Heading Inland (13 page)

It was almost seven when he turned into Jenny’s crescent. From a distance he stared up at Jenny’s window. He was fully aware of Jenny. He was sensitive like that. He had to be. He knew that for years he’d been looking in her bin and for years she hadn’t cared but that now she did care. He knew that people were very prone to chucking things out and then feeling like the things that they’d abandoned still
belonged
to them in some sense. Stupid.

He saw Jenny’s outline etched in charcoal against the windowpane. He didn’t like being watched. Even so, he drew close to the bags, let go of his trolley, appraised the bags. One bag had been piled up on top. It had an interesting shape. He knocked the bag with his foot, kicked it aside and inspected some of the other bags below.

Jenny was dumbfounded. She was incredulous. All those good things in her bag, all her best things, and he had kicked it aside. If she squinted, she could see that he had opened another bag and was now cradling an old telephone directory in his arms. It was doused in something that looked like beetroot juice. Something cerise. Ugh!

Chad put the directory into his trolley, returned to the bag, pulled out an empty chocolate box, inspected it, put it back, tied up the bag.

He opened another bag, close to the bottom. From within this bag he withdrew an old mop head and a plastic packet of carrots which hadn’t been opened. He turned the packet of carrots over in his hand to double-check that they hadn’t been touched, grimaced, noticed some mould on one of the carrots. He tossed the mop head into his trolley, tore open the plastic wrapping on the carrots and took one out. He bit off the mouldy end, spat it out, into the hawthorn, then proceeded to crunch his way through the remainder.

Jenny’s eyes were wide, her mouth gaped. Those were
her
carrots. That was
her
mop head. This bag, her second bag, her rubbish bag, had been put at the bottom of the pile, specifically, so that Chad wouldn’t get at it. How did he
know
? How?

Jenny raised her fist as if to knock on the window but stopped herself, froze, just in time, as Chad, at last, turned to the special bag, the kicked-aside bag.

As he untied it he was muttering to himself. He was saying, ‘Something funny here. There’s a reason. Something funny. That slag. Something up. Doesn’t smell like rubbish. Bag’s clean.’

He opened the bag. He pulled out a couple of lace tablemats. He folded them carefully and put them on the pavement to his right. He took out a Catherine Cookson novel and did the same. He took out the bag of rice, the felt-tips – these he held for a moment, he liked them, clearly – he took out the beans and the teapot. He liked the teapot, too.

Jenny sat at her window, watching him. She was very pleased indeed. This was right. This was good. She just
knew
this would happen. Absolutely.

What was her motivation? What was her plan of action? She didn’t know yet. Hadn’t decided. But it would be big when it came, and decisive, and when it happened she would
know
it had happened. Just so.

Jenny waited impatiently for Chad to put the stuff into his trolley. Everything was piled neatly on the pavement now, all correct and complete.

Chad appraised the pile of stuff. He then peered up at Jenny in her window through his lashes. He made a quick decision. He unzipped his fly, pulled out his penis, urinated strongly and freely on to the little pile of objects. He shook himself, put himself away, did up his zip. He walked over to his trolley. He departed.

Oh, Jenny was angry now. Oh, she was angry. ‘I knew it!’ she shouted out, through the window, through the wall, through the front door, at the emergency cord. ‘I just
knew
he’d do that. I knew he would. I did! I did! ‘Course I did!’

But a voice in her head said, ‘Did you know? Huh? Did you?’ So she ripped off a wide strip of wallpaper with her bare nails to prove to herself that she did know. She then discovered that she was having difficulty breathing. She felt dirty. Almost like he’d urinated on to her directly. Into her mouth. Her mouth! It was too much. She screamed and kicked her slippered foot against the wall again and again until she heard her toes snapping.

Problem was, Naomi – in her rush to get to her emergency cord – slipped on a plash of egg fat which had spat, seconds before, out of her frying pan and on to her kitchen lino.

At ten o’clock, when Peter called around to find out if she wanted any shopping, he discovered Naomi, crashed, incapacitated, bruises already flowering on her head and arms like bright kisses of cranberry. She’d fractured her fibia and sprained her wrist. She had slight concussion.

