I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday

by BarnaWilde

  "Nothing, not anything," I fumble.

  "Well she must have said something. I could distinctly hear something. Here, let me talk to her."

  "N..No!" I'm starting to sweat. "She won't talk to you. Doesn't deal with women. Some sort of phobia. Something to do with her childhood. Had a terrible experience when she was young. With gypsies, I believe."

  "How do you know all this? I thought you said she didn't say anything?"

  "Just a guess," I say.

  "Tom. There is someone else with you isn't there?" Carole's voice continues in my right ear. "Who's there, Tom? I don't believe it's the cleaner."

  Gail continues talking into my other ear. "Don't be so stupid, Tom. She must know what she charges. It's a perfectly reasonable question to ask." Gail is giving me her hopeless look. I don't mean she is hopeless, I mean the look she gives me when she thinks I'm hopeless. I see it often.

  "Nothing," I say. "Not a penny. She doesn't charge. Does it free. An eccentric. Yes, that's what she said. Doesn't need the money, just likes housework. And helping people."

  "Tom. If you don't answer me, I'll get in my car and drive round to your house." Carole's voice has taken on a more menacing tone. "Perhaps I'll do that anyway," she adds.

  "Well if she's free, she can come anyday," says Gail. "Just the sort of eccentricity that apppeals to me."

  Listen. Did you know that when twenty two footballers are running around on a football pitch, the odds that there will be two of them with the same birthday are better than evens. It's surprising, but true. That little fact is so surprising that when two people discover they have the same birthday, they say "what an amazing coincidence." and "would you believe it?" It isn't amazing at all, of course. Just a simple statistical truth. Well, probability theory if you want to be more precise.

  People also say "lightening never strikes twice in the same place." But that's not true either. The Empire State building has been struck by lightening hundreds of times. Not coincidence at all.

  I need a coincidence now. A lightening strike would do nicely. I need a bolt of lightening to take out the telephone line. I think it's about time I got lucky.

  “Tom.....talk to me Tom.”

  Click. Silence.

  The receiver has suddenly gone quiet in my hand. Carole has gone. The telephone line is dead. What an amazing coincidence. Just when I needed it.

  "Hello," I say to the dead phone. "Hello. Is there anyone there?"

  Silence. Bliss.

  "What's happened?" asks Gail.

  "Lightening I should think," I reply. "Yep. I reckon a bolt of lightening must have taken out the phone line." I hand her the receiver so that she can listen to the silence too.

  "But the weather is completely clear," she says. "You don't get lightening on days like this."

  "Amazing." I say. "Isn't it incredible how nature can constantly surprise us."

  Gail studies me with a disbelieving look on her face, but she can't argue. She heard the silence too. After a few seconds she shrugs and disappears back to the sitting room.

  When she has gone, I replace the receiver in the cradle and bend down to unravel the phone lead from the toes of my right foot. I almost push the connector back into the socket, but, on reflection, I decide to leave it unplugged for the time being, in case Carole decides to ring back.

  Sometimes you just have to give coincidence a hand. Besides, it's time things started to go my way for a change.

  Oh. By the way. The birthday thing works for cricketers too. Or ballet dancers. I'm not sure about pygmies. I don't know whether they have birthdays. Or hippos. Do hippos have birthdays? I can't imagine hippos blowing out birthday cake candles, can you?

  ***

  Geoffrey came into the house quietly. He had a package under his arm. He slipped upstairs without being noticed and, with as little noise as he could make, he pulled down the loft ladder and climbed up. He pushed the brown paper package behind a box and clambered back down without wasting time. As he pushed the ladder back up through the trapdoor, a little shower of dust cascaded down and frosted him lightly across the top his head and shoulders.

  "Is that you, Geoffrey?" called a voice from downstairs.

  "Yes dear. I'll be right down," he replied. His fingers were dirty from the ladder, and he rubbed them on his trousers as he headed downstairs.

  ***

  After tea, I retire to the garage. I take with me the map pin and the cotton wool balls that I collected earlier. You see, I told you there was a purpose to all this.

  A couple of minutes rummaging turns up a small length of fuse wire wound round a yellowing card, and my old dart board. I have no idea where the darts are.

  I am not a practical man, but a few moments work with the wire and I have turned the pin and cotton wool ball into a passable imitation of a blowpipe dart. It's time to try it all out.

  I hang the dart board on the back of the garage door, about at head height, and take the copper pipe to the far end. By fluffing the cotton wool ball, I make the dart a loose fit into the tube. I lift the tube, my improvised blowpipe, to my lips and take sight along it's length at the dart board. The tube has a distinct curve to it, and it's difficult to know quite where it should be pointed. The end of the tube seems to wave about rather in the air. I try to hold it steady. One puff, and the dart flies effortlessly from the tube and hits the dart board just above the bull a fraction of a second later.

