David Szalay - London and the South-East

‘It’s what I’ve been told,’ Paul says, with his elbows pressed into his sides.

‘Who told you?’

‘Who told me? Bloke who works with me.’

‘What bloke?’

‘Just … a bloke.’

‘A bloke,’ Watt says. ‘A bloke who works on the night shift?’ A frown of scepticism enters his voice. ‘How does he know?’

‘Um. I’m not sure.’

Watt, it seems, was hoping for something more than this — something more impressively sourced — and Paul says, ‘To be honest … I want to be honest, yeah.’

‘Yes?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know it’s true. What I said.’

Watt sighs. ‘I see.’

‘I’m sorry …’

Watt wrinkles his nose and takes a moody gulp of Guinness.

‘So you have no information? Nothing? ’

‘Only what I was told …’

‘I mean proper information!’ His voice is suddenly peevish. ‘Not what your mate might have told you on the night shift.’ Points of irritated sweat shine on his hair-poor pate. ‘I mean, how does he know?’

Paul does not speak for a few moments. ‘Why don’t you have a look at the paperwork?’ he suggests. ‘There must be paperwork …’

‘I have looked at it.’

‘And?’

‘No. There’s nothing. I mean, there are …’

He stops, perhaps feeling unable to speak freely to someone who is a supermarket employee, and of the lowliest kind.

‘There are?’ Paul prompts him.

‘There are things which …’

‘Which?’

‘Which don’t quite add up,’ Watt snaps. With a dozen fierce stabs he stubs out his cigarette. Unsuccessfully — it persists in smoking feebly in the ashtray for a whole minute of sulky silence. Though Watt’s irritation has made him feel unimpressive, Paul is nevertheless pleased that the situation too seems to be smouldering out. His worry, of course, is that Watt will mention it to Martin, and he says, ‘Are you planning to mention —’ Watt interrupts him. ‘On their own they’re not enough.’

‘What aren’t?’

‘The things that don’t quite add up.’

‘Not enough for what?’

‘Not enough to take to the south-east manager.’

‘No.’

And then Watt says, ‘We need evidence.’

We need evidence. The implication — that he and Paul are somehow involved in something together. Paul has a slurp of Bloody Mary, wipes his mouth and says, ‘What do you mean?’ For the first time, Watt turns to look at him with his small eyes. ‘If I’m to go to the regional manager,’ he says, ‘I need some real evidence.’

‘Sure.’

‘Otherwise it’s just hearsay. It’s just gossip.’

‘Yes,’ Paul says. And then, ‘Maybe there is no evidence.’

Watt is having a second stab at putting out his cigarette. ‘What do you mean “no evidence”? There must be.’

‘I mean maybe it’s not true, what I was told.’

‘I think it is true.’

Surprised, Paul says, ‘You think it’s true?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Watt huffs and waves his hand. ‘Well … Those questionable items, those invoices … You know. It’s not like I didn’t suspect something.’

Paul tips his glass to his mouth, but there is no Bloody Mary left and only the ice cubes slide down and strike his teeth. Seeing this, Watt immediately says, ‘Another?’

‘Um …’

He is already up, and shoving his way to the bar.

To start his day with a Bloody Mary in the Stadium with Roy Watt is making Paul feel weird. In the din of the pub he feels like he is underwater; everything muffled, the sounds shapeless sub marine noise.

Setting the second Bloody Mary down on the table, Watt says, ‘So. We need some proper evidence.’

Paul does not particularly want to be involved in whatever scheme Watt is envisaging — and from his unsophisticated salesman’s smile, it is obvious that he is envisaging some sort of scheme. ‘Like what?’ Paul says, without enthusiasm.

‘Well — what would be the best sort of evidence to have?’

Paul pouts, tastes the Bloody Mary — a double this time. ‘Dunno,’ he says.

‘Well, the best evidence would be this, wouldn’t it.’ Watt is still smiling, his straight lip drawn up from his yellow, horse’s teeth — and what he says is so surprising that Paul wonders whether it is a joke. He inspects Watt’s eyes for a moment. Watt laughs — he has a solid, percussive, forced-sounding laugh. ‘ That would be evidence,’ he says. ‘If I could go to the regional manager with that …’

‘I don’t understand,’ Paul says. ‘How would we —’

‘Look.’ Watt has turned on the padded bench so that he is facing him. ‘We get someone to pretend to be an unlisted fresh-produce supplier …’

Paul shakes his head. ‘Who?’

‘Whoever. It doesn’t matter. We get them to fix up a meeting with Short, offering to sell him something, some produce. We fix them up with a hidden camera, and get the whole thing on tape.’

That’s insane , Paul thinks. However, he says, ‘What if Martin doesn’t go for it?’

‘Let’s see, shall we?’

For a few moments, Paul says nothing. Then, trying to sound as if he is enquiring only out of politeness, he says, ‘Who are you going to get to be …’

‘The supplier?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You have to do that,’ Watt says. He starts to light another Silk Cut. ‘You have to find someone.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

Paul shakes his head. ‘No, you see … I don’t know if I want to …’

‘You don’t want to what?’

‘I don’t know if I want to get involved in something like this …’

‘Then why did you send me the letter?’

Paul shrugs. Watt offers him a Silk Cut, and after a moment’s pause he takes it. ‘I’ve been wondering about that,’ Watt says, as Paul lights it. ‘What have you got against Martin?’

Paul pretends to be immersed in lighting the cigarette. Then he says, ‘What have you got against him?’

‘I think that’s well known, isn’t it? Even on the night shift.’

‘Is it?’

‘Do your wife, did he?’ Watt says, with a smutty laugh. ‘Something like that?’ He is joking — isn’t he? — and Paul tries to smile. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘What then?’

Paul takes an unhappy swig of Bloody Mary.

‘The fact is,’ Watt says, ‘if you don’t help me get some evidence, I’ll just have to put the whole thing to Jock, and that means telling him who told me . Martin too, of course. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you about it. You can’t just go around making accusations like that. Not if you can’t back them up …’

‘I don’t understand,’ Paul says. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to find someone to pretend to be a fresh-produce supplier.’

‘ Who? ’

‘Whoever! Doesn’t matter. Look,’ Watt says, his tone softening, ‘it’s important I don’t know the person. That’s all. In case something goes wrong. My name can’t get mixed up in this. You must be able to understand that …’

‘What about my name?’

‘It’s the hardly the same. You just need to find someone.’

‘Yeah, find someone, find someone. And how am I going to persuade them to do something like this?’

For a moment, Watt looks shocked. Paul’s tone was insolent, mutinous — he seemed to have forgotten that he is a night-shift warehouseman speaking to a senior member of the store management. It is, however, a highly unusual situation, and Watt lets it pass. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, swallowing a mouthful of Guinness. ‘I’ll pay them …’ He pauses, looking very earnest. ‘Two hundred quid. If you can find someone,’ he says, ‘I’ll pay them two hundred quid. All right?’