

The letterhead belongs to a British law firm, headquartered in London. The letter starts, Dear Mr. Henderson, Thank you for your enquiry about a subject, Miss Fiona Grey, who is seeking to emigrate to an English-speaking country in the southern hemisphere, preferably Australia or New Zealand. We understand that Miss Grey (a) speaks fluent English, (b) has no criminal record, (c) holds NVQ-type certifications in payroll, (d) has no family overseas …

Vic flips me straight to the last paragraph. We feel confident of being able to progress this matter and look forward to receiving further instructions from you.

‘Money,’ says Vic. ‘It’s all about money. Getting some dick-for-brains lawyer to package you up so you look like God’s gift to Oz, or wherever the hell you want to go.’ He waves the letter in the air, before folding it back into his pocket. ‘Let’s say twelve K for the lawyers, plus maybe ten or twenty in your bank account so you can prove financial solidity. Allow a bit more for any bullshit qualifications you might need to acquire. Thirty or forty grand and you can live in Oz. Not on some temporary visa thing, but for life. Become a citizen. Or Canada. Or New Zealand. These guys’ – tapping his pocket – ‘they’ll sort you out.’

Vic watches my face. Looks pleased with the result.

Says, ‘Not so scary now, am I?’

He grins.

If Brattenbury looks like an unusually dapper policeman, then Vic looks like an unusually dapper gang member. He’s wearing a nicely fitted jacket in brown tweed herringbone. Lining in damson silk. A black woolen roll neck that might even be cashmere. I have to remind myself that these neatly manicured hands might yet be the ones that swung the hatchet. Part of me wants to ask. Wants to say, ‘What is it like, to sit in bars like this, to wear clothes like this, and to know that you and your friends cut a man’s hands off and let him bleed to death as you watched and he screamed?’

But I don’t.

Don’t say that, or anything else. But when he says, ‘Here, why don’t we get that wet coat off,’ I do put my hand to my throat and undo the first couple of buttons. Reach for an olive. And, for the first time, catch Vic’s eyes and don’t look away.