Mr Lanegan Calls

Carl Lawrence woke up that morning feeling absurdly fine ' and then the hangover hit him.
A full-English Breakfast of a hangover: stinging eyes, sickness, a head that thrummed like an electricity pylon in a thunderstorm ' the works.
It was business as usual, then. Hangovers were Carl's forte. But he knew within an instant of falling out of bed that this was no ordinary hangover: this was a beast of an entirely different order.
Smoking was out of the question. He viewed the packet with disdain, knowing that it would be evening before he could even entertain the possibility ' and only then after he had commenced drinking once more.
A shower, perhaps? It might just cleanse the alcohol from his pores. But not too hot, of course, or else he would most probably pass out. He had slept in his clothes, his shoes included. The effort of untying and then wrestling his feet out of the latter brought a fresh wave of sickness upon him, forcing him to lie on the tiles for a few minutes while he waited for the storm to pass.
He washed. Brushed his teeth over and over again until the toothpaste came out white. Downstairs, then. He dumped his dirty clothes into the laundry ' an ever-accumulating pile ' and then went about finding fresh underwear, trousers, a shirt ' before concluding that, for the moment at least, nakedness suited him just fine.
Alas, however, the shower had been to no avail. The hangover remained. He sat at the kitchen table ' the wood refreshingly cold against his buttocks ' and reviewed his options.
Hair of the dog?
There was a bottle of wine in the cupboard downstairs, a Christmas present from the Jones's next door that was still wrapped up ' he could unwrap it very carefully, drink the contents, then fill it up with a mixture of vinegar and fruit juice, wrap it back up again¦ the perfect crime (one that he had gotten away with on numerous occasions over the years). And if Susan commented on the taste of it (if she ever got around to drinking it, which Carl seriously doubted) then he would just smile wryly and say "Well that's the Jones's for you, honey ' cheaper than a can of Aldi beans.
But no, not a chance. The very thought of it made him want to vomit. He had never been one for the Hair of the Dog; he figured that it must just be an American thing.
Which left him with only one thing, when all was said and done: he was just going to have to ride it out.
How much had he drunk? What had he drunk?
Even more worrying: where had he been? What the hell had happened? The previous night wasn't just a blur, he found as he sat at the table and massaged his temples ' it was missing. The entire night had disappeared. Nothing; zilch; zero: just a big black hole where memory ' any memory, no matter how vague ' should rightfully have been.
He was about to concede defeat, to resign himself to yet another night flushed down the pan (so long as he hadn't killed anybody, it couldn't be that bad) when there was a knock at the door.

All he could see at first was sunlight: glaring, unbearable, evaporating whatever moisture remained on his eyeballs. But then his eyes adjusted, or at least focussed sufficiently to see that there was a man standing on the doorstep (he thanked God at that moment that he had had the foresight to put his dressing gown on beforehand), a towering obelisk of a man shrouded in black from head to toe. Except for his face, of course - and Carl quickly came to wish that that was similarly concealed. His eyes weren't just piercing, they were devouring. And his smile, God¦ it looked like the smile that Carl had always imagined the Thumb-Cutter would have. And yet there was something mesmerising about the man's face, so much so that it took a concerted effort for Carl to tear his eyes away from it.
"Hello? Can I help you?
"Good morning, Sir, the man said. "Mr Simons, I presume?
"Yeah, that's me. And you are?
"My name is Lanegan, Sir. May I come in?
Of all the cheek, Carl thought, suddenly overcome with the urge to simply slam the door in the man's face. He was wary of strangers at the best of times; add to that the Hangover from Hell and he most certainly was not in the mood for this man and whatever cleaning product/religion he was peddling.
"I'd rather you didn't, he said, moving back a step, already beginning to close the door.
The man put his foot in the way of it.
"Please, Mr Simons ' I would seriously advise that you let me in.
What the hell? Were the Jehovah's Witnesses employing guerrilla tactics now? Is that what they had been reduced to?
"And I would seriously advise you to get your foot out of my doorway, Mr Flanni-whatever-gan, or else I will be forced to phone the police.
The man smiled wryly, not moving his foot an inch. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr Simons. If I was in your position, I would consider getting the police involved to be most inadvisable. Or perhaps you were so drunk last night that you have no recollection whatsoever of what you did?
This stopped Carl in his tracks. He let go of the door and allowed it to swing open. What I did? His jaw dropped open.
The man smiled once more, apparently pleased with Carl's reaction. "Ah, I see that I have gotten your attention now? Very good. Now, I repeat: may I please come in?
