Room 119 Read online

  “Us northerners stick together, Yorkie,” he’d said, and to be fair, Jack had always had Dean’s back from that moment on. As far as the Lancashire versus Yorkshire thing went, they both knew about the Wars of the Roses, but neither of them knew which side had won.

  Jack did his usual, buying everyone in the gang a drink. Dean tried refusing as he was driving back to Hampshire tonight for his daughter’s birthday tomorrow and there would be hell to pay if he missed it, but Jack got him one anyway. Dean had just taken his pint and had a gulp – London Pride was not John Smith’s, but long gone were the days when beer was garbage down south – when his phone vibrated in his pocket so he headed outside.

  It was already 6pm and getting cooler. April was not the summer or the winter; April was April, and the temperature was very April indeed. Dean lit a fag and phoned Sarah back, not looking forward to the call.

  “Are you in your car yet, Dean?” Sarah delivered this opening gambit with barbed wire wrapped around every syllable.

  “Just having one drink with the boys, honey. Setting off in a bit.” Dean shrank his head into his shoulders and prepared himself for the barrage.

  “I can’t believe you, Dean! It’s Jodie’s birthday tomorrow – you don’t give a shit. Can you even remember what we have got her?”

  Dean moved the phone away from his ear and gave it a stare as the rollicking continued. Sarah had an uncanny way of blunting Dean’s natural sharpness. His wit got him nowhere; she knew him too well. So he did as any self-respecting man would do in his situation – he went on the attack.

  “Sarah, I love you to bits, but do you know how hard it is being in London all week? The mortgage doesn’t pay itself, you know, and you don’t complain when you’re out buying another dress, handbag or Range Rover…”

  Beeeep. Sarah had hung up, and a smile broke out across Dean’s face. A moral victory, he thought. Although he would have to deal with the consequences, he knew Sarah would be OK. She always was.

  When Dean got back to the bar, there was already another pint of beer and a Sambuca lined up for him. Sod it, he thought, I’ll go first thing in the morning and be home before Jodie gets up. Anyway, he could not be arsed with the grief he’d get when he got in.

  Dean downed his pint in one, trying to catch up with the boys who seemed like they were in for a heavy session. Then he turned the empty glass over on his head as was the tradition, to prove it was empty beyond any doubt. Anyone watching would probably have thought he was a prick – he did look like a prick, but all the Falconer’s boys followed like sheep and did the same.

  As soon as a pint disappeared another would arrive, followed swiftly by the mandatory Sambuca, often of the flaming variety, alight with sunken coffee beans. Dean started thinking about Jodie and how hard he was on Sarah. He did love her, but sometimes it seemed easier not to be at home with her than to be there, particularly in this last year. He had got an apartment on the river due to the late nights and early mornings he had to work, but to be honest, his commute would only be an hour or so. Would that be too much of a price to pay for seeing his wife and daughter? The more he thought, the more the apartment seemed like a convenience rather than a necessity.

  He knew he was out of order. Although he was a little tipsy, while he could still hold a conversation, he phoned Sarah from the quietest corner of the bar.

  The answering machine announced, “This is Sarah Harrison, please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “Sarah, it’s Dean. Sorry about earlier, it’s just been a mad week. I’m gonna stay at the apartment tonight as the boys have bought me a couple of drinks. I will be up at six-thirty am and be there for JoJo’s birthday. I do love you, you know.”

  Dean took a second to look around. He should have gone home and he knew it; he was getting a bit tired of all of the fun and games of a trading lifestyle, especially now he was north of forty. Dean, for Christ’s sake, he thought before heading back to the madding crowd, which welcomed him with open arms.

  “Right, it’s my round, Jack. What are we all having?”

  Jack held out his hand to stop Dean. “No can do. I’m off, Yorkie. Got to get back to the missus on the ten pm train.”

  Jack had met his wife Holly when they were at school. They had been childhood sweethearts, and Dean knew that if Jack said he had to get back, then he had to get back. There was no point pushing him.

  “Ten o’clock? How the fuck did that happen? OK, anyone else want another?”

