Chapter 1
There was a funny kind of paradox that I’d discovered, about wives and girlfriends a few years ago; the sort of irony that existed outside the realms of normal thinking and one, which even now, would be missed by those, dumbfounded by emotion, feverishly subdued by a torn heart, or sporting a blind eye.
Some girls, that you believe would make the best kind of girlfriend or wife, for that matter, actually turn out to be, well, whores. Paradoxically, some whores can actually turn out to be the best kind of girlfriend or, even, a wife, like Maria.
This wasn’t your stereotypical, hat pulled over the eyes, grubby, kerb crawling sort of meeting that introduced me to Maria, however, nor was it like ‘Pretty Woman’. It was, in fact, bugs. Now, this may need some explaining.
It was the job. I’m not sure why I took the job at ‘Bug Busters’ exactly; I think it was one of those few avenues left to me at the time, that and shovelling shite and, being the wrong side of thirty, divorced, broke; incredibly intelligent, though lazy, and a bit too tired to fight my way up the corporate ladder any more; it was now the only kind of job left.
Still, killing bugs eh? It wasn’t much of a job. It’s not your average high flying executive suit number, nor is it your down trodden, work to rule, overtime banned; daily, mind-numbing toil of a job either, it was somewhere-in-between. It came with a free company vehicle, which sported a large plastic cockroach on top, a pension, a free uniform and a Ghostbusters-type exterminator pack. Not exactly glamorous, but, anyway, it was a job.
After 10 years of marriage, the wife-whore decided to leave me, which, incidentally, coincided in with my career change, image change and the ever present smell of permethrin spray. I knew I had enough bad habits, generally, to keep most normal women at arms length which should have made me suspicious from the start, but love has that deceptive, frustrating, unnerving habit of cloaking the shortcomings, the expanding waistlines, grey hairs, blemishes and the weird and wonderful habits of all those that fall under its evil spell. It wasn’t, as I discovered much later, about love at all. It was about money. I no longer had any.
The dramatic fall in our bank funds and sex drive, eventually persuaded her to sleep with my ex-best friend, for no money at all in fact, and this, by my reckoning, made her the worst kind of whore. Even whore’s made money at it, whores like Maria.
In contrast, Maria was a beautiful twenty six year old elfin-like blonde with porcelain -skin and sapphire-blue eyes that lit up like deep pools twinkling in the sun.
I was always poetic. She, however, was incredibly sexy and funny, with a very strong mind. She knew what she was, what she did, what the risks were and what she would do with her money and no one would get too emotionally close enough to hurt her or to spoil her plans. It was business with pleasure, or at least it was until she came to England.
I loved her. I would always love her.
It was a Friday, when I first met Maria. It was cold. It was a grey, miserable, long and tedious bitch of a Friday, but it was Friday, and the promise of a peaceful weekend was only a few hours away and I had one last call to make, but I couldn’t remember the address.
Nothing else was planned for that weekend; it was just the thought of doing nothing that made me happy. With no one else at home and the welcome peace away from the world of bugs, rats and cockroaches, I was left with a self-satisfied smile and a warm glow. Generally, being untidy, there were no plans to do any household chores; cooking consisted of Tesco ready-meals and the mini bar next to the TV was sufficiently stocked to see me through several droughts and a weekend of televised football. Who would have thought, that killing bugs would change, not only my weekend, but my life?
I didn’t see it coming.
The company mobile rang with its cheap old-fashioned tune and, after working out which overall pocket and which zip to undo, I fished it out.
‘Bug Busters, who you gonna cull? Nik Spector speaking’, I sang into the phone. I usually closed my eyes while I said it, it was embarrassing after all.
‘What about you Nik lad? Mike here, where are you? And, more to the point, why aren’t you at seventeen Green street?’
The Irish brogue was unmistakable; Mike Boyle, Managing Director of Bug Busters Ltd, big house, big car, big head and big boss. As bosses went he wasn’t a bad sort, a bit muddle headed at times, no sense, no dress sense, no people management skills and no fear, but not bad. He took me on, after all, despite the shite reference I had from the last job and he often reminded me of this.