Jenny watched the ambulance departing from her bedroom window. Naomi’s hurt, she thought. I just knew that would happen. Chad did it. Chad, Chad, Chad, Chad, Chad.

She made splints for her toes out of toilet rolls, Sellotape and toothpicks. She’d nursed a bird once with a broken wing in just this way so she guessed that this process would be adequate. Her toes swelled. It hurt when she walked.

That night, while she slept – her foot propped up on a special pillow like a crown on a velvet cushion – Jenny dreamed of Chad’s cold sores. She dreamed she was licking them with the tip of her tongue. They felt bumpy, like the head of a broccoli spear. They tasted like cough candy. She awoke, sweating, got up and drank four glasses of water in succession.

Thursday morning, Peter came to see her. Jenny did not make him tea. She was sitting on her sofa with a blanket over her legs. She said plaintively, ‘I think I’ve got a chest infection. Bad catarrh.’

Peter came back later with some herbal lozenges, two lemons and a packet of Anadins. Jenny thanked him cordially.

It was a long week. Her toes hurt. The big toe especially. It remained swollen. The nail was cracked, but gradually Jenny found she could negotiate the hurdles and obstacles in her flat without too much duress.

She was waiting for Wednesday. She was waiting for Wednesday to come. Waiting, aching for Wednesday.

Chad almost didn’t turn into the crescent. An instinct. Something warned him. Even so . . .

There were fewer bags out than usual. Chad let go of his trolley, stepped back a bit and peered up towards Jenny’s window. The window was bare. Jenny wasn’t there. He was so surprised that he whistled to himself under his breath.
Toot-teet-toot!
He stepped forward and bent over to pick up a bag.

Jenny had always
known
, in the pit of her stomach, that some day her thick volume of Mrs Beeton’s Cookery Classics would come in handy. The sound of Chad’s jaunty little whistle was still resounding in her ears as she stood up from her position behind the hawthorn and smashed it down hard on to the back of his head.

He staggered left, he staggered right, tipped forwards, whoops! Clump. Jenny
knew
that Chad would fall over in just this way and she also knew that he would come to after a minute or so, open his eyes, blink rapidly and rub his forehead like he didn’t know what the hell had hit him. Jenny planned to be back in her flat by then, Mrs Beeton stashed carefully among her other cookery books on her kitchen cabinet.

Unfortunately Chad didn’t stir, didn’t shudder or twitch for several minutes. After five minutes Jenny became slightly perturbed. She stared at him from her bedroom window. She pushed her window open and yelled down.

‘Oi!’

Chad didn’t move.

‘Oi!’

Nothing.

Jenny’s heart started racing. She didn’t think this would happen. She didn’t
know
this would happen. She didn’t. She didn’t. Nope.

Ha
ha!
Chad was awake but lying still as a corpse. He was so happy. He could hear Jenny’s voice, low and then fluting, calm and then jumbled with fear and fright and mortification. He lay as still as he could without stopping breathing. He pretended he was a piece of driftwood lying on a beach. He was full of mystery.

Jenny went into her hallway and stared at her emergency cord. She could not. She could not. Her hand . . . ooohh!

Peter came. Jenny was outside by now, struggling to pick Chad up and he was as limp as a broken wrist. Without asking any questions, Peter took hold of Chad’s feet and Jenny held him by the shoulders. Between them they carried him upstairs, to Jenny’s flat, into her bedroom, on to her bed. Chad felt the mattress give under his weight, could smell lavender water and cheap talc on the pillow.

Peter knew his first aid. He gave Chad the once over. Chad was enjoying being limp and lifeless, still driftwood, still inscrutable. Through his lashes he glimpsed Jenny standing in the doorway, chewing her nails. He was laughing inside.

‘Do you know what happened, Jenny?’ Peter asked, eventually.

‘Uh.’ Jenny had been wondering whether cold sores were contagious, whether to get a tea-towel and prop it under Chad’s head so that he didn’t infect her pillow.