Carl didn't speak; his mind stammered and stuttered but no words came out. He simply moved aside, slumping against the door. All of a sudden he had forgotten all about his hangover; all he was presently aware of was the big slab of granite that had just thumped down in his chest.
"Thank you, the man said, walking past him into the hallway.
Carl shut the door.

"It's a nice place you've got here. Obviously a family home! Mr Lanegan scanned around the living room, his hawk-eyes seeming to absorb everything. He spotted the fireplace and proceeded towards it. Picking up a picture from the mantelpiece: "Ah! Your wife, I presume? She is very beautiful, Mr Simons. Oh! And this must be your daughter?
Carl nodded, not quite comprehending what was going on.
"Well isn't she just the cutest? She must be the apple of your eye! How old is she? Eight, nine¦
"She's eleven.
"Ah, so she won't be cute for much longer, eh? One minute they won't go to sleep without you reading them a bedtime story, the next-"
"What's going on? Carl interrupted. He had had quite enough of this man, the juxtaposition of his saccharin exclamations with his nauseating grin ' the Thumb-Cutter comparison persisted in his mind, and he didn't care for it a single little bit. "Why are you here?
Mr Lanegan replaced the picture on the mantelpiece. In spite of Carl's curtness, his smile didn't falter. He turned to face him.
"Well, Mr Simons, I'm afraid that I am here on some rather grave business. Some rather terrible business, in fact. Now, on the way here I debated how best to convey the situation to you. Should I tell you? No, I thought ' far better for you to read about it yourself! Also, it is a very unpleasant situation. Very unpleasant indeed, and I hardly want to speak of it! But here, read this ' then you shall see for yourself.
At that, Mr Lanegan reached his hand into his inside-jacket pocket ' his hands are like bird claws, Carl thought uneasily ' and then produced a newspaper, folded up into a roll. He handed it to Carl.
Carl opened it out. "What? What am I supposed to be looking at? But then he saw. He knew immediately what he was supposed to be looking at. The slab of granite in his chest began to lurch and grind. The front page, the headline: "GIRL RAPED ON HEYSHAM PROMENADE. The words snared his eyeballs like fishhooks, pulling him in, dragging him under.
He read the article, his fingers shaking. When he finished, a few minutes later, he felt as though he was going to collapse. His legs might as well have been rubber stilts.
Mr Lanegan nodded, as though something had pleased him.
"Good. So I'm sure you now appreciate the graveness of the situation that you are in, Mr Simons?
Carl could barely speak. "What¦? What the fuck is this¦?
"You really don't remember, do you?
"Remember what? Hey, wait a fucking minute ' this wasn't me. Don't fucking tell me that this was me! What the hell are you doing here? Some sick fucking practical joker, are you? My God!
Again, Mr Lanegan's smile didn't even flicker. Carl was beginning to think that it had been painted on.
"Take a look at the next page, Mr Simons.
"What?
"The article continues over the page.
Carl looked. Humour the bastard, he thought. The old man was probably senile; escaped from Ridge Lea just that morning, no doubt. But still, that unease. No matter how ridiculous he told himself that this was, that feeling of dread, that terrible "What if? niggling at the back of his mind that he'd have quite happily cut out with a scalpel if he could, persisted. If you think that the man is just a loon, then why is your heart beating like a jackhammer? Why don't you want to look in the mirror? What could possibly-
"Oh God, he whispered. The life fell out of him.

"I so dearly wish that I didn't have to be the one to break this to you, Mr Simons ' I really do. I do so hate being the bearer of bad news. They were sitting down at the kitchen table now. Mr Lanegan had made them both a cup of tea. Carl stared dumbly at his, not the slightest desire to drink it. And even if he had, his hands were shaking so violently that he would have probably broken the cup handle off in the process. Mr Lanegan, on the other hand, was evidently enjoying his. "Ah, PG Tips. Can't beat it, I say. Did you know-"
"How did you know it was me? Carl asked abruptly ' his first words in almost ten minutes.
Mr Lanegan set his cup down.
"I was there. I was on the promenade.
"What¦ Speaking was an effort, as though each word was a block of lead at the bottom of the ocean and he had to haul them up, one at a time. "What¦ happened?
"You should know better than me, don't you think?
"But I don't! I don't remember a single fucking thing about it!
"A good thing, perhaps. What I saw of it was most unpleasant. The girl, she struggled so! But you, you didn't lose control for a moment. Quite admirable, really ' I was most impressed. She was screaming at first, screaming like a banshee, but you stopped her. After a while, she stopped struggling, stopped screaming - she just lay there, like she was playing dead.
"Oh my God¦
"Now, now, Mr Simons ' you have to pull yourself together. Things aren't quite as bad as they seem.
