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  Terry gradually spent less and less time in the store. He would amble in at around eleven, after I had received the daily deliveries, restocked the shelves and opened the shop. He’d wander around, grumble at the odd missing price ticket, then demand I put the kettle on and fetch him a kebab from the Bodrum Grill next door. Then he’d read the paper and amble off by mid-afternoon, unless the area manager was planning a visit, in which case Terry would order me to clean the office before he squeezed into a clean shirt and took all the credit for a ship-shape wine merchant.

  I awoke one July morning, my limbs still entangled with those of my close colleague Maria, to find a text message on my phone.

  I had our baby last night. A boy. Doula and support group invaluable.

  I suspected Portia was implying I wasn’t part of her support group, but it was good to know the old Hart genes had been passed on, so I sent a little ‘well done’ by way of reply. No need to cause a fuss – I was confident the doula had everything under control.

  Given that I was now a family man, not that I had any intention of discharging my fatherly responsibilities, I felt it was time to approach the boss for a pay rise. “Morning sir,” I chirped, as he rolled in just after midday, cigarette hanging from his stubbly jowls.

  “Have you got that fuckin kettle on yet?”

  A few minutes later, a cup of tea in his pudgy fist, I broached the subject. “Given all my extra tasks and superlative performance, sir, do you think a pay rise might be in order?”

  He didn’t look up from the paper. “I’ll have a think about it. Don’t hold your fuckin breath, though,” he wheezed as he tittered to himself.

  “I’m pretty much running the shop myself. I thought that might be worth a little extra?”

  Terry looked up. He pointed a fat finger at me. “Hey! Don’t get fuckin funny with me pal. I gave you this job, I can fuckin take it away. Now go and get me a fuckin kebab. That cunt Richards is coming round in half an hour.”

  Gary Richards was the area manager, a bald accounting type with round glasses and a suspicious manner.

  “Can I have some money for the kebab then?”

  “Put it through the fuckin till under office supplies. I’m eating it in the fuckin office, aren’t I?” I left Terry giggling to himself and walked around to the Bodrum Grill.

  “Merhaba Mehmet.”

  “Merhaba Felix my friend, how are you today?” Mehmet was sharpening his huge kebab knife with expert strokes, the blade rasping against the steel.

  “Good. The usual please.”

  “You’re a bit early. I’ve only just switched the machine on.” Mehmet nodded to the elephantine leg of glistening kebab meat on its vertical skewer, rotating slowly in front of the electric grill. A few drips of fat had started to pool in the dish beneath.

  “Looks all right to me. Can’t you just nuke it a bit?”

  “All right.” Mehmet carved a few slices onto a plate and placed it in the microwave for a few seconds. He sliced open a pitta bread, stuffed it with salad and chillies, then nestled the now-steaming slices of translucent meat on top.

  “Easy on the salad Mehmet, you know he doesn’t like it too green. Don’t bother wrapping it – I don’t think it’s going to last long.”

  “Two quid Felix.”

  “Cheers.” I walked back and handed the kebab to Terry, who took a ravenous bite, the trailing meat leaving a smear of grease on his chin.

  “Too much fuckin salad,” he complained through a mouthful of limp flesh and pitta. “And have you put that kettle on yet?”

  I flicked the switch and dropped a new teabag into Terry’s Everton FC mug. As the kettle boiled I did a circuit of the store, pulling forward a few bottles ahead of the Area Manager’s arrival.

  Somehow, I needed to get rid of Terry and get myself installed as manager. But how? Should I grass him up to the Area Manager for subsidising his cigarette habit from company stocks? Or fraudulently claiming kebabs on expenses? But there was no proof – Terry would simply blame me or another member of staff. And there was the small matter that he might just beat me to death. He wasn’t in great shape but he was probably five stone heavier than me and a vicious bastard with it. I wondered what damage he’d done to patrons of that club in Liverpool who’d been foolish enough to displease him.

  “Afternoon Felix.” It was Richards, the Area Manager. He was early, as usual. He liked to catch his managers out, and see who was frantically cleaning up prior to his arrival.

