Manchester Vice

Chapter 7

7

The following Friday I told Sandra that I was going out earlier than usual. I ordered a taxi, took it only as far as the end of our road, then got out and climbed into a parked car. I’d borrowed it from a friend at work and parked it there earlier that day. I jammed a baseball cap on my head, pulling it down so low that it covered my eyebrows, and hoped that this would constitute a disguise of sorts.

Half-an-hour later, a taxi passed by with Sandra in the passenger seat. I pulled out and followed her. Due to my career in journalism I’ve acquired some basic detective skills, and was able to follow her to her destination without making it too obvious.

It turned out that her destination was a block of flats, the same block where my brother Brian had his apartment. She left the taxi and went inside.

I parked on the opposite side of the street and remained in my car, keeping watch over the entrance.

I sat there for hours but she didn’t emerge. Maybe she’d left by a back entrance, or maybe she was in there for the long haul. I had no chance of finding out, as I was busting for a piss and desperate to go home.

I concluded there was a strong possibility that Sandra was having an affair with someone who lived in the same block of flats as Brian, and I determined to find out, one way or another, what was going on.

The following week I met with Jed Barker, the private investigator who worked for the Manchester Daily News on stories requiring professional surveillance.

“Jed,” I told him,” I need a favour.”

He looked up at me from behind his desk, munching on a sandwich. He had a droopy face like a bloodhound and a temperament to match. Once you put him on the trail of something, he’d follow the scent until he’d tracked it down, come what may.

“What is it Brad?” He asked, wiping mayonnaise from his jowls.

“I need you to do some surveillance for me, something a bit different to the usual stuff.”

“How different?”

He finished his sandwich, wiped the crumbs from his desk, then licked them from the palm of his beefy hand.

“I’d like you to find out if my wife is having an affair.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He swallowed the crumbs he’d just put in his mouth, paused, and put his hand to his chin.

“You know I don’t do that kind of work, Brad.”

That disappointed me. I wanted to use Jed because I knew he was professional and I could rely on him to do a good job. Furthermore, he’d be discreet. I didn’t know anybody else who was paid to snoop, and I felt I wouldn’t be able to put my trust in a stranger.

I decided to appeal to his better nature – and his self-interest.

“Well, do me a favour, just this once,” I said. “Bear in mind that you’re happy enough to take on all the jobs I give you from the Manchester Daily News. It won’t hurt you to do this extra one for me, even if it’s not your usual line of work. And by the way, mate’s rates would be appreciated.”

Jed took a while to answer. He was probably thinking about all the work I’d put his way over the years, and the catastrophic effect it’d have on his income if I took the MDN account elsewhere.

“All right Brad, you’ve persuaded me,” he said at last.

He took out a pen and notebook.

“What’s the background? I’ll need addresses, dates, times, and anything else you think might be relevant.”

I reeled off all I knew, which was very little. Namely, that Sandra was frequently coming home from work later than she’d done previously, that she might be spending her Friday nights elsewhere than she was letting on, and that her Lothario might occupy the same block of flats as my brother Brian.

“It’s a bit thin,” he said. “But I’ll see what I can do. I’ll get onto it this week.”

He was as good as his word. Within a matter of days I was in his office again, sitting opposite him at his desk.

“What did you find out, Jed?” I asked.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he pushed an A4 brown manila envelope across the desk towards me. I picked it up and examined the contents, a series of photographs taken in a minimalist apartment – Brian’s apartment. My stomach did a somersault. Brian and Sandra – I couldn’t believe it.

Brian and Sandra.

Some of those images were tantamount to hard-core p*********y. My hands, with the photos in them, began to shake.

“I’m sorry, Brad,” said Jed. “I was hoping I wouldn’t find anything.”

I waited a moment before I replied. I knew it would be hard getting my words past the lump that had formed in my throat.

“Don’t worry, it’s not as if it’s your fault, Jed,” I mumbled.

My voice didn’t sound like my own.

It was impossible to steady my hands, no matter how hard I tried. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I was brought up old-school, so I suppressed them. I could feel my cheeks getting hot, though.

“How much do I owe you?”

I tried to sound casual, but there was a stress tremor in my voice.

“Nothing, it’s on the house,” he replied. “Like you said, you give me a lot of work from the MDN. This is my way of repaying the favour.”

“Thanks, Jed. You’re a star.”

I left his office, went straight to the toilets, and threw up everything in my guts. Every last morsel I’d eaten that day, and probably some from the previous day. Then I threw up some more. Weakened with worry and the effort of vomiting, I washed my trembling hands and rinsed out my mouth with clean water.

I made my way to the car park clutching the envelope with the photographs in it, still tasting the vomit in my mouth, and feeling sick.

I got in my car and just sat in it, stomach churning. I don’t know how long I stayed there. The news I’d been given was devastating, and I didn’t feel like doing anything. It was as if I’d lost the will to live. I couldn’t shut my eyes without seeing images of Brian and Sandra in bed together.

Eventually I calmed down enough to make my way home. During the drive I wondered how to handle the situation. Should I confront Sandra? Or have it out with Brian first? What if they both denied everything? If I showed them the photographic evidence, would that concede a portion of the moral high ground to them? Did I really want to let them know I’d been snooping?

I wasn’t on remotely good terms with Brian. I’d not got on well with him for a long time. In fact, it’s fair to say that my feelings for him verged on hate. There are many good reasons for this. The litany of his sins against me was too long to recite here.

But f*****g my wife was the last straw.

No, I decided, I wouldn’t be confronting Sandra any time soon, and nor would I be confronting Brian. I would handle this matter by getting even with my brother. That was the way to put matters to rights. And I owed him a lot more than just the traditional beating in a fist-fight.

I felt my hatred of him grow and blossom into something more than hate, something more, even, than loathing. I could not put a name to my new emotion, but whatever it was, it was clean, and pure, and good.

And in the midst of my thoughts of vengeance, an image sprang to mind, uninvited but most welcome.

It was the image of a chair in a dank cold cellar, a chair with straps on it, equipped with a device for crushing skulls.

How interesting it would be, to sit Brian in that chair, and tighten up the jaws of the vice against either side of his repugnant head. I wouldn’t have to tighten it up very much; just enough to let him know he couldn’t f**k my wife and get away with it.

By the time that I’d pulled up outside my house, I had determined that sooner rather than later, Brian was going to end up in that chair.