Shark Bitten – Ken Cooper

**

***

“So, Chantelle, you got anything for me this week?”

Chantelle had considered letting the man now standing at her threshold have it out on the door knocker, but after a few second’s thought, she concluded it would be useless. She knew it was him when she heard the first rat-tat-tat. Regular as clockwork. He’d worked out weeks ago when she’d be at home – that hour and a half between coming home from her shelf-stacking stint at Sainsbury’s and going out to her cleaning job at Euston station. She decided to face him.

“Can’t pay you this week. My girl needed shoes. The old ones were falling apart and she was going on a school trip.” She waited for his angry response.

“That’s OK, Chantelle,” he said too calmly, “I understand. Got kids of my own. Cost a fortune in clothes.” A slimy false grin grew across his face. “Listen. What we can do is add this week’s payment to your total borrowings – sort of a payment holiday. OK?” There was that grin again. “Course we’ll have to up the interest rate a bit. Now, will you be able to let me have fifty from next week?”

“Fifty!”

“That’s the going rate, these days, I’m afraid, Chantelle. Money’s tight all round.” He pulled a small note book from his inside pocket and scribbled something with a stubby pencil on one of the pages. “Course, if me and you was to come to some sort of accommodation,” he said as he was writing, “I’m sure we could get your repayments reduced.” He looked up from his book, and ran his eyes over Chantelle’s body. She knew what he meant, and shuddered inside at the thought of being underneath this greaseball.  She started to close the door.

“Fifty from next week, OK, Chantelle? Oh, and is that sister of yours with you? Save me calling on her tomorrow if I could collect her payment now.”

“She’s not here.” Chantelle finally closed the door. The man she knew only as ‘Tony’ allowed his face to show a hint of a self-satisfying grin, then ran his fingers through his oily hair and slithered away. Jane arrived four minutes later. She let herself into the flat.

“Did you see that slimeball, Tony?” Chantelle called from the kitchen.

“No, thank God. He’s going to have to whistle for his money this week.”

“Oh, he’ll probably let you off it this week, but then just add it on, so’s you end up paying even more. That’s what he’s just done to me, the bastard.”

A tall teenage girl popped her head round the door of the lounge. “OK to go now, Chantelle?”

“Yes, thanks, Tanya. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye,” Tanya sang.

“Bye,” chorused the two sisters. Tanya let herself out.

Jane looked into the lounge. Becky was playing with the Jenga blocks. “She’s a great kid,” Jane thought, “Thank God.” She went into the kitchen. “I wish we could get that creep off our backs. Just one lucky scratch card and I’d ram his money down his throat.”

“Or stick it up the other end,” said Chantelle.

“Yeah, and set light to it!”

Chantelle smiled as she imagined the scene. “I’d better be off. See you later, then.” She went into the lounge and bent to kiss her daughter. “Bye, Sweetheart. See you in the morning. Be good for Aunty Jane.”

***

Chantelle donned her tabard and rubber gloves, clicked the locker shut, checked that her i.d. badge was clipped to her belt, collected her buggy and set out on her tour of the waste bins on the station concourse. She had long ceased to be amazed at the sheer waste of some people. And their sluttish attitude to waste disposal. You’d think it would be easy enough to place rubbish in a plastic sack secured to a bin, but sometimes it seemed they’d thrown it from fifty yards away. Milk shakes were the worst. What continued to intrigue Chantelle was the variety of unusual items she would come across. A single shoe with a missing heel, ladies’ tights, men’s socks, books, a half-empty packet of cigarettes, a full packet of condoms, a beret, a loaf of bread, a one-armed Buzz Lightyear. One evening she came across a plaster cast, no doubt recently removed from a broken wrist, now mended, its owner having second thoughts on retaining the dozens of autographs from well-wishers.

These were only the things she could see near the top of the sack. Who knows what may lay deeper inside? A discarded wedding ring? A mobile phone – tossed away because it was not this month’s latest model? Chantelle never reached inside the sacks. Her instructions were to remove the sack from its bin, tie its neck with a nylon fastener, load it onto her buggy, and mount its replacement on the bin. She guessed someone, somewhere, perhaps in India or China, where ‘Health and Safety’ was not an issue, might have the dubious privilege of sorting through its contents.

This evening, though, she did exceed her remit. It was the Sainsbury’s bag that caught her eye. Only a few hours earlier she was bathed in that orange livery as she went about stacking her shelves. Something made her look inside. She saw the five packs of notes. Twenty pound notes. Each pack held together with a red paper band.