  “Good afternoon, sir. How’s business in the wider North London region?”

  “Could be better. Could be worse. Just had another armed robbery in Little Chalfont. The manageress has resigned because of the stress.”

  “Oh dear.”

  He walked the perimeter of the shop slowly, his beady eyes scanning the shelves for gaps or spots of dirt.

  “Hey, afternoon Gary,” chirped Terry as he emerged from the office, wiping kebab grease from his face with the back of his hand.

  “Well Terry, looks like business is good in Crouch End. Is that all down to your new colleague here?”

  Terry smiled and put a huge, ham-like arm around my shoulders. He smelt of very rare lamb and mild body odour. “Well, it’s a team effort, obviously. But Felix isn’t doing too badly. Needs his arse kicking every so often.” Terry gave his high giggle and vibrated with laughter.

  You fat arsehole, I thought.

  “Well, you’re doing something right. Sales are up twelve percent. You need to get on top of that cigarette theft problem though. Any idea who’s doing it?”

  “I’ve got my suspicions Gary.”

  So have I, you obese tub of lard. I considered making subtle eye movements to give Richards a clue but that would have been a high-risk strategy. Terry still had his arm around my shoulder and, if he caught wind of my disloyalty, could have crushed my neck in a second.

  “Well, I’d like a report on that please. I want you to do daily cigarette stock-checks too. Otherwise, keep up the good work. I’ll be back in a month.”

  “Great, will do. Always good to see you, Gary.” Richards left the store. “And fuck off while you’re at it, twat,” he added, once Richards was safely out of earshot.

  Terry waddled back into the office and I smiled at an elderly lady entering the store.

  “My usual please, darling.”

  I took a bottle of gin from behind the counter, wrapped it in paper and placed it in her shopping bag. And so a typical day went by, the patrons of Charlie’s Cellar coming and going. A packet of Silk Cut for one gentleman, a case of Burgundy for another. All left satisfied and were soon back for more, thanks to the legendary Felix Hart charm and panache.

  Maria sashayed in with a wink and a smile. “Hiya Felix, how you doing?” I glanced at my watch – it was just gone six o’clock.

  “Better for seeing you. Painted any nudes today?”

  She smirked and walked into the office, wriggling into her small-sized rugby shirt and turning up the sleeves.

  “Terry’s still here,” I said. “He must be downstairs in the storeroom doing some work for a change. We’ll have to behave tonight.”

  Maria sulked and slumped over the counter.

  “I need some food,” I added. “Can you hold the fort while I get something to eat?”

  She nodded and stuck her bum out as I squeezed past.

  “Unprofessional, my dear.” I patted her tight behind through her jeans. “Would you like some chips?”

  “I’d rather have a sausage,” she pouted.

  Students, I mused. It’s times like this I realised it was a mistake not to attend university.

  I wolfed down a large helping of fish and chips in the Bodrum Grill and returned to the shop. It was the evening rush and Maria was kept busy serving customers as I ran up and down the steps, fetching cases of beer and wine to replenish the shelves. Terry had obviously sloped off home, and by nine p.m. things had quietened down. It was time to cash up and go home. Maria made it clear i
t was to her home we were going, so we grabbed a bottle of Chilean Sauvignon, set the alarm and headed back to her place for a night of artistic creativity.

  As usual, I was on the early shift the following day. So, after a quick morning shower with Maria it was back to work. I blearily rolled up the security grill and turned off the alarm. I’d done a pretty good job at keeping the shelves stocked the previous night so there wasn’t much to do, just a couple of cases to be filled up here and there. I was looking forward to a gentle day. Maria hadn’t allowed me much sleep the previous night, not that I was one to complain. I went downstairs to the storeroom and looked for the wine I needed.

  Then I noticed the appalling smell. Something between a rotting animal and the toilets at a rain-soaked rock festival. Oh Christ, please don’t let it be a blocked toilet or burst sewer. I couldn’t imagine Terry mucking in, so it would be down to yours truly to clean up the lot.