  “We are off to the strip joint, Dean. You’re welcome to join us if you want to. Anyway, you’ll have to as it’s your round – unless you’ve had enough and need to go to bed.”

  It was Oliver, the new boy, who delivered this line with confidence, putting Dean down and bigging himself up in the same sentence. Dean didn’t like the laughs from his so-called friends.

  Little upstart, he thought.

  “OK, lead the way, Olivia, hope you’ve brought your ID with you.”

  Dean got a titter or two from the evening’s survivors who could sense an element of dick measuring coming on. He had not been to a strip joint since his stag night in Madrid over eighteen years ago. He couldn’t remember much about that night, but was reliably informed that he’d had a good time, mainly by Jack who’d bought every other round as usual but never seemed to get drunk. It was like he was immune to alcohol.

  There were only five lads who had lasted this long; the rest had cried off. Dean felt like the outsider; he was the most senior, and the rest were just kids, including Oliver who was gaining such a good reputation with Dexter. Dean only really knew one other by name – Martin. The rest he’d seen hanging around the canteen and coffee area, but they didn’t move in the same circles as Dean, or even work on the same floor as him. It was a long way up to the top, and when you got there, you tended not to look down very often. Dean had made a ‘we are the best company in the world’ corporate speech at Martin’s induction, which he’d known was a load of bollocks, and remembered Martin seemed to be scared of his own shadow. When it had been Martin’s turn to introduce himself to everyone, his bottom lip had started to shake and he’d gone as red as a beetroot. Dean would normally ask lots of questions during his induction talks to see what the new guys were like under a bit of pressure, but Martin had been such a wreck, Dean had taken the pressure off by allowing someone else to answer his questions.

  “OK, are we all h-e-r-e?” Oliver had one of those accents that made ‘here’ sound more like an animal with big ears.

  “Oliver, you sound like you were born with a silver spoon up your arse.”

  Oliver’s disciples again gave out a disloyal suppressed titter; Dean still had a northern twang to his voice. If you’re proud of where you’re from, you keep your accent, was his motto.

  Dean thought Bazookas was aptly named. He felt like he was back at a football presentation night in Saltburn or Redcar with a comedian, followed by strippers. This joint was a bit classier than Ruby Street Social Club in Saltburn and there was no comedian, just a stage and a pole. The boys got the best table opposite the pole, which was presumably where all the action was going to take place.

  Not forgetting it was his round next, Dean went to the bar.

  “I don’t suppose you serve beer?”

  The barman pointed to the lager pumps and stared at Dean as if to say, “Are you blind?” Dean could not be bothered to explain the difference between beer and lager.

  “Six lagers and six Sambucas, please,” Dean slurred to the barman.

  “Are you babysitting tonight, sir?” the barman replied.

  “Yes, I suppose you could say that.” Dean looked around and thought, what the fuck am I doing here? That thought only lasted until the drinks were poured.

  “That will be eighty pounds, sir,” said the barman as he handed across the drinks.

  “My God, eighty pounds? They’d better be good.” To Dean, £80 was peanuts, but he still tried to keep in touch with
his roots. He dropped off the drinks and went to the toilet.

  Oliver took out a small capsule from his jacket pocket, broke it open and poured the contents into Dean’s drink.

  “Let’s see if Deano can take his drink, shall we? Olivia, my backside,” he said with a sinister laugh that sounded more Dick van Dyke than Dick Dastardly.

  Martin pleaded with Oliver.

  “Don’t, Ollie, he’s an OK guy. It’s not worth it.”

  “It’s only an E. Anyway, it will help the old man perk up a bit. Don’t say anything or you’re dead.”

  Martin’s bottom lip started to quiver and his redness went up a notch on the blushing scale. “I won’t, Ollie,” he said.

  Dean returned. “OK, boys, what’s happening then? I hear you’ve been having some very good results on the simulator. Well done – especially you, Oliver.” Dean was from the ‘credit where credit is due’ school. Besides, any healthy competition in this industry kept him on his toes.

  Martin’s eyes flickered between the spiked drink and Oliver.

