Surface Tension - Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The voice is harsh, caustic accompanied by a thin, cold smile.  The casual dress has gone.  Beneath his flapping grey-green trench coat is a navy suit.  He's wearing a powder blue shirt, open at that neck.  His hands are thrust deep into his coat's pockets. He stands with the nonchalance of someone confident in his surroundings; this is his place.

            “McClelland,” I step back and across Bill. I reach for her hand, the one that was comforting me a moment ago, and squeeze it.

             “I’ve done some checking Mr Dafoe.  You’re the librarian dismissed for gross misconduct.  If I’d known that this morning maybe I should've phoned the police and added trespassing, criminal damage, harassment, say, to the rap sheet.”  He says disdainfully, the thin smile broadening. He pushes the gate open, it stutters and rasps on the concrete path but McClelland still manages to stride nonchalantly into the garden. He stops short of us. 

            “I’ve not been dismissed, I’m just suspended.”  It's a weak response. The words melt in my mouth as say them. I'm weary and, to be honest, resigned to my fate.

            “Oh, I think you are a bit behind with the times, Mr Dafoe.” McClelland emphasises the point by glancing at his silvery steel watch, “I’d say you were dismissed about, well let’s see, half an hour ago.”  His face wrinkles into a smirk.  “Though I suppose the paperwork might drag on just a bit, your employers have got to be seen to do the right thing, haven’t they?  But the decision is already made.”   He pauses, “I’ve made sure of that,” and he runs a hand through his short black hair.

            Bill's holding on to me. She's bemused.  “What's all this about Tony?  Who is this?  What’s it got to do with all this?”

            “He hasn’t told you?”  McClelland takes another step forward, he’s less than arm length away. His tone takes on a superior shade. “I apologise, I should introduce myself. I’m Steven McClelland. I buried my father yesterday. I believe you’ve some property that belonged to him and, well should come to me.” 

            “I don’t know what you're talking about.  Come on Bill lets go.” I tug on Bill’s hand and start to walk past McClelland. He reaches out and places a restraining hand on my shoulder.

            “No Mr Dafoe, no; I believe you’ve something of mine. I want it back.”  His eyes are stark blue. He doesn't blink.

            “I don’t know what you are talking about.” I insist.

            “Oh, I think you do Mr Dafoe.  See, one of my colleagues went looking for this item this morning,” he lifts his free hand to shoulder height, flicking his wrist as he does so.  There's a Mercedes parked on the opposite side of the road, about 20 yards back.  The gestures a signal; a man slowly climbs from the car and lumbers to the fence. He's big, but he carries his weight with ease, suggesting that he is more than used to using it.   He wears no coat but has a similar suit to his boss.  McClelland’s elegant in his, the ‘colleague’s’ is in a losing fight to constrain the body within.  His head is surprisingly small and looks like a potato, an organic potato.  He's almost bald except for a halo of pin prick grey hair. The three of us watch him lumber over.

            “And do you know what Mr Dafoe, he couldn't find it.  I regret that he had to use force to complete his search but the club have been well resourced by my father in the past so they will accept the damage as…” he pauses to search for a phrase, “…wear and tear.”

            Potato head stops in front of the gate. McClelland releases my shoulder. I grip Bill's hand hard and push past him. I try to open the gate. Potato head gives a gentle nod of denial. There's no emotion, he's doing his job.  

            “Where is it Mr Dafoe?”

            I turn back, sensing Bill’s confusion and rising fear.  We're now sandwiched between the two of them. 

            “Look I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I came here to follow up something a friend asked me to do and with what I saw last night and the other stuff I’ve dug up I know what this is all about.  Where are the people, the students who lived here?” I pull Bill tight into me, slipping my hand from hers and sliding it round her waist.

McClelland ignores this; he's not interested in Bill. The dry, lizard like smile appears again, “Oh, I don’t really know.  Maybe the accommodation provided didn’t agree with them, maybe they felt that they wouldn't ‘ve achieved what they wanted in their studies.  Maybe the just got bored.”  He steps forward. His face is inches from mine. It’s hardened. “Maybe they couldn't keep their commitments, their financial commitments Mr Dafoe and consequently they were taught a lesson, made an example.” He relaxes, takes a step back again and the smile reappears.

            I'm suddenly aware of the smell of stale, cheap aftershave.  I glance round. Potato head is directly behind us.  Somehow he's opened the rickety gate without a sound.

            “I ask again Mr Dafoe. Where is it?” McClelland pauses. I'm conscious of potato head behind us snorting like a bull.  “I’d be grateful if you could tell us.  You know my family’s position. Though my mother may be leaving, I'm not going to be with her for long.  Going to settle her in, abroad, like the good son I am.” He brushes something from his coat's lapels. “Your see, I’ll be running my father’s business and I want all his assets. They're mine, my families.”  He has steps closer again. The tone remains polite, but there’s violence in his crystal blue eyes, a deep malevolence just kept in check.  Something Ellen said comes to mind, about the son being more dangerous than the father, that Steven had a constant need to prove himself.

            He's placed his hand gently on the lapel of my jacket beneath my unbuttoned coat. “Be clear about this Mr Dafoe I want it back. I will get it back.  Your choice,” his hand curls into a fist grasping my lapel, pushing into my chest. It hurts and the pressure forces me backwards. Aftershave wafts and I can feel Potato Head’s breath on my neck.  “You can return it, no questions asked or Mr Dafoe,” he does his ‘B- movie’ dramatic pause again whilst with a flourish, he places a small white card into my jacket pocket with his free hand, “or we'll find another way of extracting the information.” He lets go of me at the same time as giving me a gentle shove which propels me into Potato Head.  I bounce off his muscled body.  “Or maybe we should pay attention to your friends.” He darts a look at Bill and then returns to me. “No?”

            McClelland flicks his head. The reek of after shave diminishes. Potato Head brushes past me stopping to drag the gate open for his boss. McClelland waits, he looks at us each in turn and then pushes between Bill and I. We turn and watch him walk after his retreating thug.  Potato Head pauses by the car and opens a door. McClelland catches himself as he ducks to get into the car, standing erect.

            “Mr Dafoe, you have what I want,” he calls, “You have 48 hours to return it to me. If you don’t have it, well, you have 48 hours to find the person who has it and return it to me.  Let's say I hold you responsible for its safe keeping. You have my card.”  With that he slides into the silver Mercedes. Potato Head clambers into the driver seat and the car pulls effortlessly away.  The car glides past us. McClelland ignores us but Potato Head’s eyes track us with a studied malice until the car turns from view.

            With the car gone everything seems quiet.  Curtains remain drawn. There’s movement along the street.  One street light glows.  A seagull wheels and alights atop it and I find myself wondering why on earth a gull would be here, so far from the coast.  There's movement at the top end of the road, a police panda car hove’s into view too late to be of any use to us.