  I kicked open the door to the toilet cubicle. It was very clear that Terry wouldn’t be helping with anything, because he was sitting on the toilet with his pants around his colossal, swollen ankles and an ocean of puke down his striped rugby shirt. His eyes, bulging in horror, stared back at me. He was also, so far as I could tell, stone bloody dead.

  I clamped my sleeve over my face, backed out of the storeroom and ran up the stairs. I grabbed the office phone and dialled emergency services.

  “Police, ambulance or fire?” barked the operator.

  “Ambulance, I think.”

  “You think? Is somebody injured, sir?”

  “Well, they’re not tip top, that’s for sure.”

  “Can you explain please sir? Does somebody require medical assistance?”

  “Somebody requires a hearse. A large one. Charlie’s Cellar, Crouch End. And you’d better send a fire engine too. I think you’ll need some heavy lifting gear to get him out.”

  “Do I understand correctly, sir? Has somebody died?”

  “Yes. Somebody has very much died.”

  “Do you require the police sir? Has there been foul play?”

  “It’s more than foul, it’s absolutely fucking revolting.”

  There was a pause. “Can I take your name please sir?”

  “Hart. Felix Hart. I’m the manager.”

  1.4

  Crime and Punishment

  It took the fire brigade two days to remove Terry. First, a team wearing hazmat suits sprayed the toilet cubicle and my predecessor with industrial disinfectant. Then the cubicle was demolished, the back door removed and widened, and Terry was carried out on a horse stretcher, on loan from the school of veterinary medicine.

  There was quite a crowd when the oversized body bag was finally hoisted into a bariatric ambulance. As Mrs Finnegan confided the next day, it was the biggest sensation in Crouch End since 1978 when the local Budgens announced they would be stocking avocados.

  An earnest little man from the Environmental Health Department came round a few days later to explain that, during the autopsy, highly toxic pathogens had been found in Terry’s stomach, and these had resulted in his tragic demise. He wanted to know if I was aware what he had eaten in the hours before he departed for the great feeding trough in the sky.

  I didn’t want to get Mehmet into trouble – his chips were delicious, and he always gave me an extra-large portion. “Terry always used to bring in leftovers from his dinner the night before and stuff them in pitta bread from the supermarket,” I explained, wide eyed. “Usually sliced meat, I think. He was very careful with his money and hated to waste anything. We don’t have a fridge here, so his leftovers would sometimes sit on the side all morning before he ate them. I suppose that’s not advisable?”

  “It certainly is not!” said the man from Environmental Health, scribbling in his notebook.

  The thought of Terry having anything left over from a previous meal was ridiculous, of course. And I made a mental note to advise Mehmet that ten seconds in the microwave might not be enough for slices of raw doner kebab.

  Gary Richards dropped by several days in a row to check the store was open and trading properly. It was, of course, because I’d been running it myself for the past six months.

  “You’re doing a great job, Felix. I see you’ve even got on top of that problem with cigarette theft.”

  “It’s not so difficult, sir, when you’ve got a motivated and passionate workforce.”

  “Excellent. You must share some of your tips with the wider region. We could do with more passion in our stores.”

  My mind strayed to Maria, bending over the office table on tiptoes, tight jeans round her knees, cursing and exhorting me to pump faster. “I’d be delighted to share my technique more widely, sir.” And how about you promote me to manager while you’re at it, arsehole? “And I would be honoured if you gave me the opportunity to take up the challenge of an official management role too, sir.”

  “Let’s see how you manage over Christmas, Felix, then I’ll consider it.”

  Thanks for nothing, you bastard. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  ***

  I wasn’t complacent – I’d heard enough about overflowing stockrooms and queues of shouting customers to know that Christmas would be a challenge. And, indeed, the festive week hit us like a tsunami.

  Raj, our driver, was delivering Champagne and Pinot Grigio to the well-heeled of Highgate every hour of the day, while the punters queued across the shop and out the door. The team manned the tills while I stalked around the store, offering sage advice to customers, from yummy mummies to coffin-dodging pensioners. My months of wine tasting with Harry had made me a confident and knowledgeable salesman. Every customer who wanted a bottle bought a case, and those who wanted a case departed with six.