  “Yes, it’s going quite well, thanks, Dean, but it might just have been beginner’s luck so far,” Oliver replied.

  “There is no such thing as luck, Oliver. The markets do what they are supposed to. Guessing is a mug’s game. Guessing the market gives you a fifty/fifty chance; you are currently running at 84.7% over 246 trades, so that’s not luck.” Dean raised his glass to Oliver as a mark of respect and urged them all to take a drink. “The next thing, Oliver, is the timing of when to pull out of the trade. You have pulled out of all of your trades within ten per cent of their peak price, most of them within five per cent.” He raised his glass a second time and took another sip. Before Oliver could answer, Dean added, “Between you and me, I think you’ll be using real money before long.”

  Dean raised his glass for a last time and urged his companions to finish what they had left. “Good luck, boys, hope you all have a good career.”

  They drank their drinks down in one, led by Dean, pouring the dregs over their heads. Martin’s shirt was soaked; he’d only got three quarters of his drink down his neck.

  “Now, gentlemen, give it up for the lovely Chantelle!” the compère announced.

  From behind a curtain, a young blonde in black high heels strutted. She had more vital statistics that Dean had just thrown at Oliver, but calling her a stripper was a misnomer as she barely had anything to strip off. She was wearing suspenders, a black thong and a feeble excuse for a bra which was doing an amazing job at holding in her enormous surgically-enhanced tits.

  The boys were fixated, tapping their feet to ‘I’m Sexy and I Know It’. Dean was again thinking that he should be at home and wondering how the hell he had ended up here, although there were probably worse things to be doing than looking at Chantelle, who was currently upside down with a pole between her legs. Her bra, meanwhile, had given up the fight.

  Chantelle moved off the pole and over to Martin. Unclipping one of her stockings from her suspended belt, she slowly slid it off, putting her foot into Martin’s crotch. He went redder than ever and slipped a twenty-pound note into the elastic of her thong. She smiled at him, giving him a look as if to tell him that he was the one. Really she was probably thinking he was a pervert, but still it was the easiest £20 she’d ever made.

  The music stopped. Chantelle, now totally naked, took her bows then clumsily retraced her steps in nine-inch black heels, picking up all of her clothes. She gave Martin a wink on her way past, hoping for another twenty quid on her next set.

  Dean was losing a little focus as he took a swig of his latest pint. He shook his head and for a second felt OK again as if he’d reset his brain.

  “And now on stage, give it up for London’s finest – Chelsea.”

  Dean looked up to see Chelsea, but all he could see was a blurry figure. The music was dull and unrecognisable like it was being played under a pillow, and his head was thudding with every beat. His pupils dilated and his heart felt like it was leaving his body. He could hear it pumping as if it had relocated into his ears. He started to foam at the mouth. Dean had done cocaine a couple of times to join in with the older lads when he had started out at Falconer’s, but this was different. He was not in control; it was more like he was an outsider looking at his body. It certainly wasn’t a ‘high’.

  He clumsily got up out of his chair.

  Oliver spotted this and said to the boys, “Let’s go. We need to get out of here.” Dean heard Oliver in slow motion, the words ‘we need to get out of here’ echoing around his head as if Oliver was shouting in a cathedral.

  As they left, Dean headed in the direction of the toilet to throw up. As he did so, he fell into Chelsea who was attempting to mount her pole to Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’. Two bouncers appeared from nowhere and grabbed Dean.

  “You dirty fucker,” one said as they manhandled him through the strippers’ curtain and threw him out into the back alley. One of them followed him out, kicking him in the face and stomach for good measure.

  “Pervert,” he said, giving Dean a last dig in the ribs as he tried to stand.

  Oliver flagged down a London Hackney cab with the other boys.

  “Waterloo Station, please,” he ordered.

  “See you later, boys,” Martin said. They could all see Dean lying in the back alley from the cab. “I can’t leave him.”

  Martin walked to the alleyway. Dean was throwing up a mixture of bile and blood; he was barely conscious and on all fours. Martin helped him to his feet and they staggered together to the roadside, looking out for a cab with its light on. Martin threw his arm out to get the driver’s attention.

