THE CHAIN
"You know what this is about, Mr Jackson," the voice said.
Jackson wasn't sure what to say, so he said nothing. It wasn't the woman from that night. This voice was older, more educated.
"Listen. The first thing to understand is that if you involve the police or try to trace me in any way, all of the photos will reach your wife. You must understand this before we move on. Do you understand this, Mr Jackson?"
"I—yes. Look, I don't care who you are, I just want to settle—"
"Be quiet. Listen. If you involve the police, the photos get to your wife. If you try and trace me or follow me, the photos get to your wife. If you employ anyone to observe any meetings we may have, the photos get to your wife. Do you understand this?"
"Yes." She's nervous, Jackson thought. I can hear it in her voice, she's nervous. Sounds like she's reading this from a bloody script.
"Good. We have twelve more photos. You will get all of them back at the end of our arrangement, including negatives. We have taken no copies and—"
"How much?"
"Mr Jackson, if you interrupt again I will hang up the phone and the chance of any arrangement will be ended. Is this clear?"
"Yes."
"We have taken no copies and once the arrangement is complete you will never hear from us again. You have in your possession four photos, as a demonstration that this is no hoax. Remember, involve no third parties." I'll involve third parties, Jackson thought. Once I have all the photos back I'll find you, you and whoever's behind you. And when I find you, I'll gladly pay out more money to get your legs broken.
"Do you understand this?"
"Yes."
"You must do everything as directed. Wednesday morning at ten o'clock, go to the phone box outside the branch of WH Smith's that is next to your railway station. Bring five thousand pounds."
"But I can't get—" The woman had gone and the dial tone hummed until Jackson replaced the receiver. He could get the five thousand. There was his own savings account, with the money he had been tucking away to pay for an anniversary surprise for Julia, a week in Dubai, and he could borrow more on his credit card. He could get the money, but should he?
He turned a manila envelope over and over in his hands. The envelope was ordinary in every way. Large enough to take an A4 sheet of paper folded once, small enough to fit through a letter box, mass-produced, unremarkable, one of millions. Inside it were four black and white photographs, and nothing else. In one he was sitting in a bar, frozen in a moment of laughter. A woman sat opposite him, her back to the camera. The next photo was taken in a small room, light from a spotlight spilling over a bed where Jackson lay with his head thrown back and his eyes shut, the long dark hair of the woman bent over him. In the third photo the woman was out of view again, most of her body hidden by the expanse of his back, his pallid skin luminous in the glossy greys of the photograph. The last picture was taken outside in bright sunshine. It showed an older woman who was walking towards the arched entrance of a building, carrying a briefcase. This time there was no effort made to hide her face. It was Julia, on her way into work. Bastards.
It had been four weeks ago—four weeks to the day, he realised. Four weeks and one hundred and fifty miles. He hadn't wanted to stay overnight at the conference, but his headaches had been troubling him and he knew that two long drives in one day would just make things worse. The company would pay, the hotel would be comfortable, and he could relax, have dinner and a beer. It was after his third drink that he noticed her. She was sitting at a table near him, lingering over her drink, restless in her seat. Jackson watched her over his newspaper, admiring the way her body moved within her dress, snatching glances at her lips, wet from her drink. The woman looked at her watch, around the bar, at her watch again, at the door, took a quick, nervous drink, and then looked at her watch a third time. Fool, Jackson thought. Whoever stood her up was a fool. He looked across at her again, and then looked away, embarrassed. She had been looking directly at him. Maybe she had noticed him staring at her, watching the way her dress moved against the contours of her body as she fidgeted in her chair. Time to feign disinterest, just in case the boyfriend turned up and she pointed Jackson out to him, caused a scene. In fact, if the boyfriend showed, Jackson thought, he would go up to his room anyway. There was nothing else of interest in the bar other than the woman, and if he couldn't watch her he might as well lie on his bed and watch one of the hotel cable channels. One of the adult channels. Oh, hell. She was coming over. Jackson folded his newspaper up, ready to make a quick exit in case of an embarrassing scene.