‘Mike, do you not think it should be ‘What you want to cull?’ ‘Who’ just doesn’t sound right?’
‘Listen Nik lad, you kill the bugs and I’ll look after the fecking mission statements and slogans, ok? Now why aren’t you at number 17 there?’
‘I forgot to write down the address, I was just about to call you’ I said, while screwing my eyes. There was a heavy sigh down the line.
‘Forget it; I’ve got Paulo to do it. I want you to get yer arse down to 44 West Clive Street straight away, they’ve a ‘roach problem so they have, big feckers crawling all over the place’
The address sounded familiar, not to me personally, but it was one of those places you just knew about if you lived in the area.
‘Isn’t that the knock-shop?’ I asked
‘It’s a massage parlour, not a fecking knock-shop and they’re a client of ours so get yer lazy arse down there quick, and no messing about there, I don’t want my company name in the gutters now, you hear?’ He hung up. Great, I thought, another class job.
Fifteen minutes later, after I had finished drinking coffee in the van, I pulled up outside the massage parlour, just as the street lamps flickered into life. It was getting dark, and the December air had a fresh crispiness about it like someone had just opened a fridge door as I stepped onto the pavement. The semi-detached Victorian building with its flaky paint work had three floors and a jungle-garden, which led up to the big bay window, white-backed to keep out prying eyes. Above the gold lettering on the window, proudly announcing that it was ‘Angels Executive Massage Parlour’, some wag had written ‘Knock Shop’ with a thick black marker and, apart from a barking dog in the distance and the tinny sound of an empty beer can rolling gently along the kerb in the breeze, the street was silent
I walked up the path and rang the bell. Seconds later, the intercom on the door crackled and a silky female voice whispered over it.
‘Hello, can I help you?’
‘Hi its Nik from Bug Busters, I believe you have a problem.’ I replied, trying to sound professional.
‘Come through’, she said sharply, as the door buzzed.
Pushing my way in I found, standing at the bottom of the stairs, a petite, mature’ severe-looking woman in her late forties, with a blonde bun of hair and ringlets that dropped over her over-rouged cheeks.
‘In the kitchen’, she said, indicating with a nod of her head.
There was a funny smell in the hallway as I made my way to the kitchen, a sickly -sweet sort of a smell like coriander and cat piss; the décor being distinctly seventies with its garish, flowery-print wallpaper and avocado-coloured carpet. The bright kitchen was white-tiled with the odd cracked here and there, and the air was heavy with the aroma of stale food and grease. There, sat at the table was a young blonde woman, who stared at me and, sat opposite, a hefty looking Neanderthal with a forehead that almost folded over his dark glasses. I never trusted people who wore sunglasses indoors.
‘Get her out’, barked Mrs Bun; making me jump. With that, Neanderthal man stood up as the girl barged past me and ran up the stairs. I looked at Mrs Bun.
‘None of your business, before you ask’, she snapped. ‘Just kill the ‘roaches’.
She shot off with Neanderthal-man leaving me to wonder why the scene bothered me, and, deciding it was none of my business after all, got on with laying ‘roach traps and spraying the floor for good measure.
Twenty minutes later, as I was on my way out, Mrs Bun appeared in the hallway and I handed her the bill.
‘There’s to be no charge’, she said, ‘ask your boss’, at which point she quickly pushed me out of the front door and slammed it.
I was a bit puzzled by this, Mike hadn’t mentioned anything about a freebie; he was quite shrewd when it came to matters of cash, even for a muddle-head. I decided to give him a call.
From the comfort of the van, I fished through my overall pockets and jacket for the, ever elusive, mobile and, instead, pulled out a small envelope. I couldn’t remember putting it there and there was no address on the front. I opened it. I’m nosey like that.
The carefully folded note inside was written in a shaky hand and a foreign language, which was, mainly, indecipherable but, for the two words written in English at the bottom, which said… ‘Help me… M’
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