“Ah-ha! Like I said, I've been debt collecting. A customer who hadn't paid his video hire bill. Bloke from that new club in Morecambe, as a matter of fact.”
It took me a moment before his words sank in. Then I suddenly remembered Marc's comment from the night before. A hand in the till, some computer equipment, wine from the restaurant . . .
“Terry,” I said. “Are you sure it's legit?” Something in my voice bothered him and I watched a myriad of expressions register across his rubber-like features.
“What?” he demanded, suddenly looking from me to the computer as though it had abruptly burst into flames. He scratched worriedly at his armpit. “Well, yeah,” he said, sounding anything but positive. He turned the computer over as if it might have “stolen” written on the underside. “Come on, what gives, Charlie?”
I explained about my conversation with Marc. “It just seems a bit of a big coincidence, that's all,” I said. “I don't know how much they cost, these lap-tops, but they won't be cheap. If they came by it by legal means, someone must have borrowed a barrow-load of videos at a few quid a time to owe you enough to do a straight swap.”
Terry smirked. “Ah, I wasn't born yesterday, “ he said, “I've been offered enough hooky gear in my time to be able to smell it.” He tapped the side of his nose to indicate it was very hush, hush. “But there's videos and then, there's videos.”
I said, oh yes in what I hoped was a knowing sort of way, and left it at that, but Terry wasn't to be deflected. He put the computer down. After a quick look round in a shifty manner guaranteed to make any casual observer sit up and take notice, he lifted up a false panel above the cab of the van, whipped out a video and handed it to me.
It wasn't in one of his usual cases, which are the same squint-inducing colour scheme as the van. This was in a very plain, rather cheap-looking wrapper. I forget the title now, but it was wincingly corny. I knew instantly that the film inside would contain a warbling sound track, repetitive dialogue, no plot to speak of and lots of writhing bodies filmed from angles that were gynaecological in their intensity.
I've seen one or two and they make me feel deeply uncomfortable. The dead look in the performers' eyes – I can't bring myself to call them actors – disturbs me. I can never believe that the people involved are doing that sort of thing from choice. They all look doped up to the eyeballs in any case. I pulled a face and handed the video back.
“It doesn't take long to build up a big bill when you're hiring two or three of these a week,” he said and named a price that made my eyebrows rise of their own accord.
“That's for renting them? For that money I'd want shares in the film company.” I was intrigued despite my distaste. “What's so special about them, or don't I want to know.”
Terry grinned and opened the box. The video inside had the title repeated on an otherwise plain label. “There you are,” he said. “No certificate. This little lot are hot off the boat from Spain and Amsterdam and they didn't come via the official board of censors. You wouldn't believe what's on half of ’em, sadomasochism stuff, animals and all sorts – but I draw the line at kids,” he said quickly, with the air of someone adopting a high moral tone. “If anyone gets caught with one, they didn't get it from me, that's for sure. They could throw away the key just for what I've got in the van at the moment.” He jerked a thumb at the false floor.
“So some guy hired out enough of these that he gave you a lap-top computer in payment?” I said again. I still found it hard to believe.
Terry nodded, grinning. “He's got a week to come up with the money, otherwise this goes straight into the small ads,” he said. “Although, actually, I might keep it. I've never had one of these before.” He picked up the portable again, fiddling around until he found the on/off button.
The little computer whined into life, making buzzing and clicking noises like an electronic budgie. He stared for a few moments at the screen, which was tilted away from me, jabbing a couple of buttons, his brows drawn down. “The cheating bugger,” he said.
“What's up?”
“It's asking me for the password. He never mentioned anything about passwords. Bloody hell.”
“Can't you go back and ask whoever it was you got it from what the right password is?” I said, peering over his shoulder.
“We didn't exactly part on good terms,” Terry admitted. “In fact, he probably did this on purpose. Bugger.”
I sighed. For someone who's obviously pretty successful in business, he can be very naive sometimes. He stood there looking at the little computer like a kid who's just had his new toy broken in the school playground by the class bully. I swear I saw his bottom lip quiver. Mind you, the way parts of his fleshy face tended to wobble out of sync with the rest of him when he moved quickly, it was difficult to tell.
A sudden thought seemed to occur to him. “Hey, are you still mates with that computer bloke up at the Uni?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
I sighed again. No way did I want to help Terry get into a possibly nicked computer, given to him by some bloke in payment for illegal porn videos, but Terry's been a bit of a mate and I just couldn't stand the thought of the hurt look if I said no. Besides, I probably owed him a favour or two.
“OK,” I said. “I haven't seen Sam for ages, but I'll ask him if he could try and get round it for you, if you like?”
Terry looked relieved. He switched off the computer and folded the lid shut again. “Would you?” he said. “That'd be great. Tell you what, shall I leave it with you? If you can get your mate to have a play with it, I could pick it up later on in the week sometime.”
I agreed and he handed the machine across. It wasn't much bigger than a ream of A4 paper, and looked so innocuous. We hopped back out onto the street. He swung the Merc's side door shut and climbed into the cab. “I'll see you right for videos,” he called as he started the engine. I stuck the computer under my arm and walked back up the stairs to the flat.
***
When I got up the next morning the lap-top was where I'd left it on the coffee table. I worked round it for most of the morning, but eventually I couldn't put it off any longer.
I looked up the number of the university and dialled. After a short delay, they put me through to the right department. I asked whoever picked up for Sam, and the receiver was plonked down on a desktop. I heard someone calling, then cowboy-booted footsteps.
“Yeah?” His voice sounded bored. It was nearly lunchtime.
“Hi Sam, it's Charlie.”
“Oh, right!” he said, suddenly perking up. “Great to hear from you. When are we going out for another razz?”
I'd met Sam out one day in the Trough of Bowland. When the roads are quiet the Trough is fantastic biking country. In the summer I tend to go out there early in the morning when you can just get stuck into those long sweeping bends.
I was doing that at about six-thirty one Sunday morning when an old green 750cc Norton Commando appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to trample all over me. I gave chase, but I just haven't got the faith, or the courage, to hammer fully committed into blind corners and crests.
After a few miles he pulled in to a lay-by where there was a little burger caravan and I followed. The look on his face when I took my helmet off would have been worth a photograph. We had a brew, got to the point of exchanging phone numbers and met up regularly after that for a quick blast.
When Sam started suggesting we met up in the evenings, however, and without the bikes, I began to back off. He's a sweet bloke, but a touch on the sensitive side for my taste. Chaotic dark hair framing the long face of a Chaucer knight, with expressive dark eyes that follow you round the room like one of those Greenpeace posters against seal clubbing.