"Hello," the woman said. She was younger than Jackson had thought, now that he could see beneath the makeup. "Sorry to bother you."
"No, no, not at all," Jackson said. She wasn't going to shout at him, then.
"Can you tell me please, is this the right time?" She held a hand out towards him. He thought of how it would feel to kiss the pale skin inside her wrist, but looked at her watch and then at his own instead.
"Well, if your watch is wrong, then so is mine."
"Oh brilliant, just brilliant. Sorry, not you."
"That's OK. Someone not turned up?"
"My fault. I should have known better, believe me, it's not the first time. But it's going to be the last." She turned to walk away, and the air around Jackson filled with her perfume, a mixture of the scent she wore and the warmth of her skin. In a moment, she would be gone.
"Well, as you're here, can I at least buy you a drink? Make up for some of the time you've wasted?" Jackson cringed as he said it. It sounded so obvious, so clichéd and he prepared himself for the inevitable rejection. The woman stopped, turned back, took another quick look at her watch. Then she put her purse and mobile phone down on the table, pulled the heavy chair out, and that is how it began.
One drink turned into several drinks, and Jackson lost himself in a haze of alcohol and desire. The way she laughed, the way she brushed her hair back away from her eyes, the way she laid her hand on his when she was emphasising a point, the heat of her skin; all this drew him further in. She—Emma, she said her name was—mentioned her flat, not far from the hotel, said that she intended to walk back there, and Jackson gallantly offered to accompany her.
"I was hoping you'd say that," she said, her voice low, "I hate hotel rooms, so impersonal," and Jackson suddenly felt dizzy, as if he had stood up too quickly. The short walk began with them beside each other and ended up with her leaning into him, arm wrapped around his waist under his coat. She steered him down a street of large Victorian terraced houses, each house with four or more bells by the door. They stopped outside the end house, and as he stood for a moment, uncertain, caught between temptation and awkwardness, she lifted up onto tiptoes and pressed her mouth against his, the tip of her tongue parting his lips. She tasted of alcohol and oranges. Then they were in through the door, and up the dimly lit stairs, and onto the cold white sheets of her bed.
White sheets, like a canvas. The high lamp that she had insisted on leaving on painted their bodies on the sheets, for the benefit of the camera. Thinking back, Jackson couldn't work out where it had been hidden. He had a vague recollection of some shelves on the far wall, a clutter of ornaments in an otherwise surprisingly bare room. How could he have been so stupid? How could he? Sixteen photos. Twelve to go. Twelve small, badly lit photos between him and the end of his marriage.
~
Two minutes to ten on a damp, cold morning, and the woman in the phone-box wasn't showing any signs of finishing her call. Jackson loitered outside, watching over-sized seagulls strutting across the road while pigeons huddled in fat-chested ranks along the second story windowsills. He looked at his watch for the fourth time in a minute, and glowered at the woman. She looked at him briefly with empty eyes and then turned her back on him. Stacked on top of the phone was a small pile of change. For all Jackson knew he wasn't even meant to be inside the phone box, maybe he was just meant to stand around here until someone sidled up to him and asked if he 'had the package'. He looked around, checking out the early morning shoppers. Not him, the old man weaving along past the shop windows, taking one step sideways for every two steps forward. Her, the woman walking towards him now? No, her children have come around the corner behind her, running towards the seagulls, waving their arms. Perhaps this well-dressed woman, walking slowly down from the station. The woman on the phone had an accent that would match those clothes. Why was she walking so slowly? Was she looking at him, or was that just because he was staring at her? Staring at women was what got him into this thing in the—and then the phone rang.
He spun round and saw that the phone box was empty. The woman with the stack of coins was walking away into the distance. He yanked the door open and grabbed the phone off the hook with a flailing hand before the rest of him even made it into the box.
"Hello?"
For a second or two, there was nothing but the distant hiss of the phone line and the sound of the children outside. Please, let it not be a wrong number, Jackson thought.
