•
She left work early that afternoon. She was hungry and there were a few things she needed to sort out at the bank, so she bought herself takeaway rice noodles and ate them on the way.
She could still taste the spices as she queued up in the bank. She hadn’t made an appointment. The grimly clinical foyer was deserted apart from two bank clerks behind the counter—a man and a woman—and four customers in two lines. The female clerk was middle-aged, the man quite a bit younger, maybe in his mid-twenties, and so short and slight that he’d probably look like a fourteen-year-old even when he was ready for retirement. Norah got in his queue; he’d just finished serving a white-haired man in a checked suit. This elderly gent thanked him politely but, as he turned to go, he cast a glance of irritation at the woman waiting behind him. The boy at the counter, too, seemed troubled by the woman, so Norah had a closer look at her. She was tall, with slim legs in skinny jeans, and long black hair worn loose over a smart, navy-blue coat. It wasn’t until she spoke that Norah realised what had been bothering the two men: the woman was trans. Angered, Norah watched the gawping old man leave the bank. She thought of her friend Coco and their recent walk. Norah had talked her into going into town although her face was such a mess, and soon regretted it when she saw the way people stared.
She resolved to call Coco that evening and find out how she was and, coming back to the present, she heard the clerk asking the trans woman for some papers or other. Norah registered with annoyance that he was talking much louder than before, as if she were deaf.
‘Mr Gruber,’ he read out from the papers.
The woman said something that Norah didn’t catch.
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ the clerk replied, still talking in an unnecessarily loud voice, ‘but it clearly says Mr here, doesn’t it?’
Norah’s tooth began to throb.
The man glanced at his colleague for approval. Norah saw her suppress a grin and felt herself growing hot. She couldn’t catch what was said next, but she saw the trans woman shrink under the bank clerk’s gaze so it wasn’t hard to guess. From the snatches she heard, she gathered that he was demanding extensive documentation from the woman, although all she wanted was to open a basic account.
‘Then I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr Gruber,’ the clerk said condescendingly.
Fury seethed in Norah. Since what had happened in Berlin, her rage was never far off the boil, ready to bubble up at a moment’s notice. Why did people have to be so fucking unpleasant?
The woman stood at the counter for a few seconds longer, then turned to leave, defeated.
‘Have a nice day, sir,’ the bank clerk called after her with a grin, as she went out, hanging her head.
‘Pervert,’ he added, catching his colleague’s eye.
‘I mean, isn’t she?’ he asked, when she didn’t reply. ‘Honestly, that kind of thing makes me want to vomit.’
His colleague smiled noncommittally; the man she was serving snorted in amused agreement, but nobody said anything. Norah watched the woman go. Through the glass doors, she saw her cross the road and walk away, so fragile, despite her large build.
‘Next, please.’ Norah heard the clerk’s rasping voice and wheeled round.
‘Hello,’ she said in a loud voice. She threw a last glance over her shoulder, but the woman had vanished.
‘Hello,’ the clerk replied. He saw the look on Norah’s face and misinterpreted it.
‘Ridiculous, isn’t it, the kind of people on the loose these days?’ he asked, grinning stupidly at Norah, half obsequious, half conspiratorial.
Norah smiled and, leant forwards slightly. The man grinned back and leant towards her. Norah saw thick plaque on his teeth; she could almost smell it.
‘A contract killing costs about twenty thousand euros,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It’s an urban myth that you can have someone murdered for two or three grand; I’ve looked into it. Twenty thousand is more like it.’
The man behind the counter blinked.
‘Pardon?’ he said.
‘I’ll be honest with you,’ Norah said. ‘I don’t have that kind of money.’ She pushed her hair off her forehead. ‘But a shot in the kneecap starts at about three and a half, and I think I could manage that.’
The clerk stared at her.
‘I’d just have to go without that holiday in the Seychelles in November,’ she said.
There was a pause, while the man processed her words.
‘Are you crazy?’ he stammered out eventually.
Norah waited for a moment before replying.
‘Now you listen to me, you fuckwit,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t care why you’re the way you are. I don’t care if you had a deprived childhood, or if you have complexes about your microscopic dick—though I assume you do. None of that interests me. But if ever I see you treat that lady or anyone else like that again, I’ll hire myself an Andrej or a Giancarlo or a Ditmir, or whatever those reliable Albanians are called, and after that, you can count yourself lucky if you can hobble into the bank on crutches.’
Norah gave the man a dazzling smile, which threw him into even greater confusion.
‘Got that?’ she asked.
‘You’re joking,’ the man said with a laugh, but he must have noticed how hollow it sounded. He pulled a face.
‘You sure about that?’ Norah asked seriously.
The man said nothing.
Norah took a closer look at him—the faded acne scars on his pasty face, the gelled hair, the yellowish teeth. He withstood her gaze for a while, then looked away.
Norah nodded. ‘I thought as much.’
The woman clerk wasn’t serving anyone and Norah could feel her looking at them.
‘I’ll just have to try another bank,’ Norah said, her voice louder again. She turned to go. ‘Thanks all the same!’
Before leaving the foyer, she threw a last glance over her shoulder.
‘I expect the Seychelles are overrated anyway.’
7
‘You know what that’s called in court?’ Norah’s friend Sandra asked, when they spoke on the phone that evening.
‘I’m sure you’re about to tell me.’
‘Impulse control disorder.’
Norah rolled her eyes. ‘The guy was a bastard. You should have seen the way he treated the woman.’
‘I can imagine,’ Sandra said. ‘Still, you can’t do stuff like that all the time, Norah.’
‘What do you mean, all the time?’
Sandra sighed, and Norah wondered whether her clients ever got to hear her sigh like that, or whether it was something she reserved for recalcitrant friends. Sandra had been working in a solicitor’s office for five years, although she was currently on maternity leave.
‘One of these days you’ll get into real trouble,’ Sandra said.
‘Aren’t I already?’ Norah asked.
‘There are worse things in life than libel charges.’
Norah saw Coco’s cut-up face.
‘I know,’ she said softly.
‘How is Coco, by the way?’ asked Sandra, as if she’d read Norah’s thoughts.
‘I don’t really know,’ said Norah. ‘But not great.’