  “What’s your address, Dean?” he asked as he bundled Dean into the back seat.

  “It’s 447 Waterfront Wharf Apartments,” Dean said on autopilot without opening his eyes. After a short cab ride to the east, Martin got Dean, who had come round a little by now, to his front door.

  “Thanks, Martin, I don’t know what happened. I’ve got a lot going on at home at the moment. I think things just got on top of me.”

  Martin gave him an ‘it’s not your fault’ look, but he was too weak to say anything. He felt at least he had done his part in getting Dean home.

  “Are you OK from here, Dean?” Dean definitely did not look OK from anywhere.

  “Yep, I think so.”

  As Martin went to let go, Dean nearly fell over, using the door for support.

  “Are you sure, Dean?’ Martin let go of him again, allowing Dean to get his balance

  “Yes thanks, Martin, I won’t forget this.”

  Dean struggled through the door then up in the lift. Opening the caged door to his apartment, he threw the keys onto the kitchen table and took his phone out of his pocket, setting his alarm for 6.30am so he could get back for Jodie’s birthday. Before collapsing, he afforded himself a look in the bedroom mirror. His bruised face and swollen lip looked straight back at him.

  “Dean, you’re a prick,” he said before allowing his beaten-up body to crawl into bed.

  Chapter 4 – Jodie’s Birthday

  Sarah was up at 7am. It was a big day for their daughter – or was it her daughter? Neither she nor Jodie had seen Dean for two weeks, and the one night he should have been there, he wasn’t.

  She wondered whether she might have given Dean a hard time last night after listening to the message he’d left her. She knew that when he got home, she’d forgive him as she always did. She also knew that he’d make Jodie’s day; he could do nothing wrong in his daughter’s eyes. Sarah adored him, too; she just wanted Dean to appreciate them both a bit more. It had been all about work for Dean recently, although today was not the day for that fight. It was Jodie’s birthday, and nothing was going to spoil that.

  At 8am, Sarah thought he should really be here by now, even if he’d hit some traffic. She decided to give him a call; she was still pissed off with him, but she’d better check he was OK.

  “Hi, this is Dean Harri
son, Falconer International. Please leave a message and your number and I will return your call at the earliest opportunity…

  Beep.

  “Where are you, Dean? I could use a hand – Jodie’s big day, remember? She’s only fifteen once. Oh, I nearly forgot – you’re still a prick for last night, ha-ha. I’ve not forgiven you yet. Ring me – we’ve got thirty screaming kids arriving at two o’clock.”

  9am. Beep…

  “Dean, you’re taking the piss. You were setting off at six-thirty, I’m a bit worried about you. Let me know you’re OK…you’d better not be fucking with me, Dean. Ring me, not joking.”

  10am. Beep…

  “Where are you, Dean? You don’t come home for two weeks, and now I can’t get hold of you. You don’t even want to know what’s going through my head.”

  10.30am. Beep…

  “You know what, Dean, you’re an arsehole. Everything is all about you, your work and your pissing life. Dick!”

  10.45am. Beep…

  “Cock!”

  11am. Beep…

  “It’s not me I’m bothered about, Dean. I’ll get over it, but I’m sick of covering for you with Jodie. She keeps asking where Dad is. What do I say? You’re probably shagging some hooker in London – that’s what the girls in the gym think.”

  11.30am. Beep…

  “Don’t even bother, Dean, you’ve blown it this time. Jodie and I will be fine, we don’t need an unreliable prick like you in our lives.”

  Dean opened one eye. He was in his bed in his London apartment, still wearing what he had gone to work in yesterday, and he never did that.

  He scrambled for his phone on the bedside table, fumbling it to the floor. “Shit, Jodie’s party,” he said out loud. Putting his hand under the bed, he fished for his phone, reeling it in and pressing the button to illuminate it.

  “Fuck, 12.31. What the fuck? What the hell happened last night?” He shook his head to kick-start his body, then saw the seven missed calls.

  “Fuck!” This fuck wasn’t the short one he’d let out when he realised the time; this one was a drawn-out fuck – an ‘I’m in the shit’ fuck.