"Mr Jackson. When this call ends, hang up the phone and then walk to the bin by the railway station. Inside it is a blue plastic bag. Take it and walk, it doesn't matter where. Don't loiter, don't look in it, just walk."
The connection ended before Jackson could say anything in return. He hung the phone up and walked up towards the station. A train had just come in, and dozens of people spilled out of the station doors and onto the street, parting like water around the litter bin as some headed into town and others in the opposite direction. Jackson walked up to the bin and hesitated, acutely self-conscious. What would people think if they saw him rummaging through rubbish like some old dosser? It occurred to him that the social disgrace of being seen rummaging in a bin was somewhat less than that of being divorced by his wife on the grounds that he walked straight into a set-up, and he reached into the bin, and grabbed the carrier bag. It was very light, and almost empty, although something solid slid about at the bottom. He followed his instructions, not sure whether he was being watched, and walked off, carrying on past the station, past a sport shop and a pizza restaurant, and then down a side street.
A trill came from inside the bag. Jackson jumped, and then reached into the bag, pulled out the mobile phone.
"Good," the woman's voice said. "Now listen. Walk back into town. Get on the number 7 bus to the seafront. Get off at the stop by the pier. Wait. Got that?"
"Yes," Jackson said.
"You have the money?"
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"Yes."
"Have you spoken to anyone about this matter?"
"No."
"Is anyone following you?"
"No—I mean, I don't think so—I mean, I haven't asked anyone."
"Good. Get the bus."
The phone connection dropped.
Jackson stood in the street for a moment. He looked down at the phone, as if staring at it would reveal everything about the people behind this, every detail of who had set him up, why they had chosen him. He briefly thought about walking straight to a police station, confessing the whole embarrassing situation, handing over the phone to them and hoping that they could deal with the situation, keep it all quiet, round up the villains and give him his photographs. Then he thought of what it would mean to lose Julia, the loneliness of late middle-age alone, the loss of status at work, no share in the fortune when her dad finally found out there was one argument that he could never win. Five thousand pounds didn't seem that much to pay any more. The phone was a cheap one, probably a pay as you go anyway, he thought, paid for in cash, unregistered, untraceable. It occurred to him that the number of the phone which had called him would be in the memory, but he knew that the other phone would be just as anonymous, would lead him nowhere. He put the phone into his pocket and set off towards the bus station, walking fast through the drizzle that drifted down the streets after him.
~
The doors of the bus creaked open and Jackson hurried across the pavement into the shelter of an amusement arcade doorway. The arcade was closed, the slot machines and penny falls and air hockey games waiting for the summer season. It was raining harder now, and Jackson had to squint to be able to look around, the gusty wind coming off the sea throwing the rain into his face. There were few people about. A diminutive figure in a purple anorak walked bent into the wind. An elderly man cycled slowly past on an old-fashioned bike, a wiry-haired terrier peering out of the basket between the handle bars. Directly in front of Jackson, the dark stained concrete of the pier stretched out, piercing the steel sea. Towards the end of the pier a solitary figure in yellow oilskins stood motionless beside a fishing rod, watching the arc of an invisible nylon line out into the restless swell. Jackson stood as far back into the doorway as he could, one hand in his jacket pocket, holding the mobile phone, waiting, waiting.
After a cold, wet half-hour, the phone rang. It was the woman again. Jackson pictured a face in his mind, youthful beauty fading into mature elegance. Not the image he'd associate with a blackmailer.
"You have the money?"
"Well, I had it an hour ago, and I'm hardly likely to have lost—"
"Shut up. You have the money?"
"Yes."
"Cross the road and walk on to the pier. Walk along the wall on the left hand side. Count the small blue litter bins on the pier wall. When you reach the third, stop and drop the money in. Do not hesitate. Do not look around. Do not speak to anyone. As soon as you have dropped the money in the bin, turn and walk straight back off the pier, walk back up the road towards the city centre, the road you came along on the bus. At the Posthouse pub you may get a bus back into town. As soon as you drop the money in the bin, walk away and do not look back at any point. Do not look back, do not stop walking. Do you understand this?"
"When do I get the photos?"