‘I saw him,’ she said slowly, then quickening up. ‘I saw him bend over and then just fall, like. I
knew
something bad would happen. I could tell from the very first time I saw him.’

Peter sighed. ‘Maybe I should call an ambulance –’ He paused and then added, ‘What happened to your foot, incidentally?’

‘Uh.’ Jenny looked down at her foot as though this was the first time she’d noticed anything amiss with it.

Chad sat bolt upright. ‘You lying cow!’ he spluttered. ‘Is this any way to treat a man?’

Peter and Jenny both turned and stared at Chad, agog. Before either of them could say anything, Chad said, ‘I had a wife and a home and a good education. I had them. I gave them up.’

‘Get off my bed,’ Jenny said, ‘you dirty piece of shit.’

‘If I’m a piece of shit,’ Chad said, not moving, ‘then what does that make you?’

‘You try and stop me!’ Jenny yelled, turning on her heel and sprinting from the room.

Chad stared at Peter, frowning. ‘What? Where’s she think she’s going?’

They heard the front door slam and the sound of Jenny’s feet clattering down the stairs. Chad’s eyes widened for a second and then he sprang up from the bed and ran to the window. Outside he saw Jenny lumbering over to his trolley and plunging her hands in it.

‘The bitch!’

Chad spun around and ran for the door. Peter walked to the window and peered out. Down below, Jenny was elbow deep in Chad’s trolley, pulling out pieces of clothing, coffee jars, blankets, old books, dried flowers, three bottles of brightly coloured nail varnish. Eventually she found the thing she was searching for and held it up, held it aloft like the most precious trophy. The Soap Ball! Chad’s Soap Ball!
The bits of soap, where they’ve been, private places, him all dirty, a bit wet and then rubbed, and then rubbed, and then
. . .

Chad charged into the street. Peter saw his lips moving.
Give me that
! Jenny held the Soap Ball to her chest, with both hands.
Nope. It’s mine
! Chad lunged at her. Jenny stepped aside. Jenny said
Keep away from me with your dirty hair. All this soap and you’ve never even used it
. Chad said
Give it me! It’s mine
! Jenny said
You had a wife and you had a education, so you say, and now you go in everyone’s bins taking their private things and their soaps and everything
. Chad stopped then, stood stock still. He stared at Jenny with an odd expression on his face. Like she was worthless and he’d only just realized it.

Peter turned away from the window. Suddenly he felt quite sick, a curious feeling in his stomach. He sat down for a moment on Jenny’s bed to try to collect himself. You see, he’d just had a premonition and it had struck him with such sharpness, such clarity. He’d just had a vision. It was the future. Ten years. Chad and Jenny, living together in this small flat. The walls a different colour. Everything dirtier. Jenny had a broken arm. Chad had a drink problem. They were happy together. Happy! She was defective and he loved her and she
knew
that he loved her. She did. She did.

Peter stood up, gingerly.

Jenny held the Soap Ball. It was all she’d imagined. Heavy and spiky, like a deep sea creature, like one of those puffer fish that sometimes you saw dried and suspended in dusty old museums near to the coast.

Parker Swells

The first thing she noticed was his handwriting. She was taking classes, you see, in handwriting analysis. His name was Parker Swells. She thought it was a silly name, not a name she could believe in. And his handwriting sloped to the left, wasn’t confident, was ill-constructed. There were breaks where there should be joins, no flow, no coherence.

Under Previous Experience – when she checked his application form – he had written:
Builder
. In one glance she saw how he’d left school at sixteen with no exams, but now . . . one two three . . . now he had eight O levels and four A levels. Maths, economics, sociology, physics.

But he was a builder. And you’d think, she thought, that if he was a builder then he’d consider how he wrote things, keep straight on the line, not dip below, and make sure that the overall effect was clear and true. You’d think so.

She’d only met him briefly, when she’d sat in on the interview. They’d liked him. He came over well, seemed nervous but didn’t fidget. He had a habit of blowing his fringe out of his eyes. What could that mean? She scratched her ear. Maybe he needed a haircut.

