Black Bag

“It’s easy enough,” said Mandy from behind the counter, “isn’t it Julie?”

Julie, at the photocopier, nodded.

“All you do is take their wee book, mark in how much they’ve paid and deduct it from the running total, then make an entry in your hand-held computer and leave.”

“Thanks,” said Mark Rowland. It was his first day at Friendly Credit. It was an amazing company that had never changed in 150 years. Credit was given out door-to-door and the collections made the same way. For every £100.00 borrowed the company got back £177.00. They were worth millions.

Mandy was the collections manager. “Don’t forget your bag,” she said, sitting the object in question on the counter. It was a squat black thing with a long strap. Instead of being made of nylon as so many were these days, it was some kind of closely woven fabric impregnated with some water-retarding agent that made it gleam like the carapace of some dark, scuttling insect.

He put the bag over his head. The strap was not adjustable, so the bag hung down at waist level.

“Deters bag snatchers,” said Mandy cheerfully.

Mark was about to reply, but he felt a gagging, choking sensation and the narrow office swam before him.

“Are you all right?” asked Mandy with a worried frown.

Mark smiled at her. The sensation had vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

“Never better,” said, looking every inch the professional in his dark suit, his fair hair neatly trimmed.

He left the office, the bag hanging at his right side. He had his computer, his papers and his round. Really the job was no better than being a glorified message boy. For obvious reasons not many people turned the job into a profession. For Mark, who had been made redundant from his engineering firm at only 36 years old the vacancy was a godsend. It had not appeared in the papers. A friend of his mothers had told them that her collector had been missing for weeks. As a favour he had gone into the office to find out why the money was not being taken only to be hired on the spot.

As for what had happened to the previous collector – the girls in the office had been reticent, only saying that head office had asked them not to discuss the matter. Mark smiled to himself as he got into his Fiat Punto. He would get the story soon enough if he just hung around the office. He knew that much about human nature. Theft was his guess.

He had no time to speculate, his beat was the south side of Glasgow and he was surprised to find that many of his clients lived in big houses with long driveways. But many were elderly and he was offering ready cash.

By the time 7.30 pm came his bag was bulging with money, especially since many had paid him in pound coins. The fact that the cash had not been collected for a month meant that he now carried a fortune.

The bag was an annoyance as it hung at his side, thumping against his hip with every step. The strap was tight against the side of his neck, making him a little uncomfortable. But certainly not bag enough to choke.

He was now on his last run, a block of red sandstone flats. He noted the building was six story’s high. 48 McKenzie Street.

Why was the name McKenzie familiar to him? It was like a name remembered from a dream, then it all came flooding back to him. The story was his – and hers.

It was the same day on which he was made redundant. He was driving round and round the mean street trying to calm the thoughts in his head about how he was going to cope.

The girl, a little blonde thing of about five, stepped in front of his car. She was hit so hard that she bounced off his car bonnet.

Panic seized him and he drove on, seeing her lying there like a rag doll in his rear view mirror, one show pathetically lying a few feet from her.

After a sleepless night he scanned the papers next day and found the article. Angela McKenzie, that was her name. She had gone out to play and strayed too far from her grandmother’s home. The old woman was devastated.

The article was illustrated with a picture of the now dead child. The only mercy was that the impact had killed her instantly. If you could call it mercy.

Mark suffered the torments of hell thinking about what to do. Of course he should have gone straight to the police, but the accident had no witnesses. She had walked in front of HIM and she was dead, nothing could bring her back. Besides she shouldn’t have run away and what was the woman in charge thinking of?

The excuses went on and on, but gradually the sleepless nights vanished along with the fear of a late-night knock and the sight of two policemen coming to take him away.

Then he had been given his new job and the nightmares had vanished completely.

The pressure on the side of his neck and the weight at his hip brought him back to reality. The sooner he got in and ‘cashed up’, the better. Drained already, he climbed the stairs. Of course there was no lift and his customer just had to live in the top flat.

It was an old-fashioned tenement and in his slow climb he could see iron brackets set at intervals in the stairwell wall, and supposed that in the past these would have been the supports for long-gone gas mantles. The lighting itself was dim, provided by a 40 watt bulb on each landing so that for a time, at each turning he was bathed in deep shadow.

Finally, his chest heaving, the breath catching in his throat, he was knocking at his customer’s door. It opened only after a long interval and he found himself confronted by an old lady with a wild mane of grey hair and a pointed chin. She looked so like the traditional image of a witch that he gave a start.

She obviously had few visitors, for she thrust the paper book and money at him, all the while staring intently at him with glittering black eyes. He wrote down the correct amount, struggling to see in the poor lighting, and typed into his hand-held. His usual cheerful customer chat was lost in a throat that seemed as suddenly dry as sandpaper.

“I can see him in you,” she said in a confidential whisper, leaning forward and yep, her breath was as foul as expected. Then she gave a screaming laugh that seemed to echo round and around the stone flagged landing.

He thrust the book back at her with nervous fingers and turned away, not seeing the door shut, but hearing it bang behind him like a pistol shot.Giving way to panic he ran headlong down the stairs, the weight of the bag pulling him with it.

He rounded a corner too fast and then he was dropping down the stairwell. Desperately he tried to free himself of the albatross around his neck. He managed to get his arm free but this only made his situation worse because the bag looped itself around his neck. He put up both his hands to free himself, but as he did so the bag caught on one of the jutting brackets. His neck broken he swung there as the tough metal held his weight.

He was found by the postman the next, because the mad old lady never went out and the flat was empty…

That same day Mandy and Julie discussed the tragedy that would soon be spread all over the papers and couldn’t be hushed up like the last one.

“Coincidence,” said Julie. Mandy shivered.

“But he died just the same way as Bill.”

“It’s just that bloody dangerous stairwell,” said Julie.

“Well we’re writing off the old lady’s loan. No-one’s going there again while I’m, here.”

“It’s a shame for the old girl, she just went loopy when her granddaughter was killed in a hit and run accident three months ago. She told Bill all about it before his accident when she was still a bit sane.”

Mandy dangled the thing from her hand that the forensic people had just finished with.

“Still, this is just a dumb object, can’t be blamed for a thing.” And on the counter lay the long-strapped bag like a black shiny insect as it waited for the next collector.