Mere photographic images were leaving him less and less satisfied. And now he had the pills that would allow his fantasies to take place. But he couldn't go inside. A pub wasn't the place to put his plans into action. He would have to find another situation.
He thought about the women who allowed him to photograph them in their houses. In their bedrooms. It would be easy to drug the ones who posed on their own.
But even as the thought occurred to him, the image of Tom's wife teased him. Curtains open as she did the ironing in those tight vest tops. Urgently now, his fingers probed at the pills. She was a far more attractive prospect than the little strumpets who posed for cash.
Shivering with outrage at the ordeal he'd suffered at the hands of her husband, he knew something in his mind had altered for ever.
Chapter 17
July 2002
As soon as the alarm started beeping Tom hauled himself to a sitting position, legs over the side of the bed.
'Turn it off,' moaned Charlotte, pulling the duvet up around her head. He had no idea when she'd got in. Head all over the place, he blinked stupidly a few times before reaching over and pressing the off button.
Peeling his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he trudged like a sleepwalker through the archway and into their en-suite bathroom. He needed water. After gulping at the tap for a while, he filled the sink with cold water and plunged his head in, letting the iciness cut through the warm fog clogging his brain. Feeling slightly more awake, he rubbed a towel through his hair and went downstairs.
Two bottles of wine stood on the sideboard in the kitchen; one empty, one with a few inches left in the bottom. He stared at them, barely able to remember opening the second. Then he shuffled across the room and swigged the last of it down, to take the edge off his headache.
Forty minutes later he'd showered, scrubbed his teeth and forced a bowl of cornflakes down. At his front door he reached up to take his Porsche keys off the hook and saw an unfamiliar set hanging there. It took him a couple of seconds to remember that he'd driven home in the work van. With Charlotte still asleep, he let himself out of the front door without saying goodbye.
Immediately he noticed that his garage door was slightly open. 'I don't believe it,' he whispered, walking over and lifting it up.
'Thieving little bastards,' he cursed, staring at the tarpaulin. It had been half pulled off the stack of chewing gum boxes and he could see several were missing. After rearranging it, he went back into the house and called up the stairs. 'Charlotte! Those little shits have broken into the garage again. I'll phone the police from the office.'
There was no reply, so he said to himself, 'OK, well done Tom. See you later. I love you.'
At the end of the afternoon he checked with Sarah that his evening meal with the marketing people from Manchester airport was still on. 'OK, I'll need to pop home and change. Can you phone them and say I'll meet them at The Living Room at seven forty-five?'
'Fine,' answered Sarah. Before Tom got out of the door she added, 'Austen Rogers from X-treme called again, sounding very pissed off. He wants to know which promotions company is going to be handing out the X-treme gum at Piccadilly station. Shall I call him back?'
'No,' said Tom more forcefully than he meant to. 'I'll take care of it.'
The digital display on the side of Portland Tower had changed again. Now the countdown was complete, the lettering above the screen read, 'Bruntwood Welcomes All. 'The number on the screen had changed to '72' and the lettering below it read 'Commonwealth Nations.'
The pavement was alive with colour and activity as hundreds of people mingled through the city, many with plastic squares around their necks identifying them as Games officials. Sitting in his Porsche and taking long sips from a double espresso, Tom watched the crowds from behind his dark glasses. He took in the strange fashions and unfamiliar clothes: African men in loose-fitting shirts with green and gold patterns like the ones favoured by Nelson Mandela, women with elaborate headdresses and long, flowing shawls. Young white women, hair tied back in sensible ponytails, red Maple leaf badges sewn onto their Jansport backpacks. Squarely built South Sea Islanders ambling along in American T-shirts. Men in yellow and green rugby tops, hair looking like it had been bleached by the sun.
Tom examined their happy, excited expressions and thought about the days he had to drag himself through.
Passing the official Commonwealth Games shop, he looked at the queue of people waiting for customers to come out so they could get in, and he thought about the sales projections the taxi driver had mentioned all those weeks ago. It looked like they would be comfortably met.
Once he had got past Sarah, he shut the door to Ian's old office behind him, gulped down the last of his coffee, then took a pinch of powder. Staring at his computer screen, he cursed the cleaner for fiddling with the monitor's brightness control. Turning the knob had little effect and it was only when he went to rub a hand over his face in frustration did he realize that his sunglasses were still on. Shaking his head, he took them off and the room suddenly brightened.
By late morning he was feeling a lot better. The last of the building wraps had gone up the day before and he'd even received a couple of emails from clients thanking him for all his work.
He was turning his attention to lunch when his phone went. It was Sarah. Although she was trying to sound cheery, he could detect a slightly strained note in her voice. 'Hi there, Tom. I have Austen Rogers from X-treme chewing gum in reception. He's just arrived at Piccadilly station but can't find the promotion there.'
Tom looked fearfully towards the door. 'He's in reception right now?'
'That's right.'
'OK, just give me two minutes. Get him a coffee or something.'
He hung up, waves of trepidation suddenly making him feel queasy. Darting through to the toilets, he fumbled for his little bag of powder while checking his reflection in the mirror. Not too bad
— eyes still looked wrecked but the rest of his face was all right. He sucked powder from the tip of his forefinger, then straightened his tie and wandered casually through to reception. Sarah flashed him a wide-eyed look of warning. The client was standing on the other side of the room examining photos of previous building wraps on the walls. His posture looked far from relaxed.
'Austen, this is a welcome surprise,' said Tom, stepping across the room with his hand out.
The other man turned around. He had wispy brown hair and a slightly pudgy face, red at the cheeks. His kept his hands clasped behind his back. 'Tom,' he answered with a fractional dip of his head. 'I've been trying to contact you for weeks.'
'I'm so sorry. We've been having an awful time of it. Poor Sarah here is only just back from sick leave.' He turned to the reception desk. 'How long were you off sick for, Sarah?'
'Almost three weeks,' she replied woodenly.
'You know how temps are, 'Tom continued. 'Messages have been going everywhere but to the correct person.'
Austen eyed him suspiciously. 'I assume you received all the merchandise? I couldn't find any sign of the promotion in Piccadilly station just now.'
'Yes, it's all been taken care of,' said Tom, attempting a smile. 'Can we not offer you a coffee?'
'No thank you. I'm keen to see the promotion, actually.'
'Right,' said Tom, clapping his hands together. 'I can understand that.' He turned to Sarah, trying to look relaxed. 'Sarah, could you order us a cab, please? Just down to Piccadilly.' He turned to Austen. 'There's no point in even trying to park in town at the moment.'