Her name was Bethan and she was a personnel officer. She was responsible for the second interview, the recall. And in this arena she brought to bear all the things she’d learned at college and at night school, and on the job, naturally, about the corporation and the kind of person who’d fit best. The corporate man. Or woman.

Tell me
, she’d said, on her quiz form,
which you would prefer if given the choice: a well-crafted gun or a beautiful poem?

Tell me
, she said, just underneath,
in your own words, what was the best thing that happened to you last weekend?

Parker Swells was not his real name. He’d done things he’d regretted in the past thirty-three years, and he had a child in Norfolk that he didn’t want to answer for to the CSA. No way.

It was a desk job he was after at one of the four big banks. He’d passed three lots of accountancy exams. He’d walked the first interview and this was his second. Filling in a quiz form full of patronizing psychological pish.

After inspecting the form for the third time, Parker wondered whether to write what he really thought or whether to write the kinds of answers he knew they’d like to hear. But how in-depth were these things? Could they tell he was lying if he did lie? Could they ascertain by the way you dotted your
i
s and crossed your
t
s that you weren’t being wholly sincere? What exactly were they capable of, nowadays? His pen wavered.

Bethan had withdrawn to her office, through a door to the left. The door was ajar though and Parker could see her ankle and the toe of her black patent leather shoe. She had dark hair and brown eyes and she was going somewhere. No wedding ring. A lambswool polo-neck which clung at her throat as tight and sure as the skin of a banana. She was slim. She was untroubled. She could afford to think about why people behaved as they did. To judge. Her life had been exemplary. She needed no excuses.

Tell me
, the paper read,
which you would prefer if given the choice: a well-crafted gun or a beautiful poem?

He’d been a builder. He liked tools and a gun was a practical thing. He had no moral objection to firearms. But his hand, his right hand, had been badly damaged in an accident, and so, realistically, unless he could learn to aim and shoot with his left hand – as he’d learned to write, and that had been a battle – then it would be of no real use to him.

He was shy about his right hand. It was fingerless, supporting only a thumb. He kept it in his pocket or behind his back. People rarely noticed.

Parker picked up his pen with his left hand. He reappraised the sheet of questions. What did they want him to write? In a company this big and this brutal, he supposed the gun, really. And the way the place had been built, out of steel and glass, all smooth edged and modern. A gun.

Even so, he was only one person in this whole corporation, one piece, one part. And he had a gammy hand. And he had no real use for a firearm. He wasn’t afraid of anything. He had no scores to settle. He didn’t like loud noises, nor did his neighbours. Maybe the poem.

But Parker couldn’t remember ever reading a poem. He’d read limericks. He listened to songs and memorized the words.

He liked that.

Bethan picked up Parker’s quiz form. In the gap under the question about the gun and the poem he had written:

She pushed her hair behind her ear. He was evasive, she decided, and yet assertive. He was confident. But at the same time, he didn’t feel sure enough of himself to opt for one thing or the other. Maybe he didn’t like making choices. Maybe he didn’t enjoy making decisions. He was slippery.

Her eye travelled lower. She sighed at the way he’d mixed upper case and lower case letters. She started reading again.

What was the best thing that happened to you last weekend?

Here he had written:

Parker had drawn an arrow and had continued this answer on to an extra piece of paper.

‘Tea or coffee?’ Bethan asked, strolling into the room.

Parker looked up. ‘Tea, white, two sugars. Thanks.’

When Bethan returned with his tea, she placed the cup on the desk to his right. She had small hands, he noticed, and on her wrist was a little charm bracelet. The ornaments hanging on it were all connected with animals – fish, mainly, but a ladybird and a robin, too.

Parker thanked her for the tea, watched the curve of her hip pushing against the black fabric that contained it as she walked from the room, picked up his pen, smiled to himself and then started writing.

Bethan turned over the sheet, ready to find something on the other side but the other side was blank. She had become quite engrossed. What an odd man, she thought, and stared fixedly at the sheets before her while using her free hand to fiddle, unconsciously, with the little charm bracelet on her wrist.