Carl couldn't believe what he had just heard. He smashed his hand down onto the table; his cup toppled with the tremor, spilling the tea across the table ' as if he cared. "What do you mean, things aren't quite as bad as they seem? What the fuck do you mean? You've just told me that I raped a girl last night! The police are after me! The photo-fit in the paper is fucking identical to me! I can't even fucking remember any of it, and you say that things aren't quite as bad as they seem? How much fucking worse could they be?
Mr Lanegan's smile, seemingly indestructible until that point, disappeared in an instant, replaced by a stony expression that was arguably even more sinister. It seemed to drop the room temperature by a few degrees; Carl was quite sure that the lights dimmed slightly as well.
"Now, Mr Simons, that's quite enough. I never say anything that I do not mean. When I say that things are not quite as bad as they seem, do not argue with me: simply accept it. Trust me. I saw all that you did, so why didn't I simply report you to the police? Why did I come to see you instead?
"I don't know! Why did you? How do I know that you haven't reported me?
"I have no dealings with the police, for my own reasons. You cannot know; you must simply accept. Now, down to business.
"What?
"Business, Mr Simons. The reason why I have come here. Now! Rest assured, Mr Simons, I was the sole witness of your act. The girl, she hardly remembers anything. If it wasn't for me, why, I do believe that you'd have committed the perfect crime. Not bad, considering that you were completely inebriated at the time ' don't you think?
"If it wasn't for you?
"Ah yes! I do complicate matters, don't you think? It would be a whole lot more convenient for you if I had not seen what I saw, no? But unfortunately for you, I did. Now how, pray, do you think we can sort this awful mess out? Because I like you, Mr Simons. I can tell that you are not a bad man. It would be most unfair if one night's drunken indiscretion were to bring about the end of your marriage, separation from your daughter and, lest we forget, a possible custodial sentence. Don't you think?
"So what? You want to blackmail me? Is that why you're here?
Mr Lanegan leant back in his chair, the Thumb-Cutter grin fully restored. He wore the gratified expression of a man who had just finished a glorious meal and was now contentedly full. "Now, now, Mr Simons. Blackmail is such a deplorable term. I would rather describe it as 'bargaining'. You get my silence, and I get something in kind. That sounds fair, doesn't it?
Carl smiled wryly. "Given the circumstances, I can hardly say no, can I.
Lanegan's grin widened even further ' a feat that Carl would have thought impossible. "Wonderful! I knew you were a decent man, Mr Simons. Now! Here is my proposal¦
Mr Lanegan paused, leaning forward in his chair. If the gesture was intended to place emphasis upon what he was about to say, then Carl thought it completely unnecessary: the man's beady, soul-devouring eyes were already quite sufficient, thank you very much. And they were fixed upon him now, dead-locked in their sockets, his grin descending into that stony expression once more. "But before I tell you what I am going to demand of you, Mr Simons, I would like to ask you a question.
The world stopped spinning, freeze-framed. The particles in the room stopped dead in their tracks, waiting in eager anticipation for Lanegan to continue.
"Might I ask you, Mr Simons, where your wife and daughter are at this moment in time?
Carl smiled wryly. "They're staying at Susan's mother's house.
"And why is that, Mr Simons?
"Susan¦ he cleared his throat, but regained precious little composure in the process. "Susan, she took Melissa down there after¦ we had a fight. We had a fight.
"And what, pray, was the fight about?
This was hard, for Carl. He had been avoiding the matter, afraid of confronting its seriousness. He had spent the last week drinking himself into oblivion for precisely that reason, in fact ' not wanting to even think about it. But now Lanegan was asking, he knew that he could hold it off no longer. He had the feeling that Lanegan would get the answer out of him by whatever means necessary. "My drinking. It was about my drinking, alright? I'd been hitting the bottle pretty hard, the last few months¦ God, I knew she hated me doing it ' she threatened to leave me every other day! ' but¦ I couldn't stop. I just¦ couldn't.
"You mean you didn't want to? I doubt very much that you even tried, Mr Simons.
Tears started to course down Carl's cheeks. How the hell was the man doing this to him? It felt like he had been strung up on some invisible rack and Lanegan was waving a red hot poker before his eyes. "No, I didn't. I made no fucking attempt to quit, alright? I knew that she was going to leave me and yet I just kept on fucking doing it! He thrust his head into his hands, pleading for the umpteenth time that day that this could all be just a dream.
Lanegan smiled, apparently pleased by Carl's despair. "So she finally made good on her promise, then? To leave you, I mean. What was the final straw, if you don't mind me asking?
