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Ransom
Michael Hulme
____________________
When I got back to the flat, office chatter still cluttering my mind, the first
thing I noticed was how quiet it was. There was no change in the pile-up of
magazines, lipsticked mugs, overflowing ashtrays, discarded crop-tops and last
season's cardigans, but the television was off and the bottles of nail polish
were lined up on the coffee table, unopened. I turned to the window, and saw a note sellotaped to the pane. In black letters cut from
various tabloids, it was a ransom demand for Amber's safe return. I sat down and
thought everything through.
When I got back from the pub, the phone was ringing.
"Mister Hulme?" A voice I didn't recognise, low and hoarse, filterless
cigarettes and low-grade whisky.
"Hello," I said, looking at the telephone as if it was going to show
me the guy's face.
"I trust you've seen our demands."
"Who is this?"
"I don't think that matters."
"No," I said. "I don't suppose it does. Unless you want me to
write you a cheque."
"So you're willing to pay?"
"Don't know," I said.
There was a pause. "Excuse me?"
"Well, she only moved in with me a couple of months ago. Suppose I pay you
off, and then she dumps me a week later? I mean, you are asking for a lot of
money."
"Yes," he said. "That's the point."
"True," I said. "It wouldn't be much good doing all this for,
say, twelve pounds fifty. You probably spent more than that on petrol—I assume
you whisked her away in a car—"
He stayed silent.
"Okay, perhaps I've seen too many movies. But a hundred grand?"
"It's simple, Mister Hulme," he said. "Do you want to see her
again?"
"S'pose," I said. "We have fun together—sometimes. I'm just not
sure I'm ready to commit."
He sighed heavily. "I'm not asking you to marry her."
"I should hope not! I'll need to remortgage the flat, get a loan—I'll be
in no position to marry anyone."
He breathed loudly but didn't speak.
"Anyway," I said, leaning against the wall, "listen. Between you
and me, I've been thinking about dumping her."
"What?"
"Well, it's just not working out, you know?"
"What are you talking about?"
My turn to sigh. I looked at the picture of her pinned to the cork noticeboard,
then around the jumble sale she'd turned my flat into. "Well... It's not
her, really. It's me."
"That's very noble—"
"Actually, no. It is her."
He coughed. "How do you mean?"
I threw her third favourite pair of shoes on the floor and sat down in the
armchair. "She's got really annoying habits. For one thing, she talks
constantly."
He chuckled. "I wouldn't know. Masking tape's a wonderful thing."
"Yes." I wondered why I'd never thought of that. "And she's
messy. She scatters things all round the house."
"No big deal."
"But it is," I said, fumbling for my cigarettes. "The remote
controls live on the coffee table. It's the golden rule. But, oh no—she has to
wander off with them. Last week, I found one in the bathroom."
"Well," he said, "not the end of the world."
"She wants to get a puppy."
"That's a big commitment. I hate dogs."
"Me too. Then there's..."
"Yes?"
"Well," I said, "she's been round the block a bit."
"How do you mean?"
"She's had a lot of boyfriends. I mean a lot."
"Ah," he said. "More than one at a time?"
"Yes."
"More than one at once?"
I closed my eyes. "Yes."
"Ah," he said. "That's going to haunt you."
"Exactly."
"Anything else?"
"Now you ask," I said, "yes. She's a hopeless cook, a sloppy
cleaner, and a lazy lover."
"Mmm," he said. "Best I return her, then."
"Suppose so," I said.
"No point us wasting each other's time."
"Drop her off near Chapelfield," I said. "She can get the bus
from there."
"Chapelfield?"
"Yeah, you know. Near the theatre."
"Where?"
"Have you got a map?"
"Yeah."
"Then you'll find it. Provided you don't let her navigate."
"I understand," he said. "Listen—I won't say anything. It'll be
better coming from you."
"Well, I guess that's that, then."
He paused. "Listen—are you sure you want to finish with her? It's
just—"
"What?"
"She's really pretty."
"Oh," I said. "Thanks."
"Exquisite bone structure."
"Hey," I said, "she looks pretty rough in the mornings."
"Maybe I'll let you know." We both laughed, then he sighed. "I'd
never get a woman like—what's her name?"
"Amber."
"Beautiful name. Suits her."
"Thanks. But, you know, you shouldn't give up."
"She'd never go for someone like me. She could get any guy she
wanted."
"Yeah, well—if you tried talking to girls like Amber, you'd find they're
just normal people underneath."
"Really?"
"Yeah," I said. "She's got many attractive, single friends who
can't get dates because men are intimidated by the thought of talking to them,
or else they get these cocky wide boys latching on to them only because they
want something attractive pulling on their—"
"Arm?"
"Exactly. Beauty is a handicap of sorts, see?"
"I'd never thought of it like that."
"Well, now you know. Sometimes, these women just want stimulating
conversation. You seem like a resourceful sort of chap. I'm sure you could think
of some interesting chat. You should try it."
"Maybe," he said. "Hey—if it doesn't work, I could always
kidnap her."
We both laughed.
"Good one," I said. "Some of them are bitches, though. Don't let
that put you off. It's not even their fault, really. It's more the natural
outcome of the opposite sex always doing exactly what you tell them to."
He went quiet again.
"So, listen," he said at last. "If you're going to finish with
her, would you mind if I—"
"Not at all. Here, I'll help you. She likes boy bands, particularly Take
That. It's a university 'what were we thinking?' nostalgia thing. She likes
horses, Brad Pitt, acid jazz. She's vegetarian. She likes having her neck
bitten, but not so it bruises. Don't, under any circumstances, slap her backside
or let her catch you saying 'baby got back.'"
I could hear the scrape of pencil across paper. "Got it," he said.
"My dad runs a farm. Knows all about horses. We've got several."
"Well there you go. Good luck."
"Thanks, Mister Hulme."
"No problem."
There was a click, and the line rang dead.
Seemed like a nice chap, I thought, as I put the kettle on and microwaved a
burger.
Two days later, the phone rang again.
"It's me," she said.
"Amber! How are you? Where are you?"
"I'm okay, Michael. It's just..."
"What?"
"Oh God, I promised myself I wouldn't cry when I did this—"
"What is it?" I started digging through the paperwork on the table.
"Well—I've met someone else."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Fair enough."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, if you need to move on, don't let me stand in your way. What's his
name?"
"He hasn't told me yet."
"Ah."
"But he's got a beautiful farmhouse. And horses."
"Lovely. That's a stroke of luck."
"Anyway, all my stuff's at yours, and we were thinking—"
"Oh, right." In the heap of paperwork, I found her last savings
account statement.
"When would be convenient?"
"I don't know," I said. "I'm never in these days. And, amazingly,
I've just had the locks changed."
"Come on, Michael," she said. "Don't be like this."
"Okay, okay," I said, looking at the figures in the balance column.
"We can probably come to some kind of agreement."
____________________
Michael Hulme once spent a nightmarish time in
a robot insane asylum. But it’s almost over now.
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