She tried to work out what the answer Parker Swells had given her meant. What did it say about him? His friend had died. He was sensitive – worried about the possibility of having injured or offended him – but how did that relate to a work context? Could it relate?

She bit her lip. Parker’s reaction to Sam’s death had been curious, kind of dispassionate. But he went along to clean his flat, to help out, so he was handy. Good in an emergency? And then finally . . . the eggs. That was strange.

Bethan reread the additional material Parker had added on the second page about the duck hatching. This was the part of his story she found most interesting. Again, she messed with the bracelet on her wrist, looked down at it for a moment: fish, fish, robin, shark, fish.

Sometimes Bethan felt she had to be like a private detective in her line of business. To discover things, to unearth people’s secrets, to pluck at threads and see what she could unravel. To read significant signs and signals into the apparently superficial.

Parker Swells had confused her. She felt all fogged up. She inspected his writing again, the slope, the mis-links, the way he didn’t close his
a
s and his
o
s. She delved into her bag and took out her college notes. She checked back on a couple of references. There were signs here, definite signs. Below the line, sloping left, the
o
s . . . He was a liar.

Parker didn’t get his third interview. The letter they sent him – the people from personnel – said very little, only that they’d had plenty of applicants and they hoped he’d find success elsewhere.

By a strange coincidence, a week to the day after Bethan had dispatched her rejection letter to Parker Swells, she met him on the platform at Canary Wharf, waiting for a train. It was five thirty. She was on her way home to Bow. As she walked past him he said hello.

‘Hello,’ she said, and looked at him askance.

‘Sorry, you probably don’t remember me.’

‘I remember you.’ She smiled. ‘The duck.’

He chuckled at this but added nothing. ‘I was here,’ he said, by way of explanation, ‘on another interview. With another bank.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes.’

He was handsome, she thought, in his own way. He had gappy teeth and green eyes and skin which had seen the sun. Leathery. But he was a liar.

The train arrived. The doors opened. Parker was actually in front of Bethan, but he stepped back and held out his arm. ‘After you.’

She thanked him and moved forward and then she saw it. His right hand, completely mangled. He caught her expression. ‘An accident,’ he said, ‘at work.’

She nodded. They climbed on to the train. ‘It’s ugly,’ he said, with apparent unselfconsciousness.

‘Were you left-handed originally?’ Bethan asked, shocked and momentarily stuck for something to say.

‘No. Right-handed, always. I had to learn to use my left hand. To write, to eat and everything. After the accident I found I couldn’t work so effectively in a manual capacity. That’s why I decided to go to college. To qualify for something else.’

Bethan nodded. ‘I get it.’

She felt guilty. She was normally so perceptive. That was what she was trained for and paid for, after all. That was her job. To notice things. But she hadn’t noticed this. It was down to her, finally, that Parker hadn’t got the third interview. Down to her, reading too much into things. But was that it? Maybe the problem had actually been a
lack
of information.

He should have told her about his hand. This was the kind of detail the company needed to be acquainted with. Doubtless, she told herself, stroking and smoothing her own ruffled feathers, too little information and not too much had been her stumbling block.

‘Are you still working as a builder?’ Bethan asked, eventually, praying for the affirmative.

‘When I can.’

‘What kind of things do you do?’

‘Laying patios, retiling, making paths, that sort of work. And building ponds.’

Bethan blinked. ‘I’ve got some ponds,’ she said, ‘a big one and a little one. Two ponds.’

‘I know. You keep fish.’

Bethan was beguiled. ‘How could you know that?’

He pointed to her wrist. ‘Your bangle. Full of fish charms.’

She chuckled. ‘I gave myself away.’

‘Not at all. I’m simply interested,’ he said, ‘in details.’

‘Me too. Actually . . .’ She looked out of the window to check where they were. Three stops still to go. ‘Actually,’ she said, fiddling with her bracelet, ‘I wish I’d known about your bad hand. That might’ve affected the conclusions we reached on your second interview.’

‘What kind of fish do you keep?’ he asked, like he hadn’t really heard her.

‘Carp. Koi carp. Beautiful ornamental carp.’