The phone connection went dead. Jackson stared down at the handset. Maybe it was just a problem with the network. He poked at the buttons with his finger, trying to find the number of the last caller. Number withheld. The phone rang again.
"Listen. Don't talk until I tell you to."
Jackson nodded, then realised that the person on the phone could not see him. Or maybe they could. He decided to remain silent anyway.
"Do not look back, do not stop walking. Do you understand this?"
"Yes," Jackson said.
"I will call you again."
"But what about my—" Jackson looked at the phone in his hand for a moment, then put it back in his pocket and crossed the road towards the pier.
~
"Get off the bus," the woman said.
"But I've just got on," Jackson said. "I'm doing what you asked."
"Get off the bus. Go back the way you came. Ten of your photographs and instructions for concluding the arrangement will be in a bag in the bin you put the money in."
"What do you mean, ten? There are twelve—you said that I could have them all back."
"You will. Don't worry Mr Jackson. It's nearly over."
There was something different in her voice now.
"I can't get any more money, you asked for five thousand and that's what—"
"It's not about any more money," the woman said, and Jackson realised that what he could hear in her voice was relief. "They won't want any more money. Just follow the instructions and you'll get the last two photos back, the memory card with them all on, there are no copies and they will never bother you again. Trust me on this, Mr Jackson."
"Trust you? You've blackmailed me out of five thousand pounds and you expect me to trust you? And what do you mean, they?"
"I'm sorry Mr Jackson. I do know what you are feeling. You'll understand. Goodbye." The phone went dead. Jackson struggled to his feet, fought the motion of the bus all the way up the aisle and told the driver that he felt ill and had to get off immediately. He walked back towards the sea front.
When he reached the pier, the lone fisherman was gone. Jackson wondered whether the man had packed up his fishing gear, walked down the stained concrete of the pier, paused briefly by the litter bin and then walked back to his car with five thousand pounds. Were the photos there, though? Jackson thought, that's all that mattered. Were they there?
They were. Ten prints, in a brown envelope inside another plastic carrier bag. There was a second, bulkier envelope, sealed with parcel tape, that had something with a bit of weight sliding around at the bottom. Jackson folded the bag up, held it tight under his arm, and walked away along the sea front.
A run-down café hunched on the corner where the road turned away from the sea. It was almost empty inside, just a few pensioners sipping tea from mis-matched crockery and staring out at misted-up windows. Jackson bought a cup of coffee, sat as far from anyone else as he could, and opened the bag. He slid the photos out of the first envelope. Despite himself, he felt the stirring of excitement at the memory. Don't be stupid, he thought, these are for burning, not for hoarding away. She was a looker, mind. He carefully sealed the envelope back up, and opened the second one.
His first thought was, oh no, they took more. Then he looked at them, and realised that although it was the same woman—blonde this time though, not dark—the man was not him, and the room was not the same room. There were fifteen photos of them together, and one photo of another woman, pushing a child's pram. There was also a folded sheet of paper. Jackson opened it. At the top was a man's name and an address, a phone number. Underneath were instructions, dates, times, a pattern which was so familiar. At the end of it, Jackson had to make one last phone call, collect money from a litter bin next to the bench in the park that was dedicated to the memory of Alfred Parker, and then wait for a phone call telling him where to dump it. When he'd done that, the final two photographs would be posted to him. A postscript warned him that if he deviated from this script at all the last two photos would be sent to his wife. It pointed out that from the moment he made the first phone call, he would be complicit in a serious crime, and so it was to his advantage to follow the instructions to the letter, remembering to retain two of the other man's photos until he received instructions to post them. At that point the arrangement would end and he could forget it had ever happened. He would not be contacted again. At the bottom of the envelope was a cheap mobile phone.
"Bastards," he said. "Bastards."
But Jackson left the café, taking the bag with him, and caught a bus back into town. He went to the post office, bought a stamp and an envelope that was ordinary in every way. Large enough to take an A4 sheet of paper folded once, small enough to fit through a letter box, mass-produced, unremarkable, one of millions.