The Reservoir Tapes

Woods just looked at him. He repeated the price. He told Martin it was late, he was tired, and Martin was going to take the so-and-so alpaca whether he so-and-so wanted to or not.

They handed over the rest of the money. They took the alpaca and went to get in the car.

They didn’t talk much on the way back. They had to wind the windows right down on account of the smell. The air rushing in was cold and sharp. When they came along the road above the reservoir the moon was shining off it.

Frank said that anyway, what he’d been trying to say earlier was that he’d finally got a new appointment sorted at the hospital, next week, for a something Martin didn’t quite catch. He looked like it was important so Martin asked him to repeat it.

BIOPSY, Frank said.

Oh, right, Martin replied.

It was probably nothing. These doctors. They’d whip you in for tests at the drop of a hat. It would be nothing. You look fit as a fiddle to me, he said.

They stopped off at the reservoir car park, and got rid of the alpaca.

Martin asked Frank if he had any more good ideas about the wife’s birthday. Frank did not. They were quiet the rest of the way back.

9: Stephanie

She never asked for names, but she was good at remembering faces. So when she saw the two of them being interviewed on the news she recognised them immediately, even though it must have been fifteen years since they’d last met.

They’d come to see her one evening, when she was working. Or rather, the young man had come to see her. It had been arranged. The older man had driven him there.

She watched them get out of a Land Rover and cross the driveway, their boots heavy in the gravel. She was already cautious, with there being two of them. She opened the door and checked the name. The older man seemed impatient to get inside. She told him they were out of sight on this side of the house, but he didn’t seem reassured.

The young man was nervous, once they got inside.

The men were often nervous, more so than they wanted to admit, but this one didn’t seem to want to be there at all. She watched him while the older man, his father, told her what was required. He spoke to her as if she worked in a restaurant and he was ordering food from a menu. She didn’t like his tone. He thumped his son on the back and went to wait in the car.

She led the way upstairs. The whole set-up felt unsatisfactory. The boy couldn’t even look at her. He was wearing a heavy jacket, and he was flushed and sweaty. She asked how old he was, and when he said eighteen it sounded like a lie. She’d be lucky if he turned out to be sixteen. She could smell beer on him, and asked how much he’d had to drink. A couple, he said, and she guessed it was more than that.

Your first time? she asked, and he nodded.

Sort of, he said. Meaning very much so, she knew.

She talked to him, first. She didn’t want to do anything until he could at least look her in the eyes. She took his jacket off, as a way of letting him feel okay about being touched, and made him a cup of tea. She asked him some questions.

He’d not long left school, he told her, and was working for his father. They were hill-farmers. They kept sheep. They were a big family, with three other brothers at home. He was the oldest. She asked if coming to see her had been his idea, and he shook his head. She asked if he felt okay about being there. He hesitated, and looked up at her. There was an uncertainty in his eyes; a fear of saying the wrong thing. He told her he wasn’t sure, that it depended, and did she feel okay about being there?

*

She felt fine about being there.

She’d been working in the area for a couple of years by then. A friend had set her up. She was well-enough known to stay in business, but not enough that anyone talked. The men certainly didn’t. They were mostly married, or had other reasons for wanting to be discreet.

She worked from a holiday cottage. There were no neighbours, and cars could be parked around the back, away from the road. Her friend kept an eye on things, and he would always be in the house if she was meeting somebody new. It was a straightforward arrangement. The money was good, and the complications few. She wasn’t planning on doing it for ever. She was in control. She felt more in control than the men who came to see her, many of whom seemed muddled and lonely, or resentful of her for some reason. Angry, sometimes. She’d had to call her friend through from the other room on occasion. The men were always surprised to see him; outraged, as though it was cheating in some way.

She didn’t tell the young man any of this, of course. She just said she was comfortable being there. It was funny how often she had to have this conversation. All those concerned men wanting to know if she was okay, or if there was something different she could be doing with her life. And yet there they were, knocking at her door, paying her for sex. The idea of rescuing her was just another control fantasy, much the same as paying her to do something they thought she might not want to do.

I never do anything I don’t want to do, she sometimes had to tell them. They seemed disappointed to hear it.

*

He’d dressed up for the occasion. He was wearing a pair of black jeans, and a checked shirt which was clean but hadn’t been ironed. She imagined a household where only the mother did any ironing. His hair was thick and black, parted exactly in the centre, the two fringes hanging down into his eyes. He had a working-man’s body, with broad shoulders and a bowed chest, but a boy’s face. There were still spots spread across it, and a rawness that made it look as though he’d shaved just before coming out. She could imagine his father explaining how he should dress, how he should proceed; as though explaining how to approach a job interview, or the best way to handle a sheep.

He kept sipping his tea before it was ready to drink, and burning his mouth, and then pretending he hadn’t. There was an eagerness about him, once he began to relax. An eagerness to impress, to be thought mature, but also an eagerness to get on with it. The reluctance was gone.

She had mixed feelings about going ahead. This was why she’d started a conversation first. She understood what the father thought this was. She could imagine him pacing back and forth outside. She was reluctant to go along with this idea, of the older woman initiating a younger boy. She wasn’t Mrs bloody Robinson. He should learn about these things w