  By the twenty-third of December I was exhausted. I’d spent every minute of the previous few days on my feet, helping customers and directing staff. Then, after we closed, I restocked the shelves, assembled orders for Raj to deliver the next day, and entered replenishment orders on the stock computer. I got back to Tariq’s at around two each morning and collapsed into bed, setting my alarm for six the next morning so I’d be in time for the arrival of the Charlie’s Cellar delivery truck with new stock.

  When my alarm sounded on the morning of Christmas Eve it was still pitch dark. I swung my legs from under the duvet and sat up, clicking on the bedside lamp. My head was swimming with fatigue and every muscle in my arms and chest ached from humping hundreds of cases into the delivery van. I had the busiest day of the year ahead of me but I wasn’t sure I could summon the strength to even stand. I was destroyed – I could feel my head drooping even as I fought the urge to sleep.

  And then I spotted the little box peeping out from my kit bag in the corner of the bedroom. The strange sketch of orange mountains and that bizarre title, Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel. A pick-me-up, Mr du Plessis had said. Well, that’s what I needed all right.

  I staggered across the room and grabbed the box. Just one teaspoon, he’d said. I tore open the top. There was a sealed zip-lock plastic bag inside, full of white powder. I opened the seal and carefully transferred a level teaspoon into a coffee mug, filled it with tap water and stirred it. The powder fizzed vigorously then vanished, leaving the water with a faint pink hue. I smelt it but, aside from a faint whiff of soda water, there was no aroma. I took a small sip and swallowed. It had a fruity, slightly chalky flavour, not unpleasant, so I took a larger gulp. Nothing untoward happened so I drained the cup. At least I was upright now. I pulled on my Charlie’s Cellar rugby shirt and cleaned my teeth, noticing a warm feeling spreading through my stomach.

  As I descended the stairs, I could feel the ache in my muscles had subsided. I felt lighter. By the time I shut Tariq’s front door noiselessly behind me, my head had cleared and my hearing seemed more acute. There was a spring in my step and, much to my surprise, I broke into a run, covering the couple of miles in a quarter of an hour, my muscles rippling with energy. I arrived at the shop a new
man, brimming with power and focus. I hurled open the steel shutters and marched into the store, bellowing a profane version of ‘Jingle Bells’ at the top of my voice.

  That day I was a man possessed, simultaneously carrying out a live wine tasting, trading every punter up to a full case, and urging the team on to ever-greater heights of customer service. I took just one short break the entire day, when I led Maria into the office and gave her a huge, knee-trembling Christmas bonus, at which she screamed with such delight that Harry knocked on the door to check everything was all right.

  We completely dominated the North London fine-wine trade that Christmas and, for the first time ever, Crouch End took the prestigious number-one position for sales across South East England. On January the fourth, as I restocked the shelves in the sober New Year, Gary Richards wandered in with a little framed certificate.

  “Congratulations, Felix! You’re promoted to manager!”

  About fucking time! “Thank you sir! I’ve got lots of ideas on how to build sales here – we’ve barely scratched the surface.”

  “Not here, Felix. I need you to run our Little Chalfont branch. The latest manager has resigned following yet another armed robbery and the place is on its knees. You’re just the man to sort it out.”

  I was floored. Little fucking Chalfont? I didn’t even know where it was – presumably some sleepy village, way out of town? I didn’t want to sell Hock to rural biddies, I wanted to sell fine wines to bankers and TV stars. And I didn’t like the fact that the store’s best customer was an armed man in a balaclava with questionable manners.

  “But, what about Crouch End, sir?”

  “Sorry Felix. You’ve done a great job but we have some senior managers who have been waiting a long time for a store like this.”

  Time-serving old bastards, more like. Bollocks.

  “You don’t have to go. You could stay here as a shop assistant, of course. But I should mention there’s a perk that comes with the Little Chalfont store.”

  And what’s that then? A sponge baseball bat to wave at chummy when he’s next in for the contents of the safe?