The Wreckage

7

The Courier carries his breakfast in a brown paper bag with paper handles. It contains a sweet pastry, cheese, fresh dates and a boiled egg. He orders a double espresso laced with sugar and takes it to a table outside, sitting with his back to the wall so he can feel the weak sunshine on his face.

He has a wedge-shaped body, narrow at the hips, broad across his shoulders. Wide eyes. Oddly sensual lips. His lips embarrass him. They are not manly enough. Taking out a napkin, he places it on the table, setting out his breakfast as though making an offering.

Three women pushing oversized prams are watching him. He ignores them and taps the boiled egg against the table, peeling it slowly, prying off the shell in big pieces so as not to tear the albumen. Taking a pinch of sea salt, he dusts the crown of the egg and bites it in half.

Eggs had been a luxury when he was growing up. Food had been a luxury, to be queued for, haggled over and eaten with reverence. Every day had been a struggle for his mother, who raised six children on the West Bank, earning a few shekels by sewing for neighbors. His father was a man in a photograph; a stranger who spent eighteen years in an Israeli prison before dying of a heart attack at fifty-two. The Israelis wouldn’t return his body to be buried in Ramallah.

The Courier finishes eating and brushes the crumbs from the table. He folds the paper bag, putting it into his pocket. Then he crosses the street, pausing to put on his gloves, tugging at the cuffs and smoothing the soft leather on his fingers.

Taking the stairs he climbs three floors and knocks on the door.

“Come in.”

A voice summons him inside. The receptionist is a lank-haired blonde, barely twenty. Her hips and thighs are pushing against her skirt and her breath reeks of mentholated cough drops.

“I’m looking for Mr. Hackett,” he says in a perfect London accent.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“We’re old friends.”

The receptionist sneezes into a tissue. Blows her nose.

“That’s a nasty cold. You should be home in bed.”

“Uncle Colin doesn’t believe in sick days.”

“Mr. Hackett is your uncle.”

The Courier sits on the edge of her desk, toying with her pencil holder. His nearness makes her feel uncomfortable.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Janice.”

He repeats the name out loud. She doesn’t like how it sounds coming from his mouth.

“Perhaps you should come back later.”

“No, I’ll wait.”

His eyes slowly drop down to her chest, then to the hem of her skirt and her crossed legs. She checks the top button of her blouse self-consciously.

“Where do you live, Janice?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You should go home. Crawl into bed. Stay warm.”

“Someone has to look after the office.”

“I can do that.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Like I said, I’m an old friend.”

The Courier has opened his wallet. He pulls out a handful of banknotes and begins placing them one by one on the desk blotter.

“How much do you earn?”

“Why?”

“Ten pounds an hour… twenty?”

“It’s not really any of your business.”

“What if I offered to cover your missed wages?”

A hundred pounds is sitting on the blotter. Janice looks at the money and trembles, a pool of heat burning on her forehead as though her hairdryer has been left on the same spot for too long.

She stands, picks up her coat, not making eye contact.

“Wait!” he says.

Janice stops. Trembling. She can feel the contents of her stomach liquefying and rushing through her colon. The visitor picks up the banknotes and pushes them into the pocket of her coat.

“Take yourself off to bed,” he says. “I’ll tell Mr. Hackett you went home.”

He touches her shoulder. Opens the door. She wants to run but can’t move quickly in her heels.

Outside on the street, not stopping, she calls Colin Hackett on his mobile.

“Where are you?” she asks.

“In Luton.”

“There’s a man in your office. He sent me home.”

“What do you mean he sent you home?”

“He told me to leave.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know, but he says he knows you.”

“What’s he look like?”

She swallows. “I don’t think he’s a nice man, Uncle Colin. I don’t think he’s your friend.”