Her eyes opened.
From his briefcase he got the background drape for Julie's staff shot. He spread it out on the floor by the side of the bed. 'Would
you lie on the blue cloth, please?'
'The floor?'
'Yes. Perhaps you've got a bad back and the floor is a natural resting place. You see?'
A little warily she lay down on the square of cloth, arms crossed defensively over her chest, ankles tight together. Her eyes shut once more.
'You need to relax,' George cooed, standing over her. 'Arms lying outwards to the side. Good.' He began taking more shots. 'Perhaps your head back a bit, legs slightly akimbo?' The camera began clicking again, his heart now racing. 'And could you open your mouth a tiny bit?'
Barely moving her lips so her pose didn't change, she whispered in a toneless voice, 'What, like I'm dead?'
Lost in the moment and unable to hear the sarcasm in her voice, George said, 'Yes.'
'Barry!'
The door flew open and the man almost leaped into the room. George shied backwards as the girl stood up.
'What happened? Did he touch you?' The man looked from her to George and back again.
'No, he just …'
'Why were you on the floor?'
'He wanted me to stretch my arms out and pretend I was…' She sounded scared, but when she glanced at George her eyes were full of contempt. 'He's just weird. I want him out.'
The man turned towards George, but he was already sliding along the wall, mumbling how he was so sorry to have offended the lady, imagining how she'd look on his computer once he had whitened her skin to that of a corpse.
As he let himself in through the back door, a voice called out, 'Is
that you, George?'
As he had done since he was a boy, he replied, 'Yes, mother.'
Suit jacket and tie now removed, he stopped to put his briefcase on the bottom stair, then poked his head into the front room. She sat in her usual seat, knitting something for the charity shop, radio on in the corner. The scene hadn't changed in thirty years: the same lacework antimacassars over the backs of the chairs, the same sheepskin rug in front of the clumsy-looking gas fire, chunky brown tiles round the hearth. 'There's a package for you in the hall. It's got Mexican stamps on.'
George felt a jolt of excitement.
'Who's it from?' she asked.
'Just work stuff,' he replied, stepping over to the table and picking it up. The wrapping hadn't been tampered with by customs. He turned around and hurried up the stairs to his bedroom.
She emerged on spindly legs behind him, repeating the same question she'd been asking for years. 'When can I hoover your room? It hasn't been done for weeks.'
He would never let her in. 'I'll do it this weekend, Mum.'
She flapped a hand in disgust and went back into the front room. George took the key from his pocket and undid the padlock securing his bedroom door. Inside, he bolted it behind him, sat down at his desk and turned the anglepoise lamp on. The light spilled out, pushing the shadows back a little but not enough to properly illuminate the photos of women that plastered his walls. Taking a scalpel from his mini toolbox, he slit open the package and pulled the sheet of pills out. He really didn't believe they would ever show up. The website was American but it warned that, due to US narcotic laws, the pills would be sent from Mexico where regulations concerning that particular sedative were far more lax.
He looked at them as if they were sacred things. Which, in a sense, they were: they had the power to make his dreams come true.
Sly gazed down at the motionless spider crouched in the corner of its glass home. The way its legs were bunched up — knee joints higher than its body — reminded Sly of the eight roof struts encircling the newly completed Commonwealth Games stadium, Manchester City's new ground once the Games were over and the stupid running track had been ripped out so another tier of seats could be added. He clenched a fist in triumph — finally the Blues would have a stadium to match their status in the city. Something newer and better than those bastard Reds at Old Trafford.
Slamming his front door shut behind him, he looked around the courtyard. The snotty couple were sitting in the sun on one of the benches at the side of the Zen garden, Sunday papers spread out across their laps. Next to the bench were two cups and a pot of fresh coffee, curls of steam catching in the sunlight.
He yawned loudly to intrude on the peaceful atmosphere, snorted and then trudged over to them. They tried to ignore his presence, but once he was behind them he leaned over the girl's shoulder and remarked, 'Dirty slag. 'Manchester accent deliberately made heavier.
Her head whipped round. 'I beg your pa-'
'That bird.' He pointed to the photo of the reality game show hostess in the paper on her knee. 'You can just tell she is.' He looked at the man sitting on the bench. 'Bet you'd give her one, though you can't admit it. Not with your missus sat here, right?' He laughed loudly and carried on his way, imagining the couple shaking with suppressed anger.
He slid into his car, put on a pair of sunglasses, lowered the windows and pressed play on the CD player. The Stone Roses started booming out and he smiled at memories of nights spent in the Hacienda, so out of his tree he could hardly speak.
The drive to his grandma's little terraced house didn't take long. As he got out of his car he could see her in the front window waiting for him, coat already on. He walked her round to the passenger seat and helped her in, then they drove back into the centre of town, parking in the NCP near Affleck's Palace.
With her arm linked through his, they walked to the top of Market Street, the old lady pausing to look across into Piccadilly Gardens.
'It's all changed so much,' she said, with more wonder than regret in her voice. 'Lewis's has gone. 'She stared across the street at the art deco front of the old family-run department store. Now bright red TK Maxx signs were above the doors. 'Used to take you there as a little boy. Me and your grandad would go to the dances on the top floor.'
'What dances were those?'
'Ballroom dances. There's a sprung wooden floor up there, you know.'
He shook his head, 'No Gran, I didn't.'
'What's that bloody great thing?' she asked, pointing across the gardens to the grey concrete wall.
'Some designer's idea, I think,' he said chirpily. 'It's meant to be Chinese style — they put it there to screen off the noise and stuff from the bus depot behind.'
'Looks bloody awful to me,' she said. 'More like the Berlin Wall than a Chinese one.'
He grinned, leading her down the pedestrianized street towards the new Marks amp; Spencer.
'Oh, they've done a grand job with those hanging baskets,' she said, gazing appreciatively at the masses of flowers dotting the way ahead. 'And those banners add a nice splash of colour, too. Why can't they keep it this pretty all the time? Even the litter has disappeared,' she added, looking at the street in front. 'And these cobbles, when did they put them in?' she asked, nodding at the rustic brickettes at her feet.
'Not long ago.'
'The trams used to run up this street, you know. Right where we're walking.'
'Well, things move on, don't they?'
'They certainly do,' she replied, looking at the lines of mobile phone shops, leisure clothing stores and coffee bars.
At the other end of the street they were confronted by the towering new Marks amp; Spencer with its overhead Perspex walkway leading into the Arndale Centre.
'We'll have lunch at a place over here, Gran.' He led her along the smooth pavement, then across the plaza towards the upmarket Triangle shopping centre. As they passed the giant TV screen set up for the Commonwealth Games it blared a loud commentary down at them. Athletes were profiled, sporting venues reviewed. She hunched her shoulders slightly at the noise and they carried on to the tables arranged on the pavement in front of Zinc.