Her heart missed a beat, as if she had seen the love of her life. Her neck tensed and she could see her hands start to shake. She turned to her buggy and pulled out a new black bin liner. In one sweeping movement the Sainsbury’s bag was slid into the sack and the sack placed on the buggy’s passenger seat. She dealt with the bin as she normally would – remove the liner, tie its neck, place it on the buggy, and replace it with a new sack. Now her legs were beginning to quiver. She sat at the driver’s seat and took a few minutes to think things over. As nonchalantly as she could, she looked around. Had anyone seen what she had done? It didn’t seem so. The station was never busy at this hour – the usual few commuters heading home from an after-office drink, boyfriends waiting for arriving girlfriends, girlfriends awaiting boyfriends, no doubt other combinations of genders and sexual orientations. The usual down-and-outs. Nothing out of the ordinary. As she drove on to her next and final bin, Chantelle stuffed the sack into a space under the driver’s seat. She serviced the last bin and headed for the staff quarters.

***

“Do you want to see your precious Sasha again?” The caller sounded somewhat narked.

“Yes, of course. We did what you said! Please! Tell us where she is.”

“What do you mean, ‘you did what I said’? I waited for two hours.”

“But we left the money, just as you said! Please! Why don’t you keep your side of the arrangement?”

“You didn’t leave the money!”

“We did! Just as you asked. In the bin, outside the Tie Rack.”

“At Euston? Euston main line station?”

“Yes! This evening! Orange Sainsbury’s bag. Five thousand pounds. Please!”

The caller hung up, and threw the phone into a nearby bin. He was dressed like a tramp. He would make one more sortie past the bin, but was convinced nothing had been deposited in an orange Sainsbury’s bag all evening. As he headed for the Eversholt Street exit he saw the other Tie Rack kiosk, tucked in next to the Bureau de Change.

“Shit! Two Tie Racks!” He spotted the rubbish bin. He shuffled over to it. A casual look inside revealed nothing but a fast food carton.

***

“Mr Goodman; Sergeant Skinner here.”

  “Yes, Sergeant. He’s called. Claimed I never left the money.”

“Did you, Mr Goodman?”

“What do you mean? Of course I did. What’s going on?”

“But we had two officers watching the bin all evening, and we didn’t see you make the drop.”

“But I did! God help me, what’s going on? First he tells me I didn’t leave the money, and now you tell me.”

“Well, there’s clearly been some sort of mix-up Mr Goodman. I’m going to send someone round to bring you to the station. All right?”

“Yes, yes, yes. If it’ll help get our Sasha back.”

***

“How much to clear my debt? And my sister’s. How much to clear both of them?”

“What’s happened Chantelle – you won the lottery or something?

“How much, I said”

“Well, I’ll have to work it out and let you know. OK?”

“Work it out now, or I promise you, you won’t be having no more kids.”

“Now, hold on, Chantelle. No need to get nasty is there?”

“Tell me how much you want for us to see the back of you once and for all.”

Tony took out his little book and pretended to do some calculations using his stubby pencil. He was trying to guess how much Chantelle had come into, how high he could push it.  “Well, it’s just over five K. Give or take a bob or two.”

“I borrow three hundred, and Jane borrows two-fifty,” She paused for effect. “And now you say we owe you five thousand?”

“Give or take. Well, it’s the interest init? ‘Sway it goes. You wouldn’t get it much cheaper from a bank – if you could find one to lend you anything.”

“Wait here.” Chantelle went into the kitchen and reached to the back of the cupboard holding the cleaning fluids. She retrieved the orange Sainsbury’s bag and removed the five one-thousand pound bundles.

“Here - five thousand!” she thrust the money at a startled Tony. “Now sling your hook!”

“Hold on, hold on,” said Tony, “Is it all here?”

“It’s all there, now clear off.”

“Chantelle! Listen. If you’ve got some spare cash, I can make it work for you. There’s plenty of punters need a helping hand. We could go into partnership. You wouldn’t have to do any leg work - sort of a sleeping partner!” That grin again.

“I’d rather stick red hot needles in my eyes.” She slammed the door, took a deep breath and broke open a bar of Galaxy.

***

“Guvnor, some of that marked money’s turned up.”

“What money, Jason?”

“Remember? That dognapping? Euston station? The mix up with the two Tie Racks?”

“Oh yeah – money and dog disappeared without a trace. Tell me more.”

“Tyre company in Kentish Town. Someone used the marked twenties to pay for a set of five tyres.”

“Do they have a name, an address?”

“Just a name. And a car registration. Davina’s looked it up. Anthony Sutton. Regis Road, Kentish Town.”

“Any form?”

“Small stuff – burglary, shoplifting.”

“Trying the big stuff is he? OK. Let’s pick him up.”

…ooOoo…