Carl looked up, smiling. The tears had stopped. "I hit her ' that was the final straw. I punched her in the face, then woke up the next day wondering how the hell she had gotten the black eye, the bust lip. I really had no fucking idea! He laughed at that point, though it was more like a shriek: a hysterical, maniacal sound. "She started packing her and Melinda's things, not saying a word to me. I just stood there, not knowing what the hell was going on! Before I knew it, they were gone.
"And have you spoken to your wife since then, Mr Simons?
Carl searched his memory ' no mean feat. "Yes, a week or so ago. She told me that she would come back, but only if I promised to stop drinking. She told me that I had to make a decision once and for all: whether I wanted her and Melissa back or to just spend the rest of my life getting pissed. She told me that she would give me a week to think about it.
"And have you been thinking about it?
"No! Have I fuck! I've spent the whole week pissed off my face!
"And so it is that you have found yourself in this most unpleasant¦ 'predicament', shall we say? Punching your wife is one thing, Mr Simons, but raping a fourteen year old girl ' that is a few steps beyond, wouldn't you agree? Perhaps, finally, your irredeemably thoughtless deeds have caught up with you!
Another wry smile curled the edges of Carl's lips. He felt quite calm, all of a sudden. His life was over; there was no doubt whatsoever about that, and the realisation flowed through his body like a cool summer's breeze. "Yes¦ I dare say that you are right. Things really have finally caught up with me.
Lanegan's grin returned, yet Carl thought it somehow softer this time ' warmer, more human. "Good, Mr Simons ' very good! And yet there remains a small vestige of hope, my friend ' even now, there is still hope for you. I came here to make a deal with you, Mr Simons ' to ask a little something of you, and to promise you my silence in return. Given the circumstances, I think that you will find my request to be very reasonable ' very reasonable indeed.
"Now! I promise you my silence, Mr Simons. I will not breathe a word of your misdeed to anyone: neither the police, your wife, or any other living soul. If you keep your side of the bargain, then I will never bother you again. I give you my word on that, Mr Simons ' and above all else, I am a man of my word. Are you with me? Good! In return, I ask only that you promise not to drink from this day forward. Not a single drop for the rest of your life, do you hear? And then all of this will go away, just a vivid but nonetheless imaginary bad dream.
Carl couldn't quite believe what he had just heard. "That's¦ it? That's all? You just want me to quit drinking, then you'll leave me alone?
"That's it exactly, Mr Simons ' though do you really think that there is even the slightest bit of 'just' about my request? I don't think that you will find it quite as easy as it seems. But! No matter how hard it gets, Mr Simons ' now matter how potent and maddening the urge to drink becomes ' I am quite sure that the thought of what will happen if you do drink will be sufficient to deter you. And trust me, Mr Simons ' I will know. No matter how discrete you attempt to be, mark my words: I WILL KNOW. I shall be keeping a close eye on you in the next few months ' a very close eye. And the moment you breach the terms of our arrangement, I assure you that your life will very quickly be made to be most unpleasant for you. Do you understand? Have I made myself clear?
Carl nodded, his face ashen. "I understand.
Lanegan clasped his hands together. "Good! Then we have a deal. I knew that you were a decent, reasonable man, Mr Simons. It has been a pleasure doing business with you! However, I am afraid that I must leave now - I am expecting a very important phone-call. Now, as much as I have enjoyed becoming acquainted with you, Mr Simons, I dearly hope that I need never speak to you again.
And with that, Mr Lanegan stood up from the table and began to walk down the hallway to the front door.
Carl called after him, his voice little more than a whisper. "Thank you, Mr Lanegan. Really¦ God, thank you for giving me another chance¦
Mr Lanegan didn't turn around, and nor did he stop. He simply lifted his right hand into the air to acknowledge that he had heard before opening the door and disappearing outside.
Carl sat at the table, for a few minutes just staring into empty space, his mind completely blank.
And then the tears started.
They flooded over him in waves.

Rays of sunlight flickered across Mr Lanegan's face as he walked down the driveway. After a grey start, it was turning into a truly wonderful day. He was smiling as he got to his car, congratulating himself on a job well done. It couldn't have gone much better, he thought to himself, rubbing his hands together.
The phone in his pocket started to ring.
He took it out, snapping it open.
"Hello?
"Did he buy it? ' a woman's voice. Lanegan recognised it at once.
He grinned. "Oh yes indeed, he bought it alright ' hook, line and sinker. That newspaper you made truly was a masterstroke! I don't think that you'll have to worry about your husband's drinking anymore, Mrs Simons! I don't think you need ever worry about it again¦

THE END