  At least, that's what should have happened. What actually happens is nothing. The dart merely sticks at the entrance to the pipe. I try again. Blowing harder this time. The dart moves. Fractionally.

  Perhaps I've made it too tight a fit?

  I manage to shake it from the pipe and roll the cotton wool between my fingers gently, to compress it.

  This time it's worse than before. I expend lungfuls of air down the tube, but the dart doesn't even move as much it did previously.

  Perhaps it's too loose, not too tight.

  It falls easily from the pipe when I tip it up. Yes. I'm sure it must be too loose.

  I fluff the cotton wool as much as I can until it is a snug fit in the end of the pipe and try again. This time there is partial success. The dart still doesn't move much, but I can feel resistance now. I just need to blow harder.

  I take a deep breath and blow as hard as I can. It moves! About three inches I would guess. I can still see it in the pipe, but now it is tantalisingly out of reach. I take another breath. Another few inches. Another breath. More movement.

  The pipe is about six feet long. I reckon the dart is moving about three inches with each breath. If my maths is right, another twenty breaths will get it right through the pipe. I don't remember the pygmies having this problem.

  Inhale. Blow. Inhale. Blow. Squint down the pipe. I can no longer see the dart. Inhale. Blow. Inhale. Blow. I'm beginning to feel light headed. Inhale. Blow. Inhale. Blow. The garage light is starting to pulse strangely, and my legs are beginning to go. I can't figure what's happening. I can't tell whether the dart is still moving. Inhale. Blow. I feel very strange. Perhaps it's something I ate. Inhale. Blow. I've lost count of the breaths I've already taken. I'm finding it difficult to stand up straight. My head is spinning.

  A terrible thought overtakes me. Perhaps Gail has poisoned me. Maybe she has guessed what I'm planning. Maybe she poisoned my tea. Did she drink the same as me at tea time? I don't remember.

  I have to get the dart out of the pipe. Inhale. Blow. I wonder what it was she put in the tea? I'm starting to feel really bad. Inhale. Blow. Inhale. Blow. My legs seem not to be there any more, and my arms are losing all feeling. Whatever it was it is acting very quickly.

  How ironic. All the while I've been planning how to kill Gail, it never crossed my mind that she would want to kill me. There may still be time. If I can get the dart and poison the tip, maybe I can get her with it before her poison finally gets me. Inhale. Blow.

  The dart should be almost there by now. I try to look down the
end of the pipe to see it coming, but the feeling in my fingers has completely gone. I can no longer hold the pipe properly and it slips from my fingers onto the floor. I slowly crumple into a heap beside it. The garage is going round and round.

  I manage to retrieve the pipe, but I can't remember which end is which. I can't see the dart from either end. Which way is it headed? There is no way to tell. How long do I still have? There is no way to tell. I only have one choice. I must keep blowing. Even if I am blowing the dart back into the tube, eventually it must come out of the other end. It can't be more than twenty three breaths either way.

  By a supreme effort of will power I get my mouth over the end of the pipe. Inhale. Blow. Inhale. Blow. Inhale.

  Listen. I don't know exactly what happened next. I remember blowing and then I remember being asleep. I don't know how long I was asleep.

  "Tom. Wake up. Come on, Tom. Wake up."

  I am aware of being shaken. I can hear Gail's voice way off in the distance. She's calling me.

  "Tom. Wake up. Whatever have you been doing? What's the matter?"

  I'm trying to stay asleep. To steal a few more minutes in bed, but it isn't bed, and my head seems to be clearing. When I open my eyes I am lying on the garage floor. Gail is standing over me. She looks scared.

  "Tom. What happened?"

  I sit up. I'm still holding the copper tube. It seems to have bent almost to a right angle under my weight. She mustn't guess what I've been doing. She has obviously bungled her poisoning attempt. I mustn't bungle mine. I may only get one chance.

  "Plumbing," I say.

  "Plumbing?" she replies. "What plumbing?"

  "Oh. I just thought I'd do some plumbing," I say. "Must've fallen off the ladder."

  "But I don't see a ladder, Tom," says Gail.

  "Oh no!" I say. "Don't tell me we've been burgled, too."

  CHAPTER 12

  Gail makes coffee when we get back indoors. I watch her like a hawk to see whether she adds anything foreign to my cup. I don't spot anything, but I make sure that I carry the cups into the sitting room, and, en route, I switch hands while she is not looking. I delay starting my drink until I see her take a sip from hers. She seems to be in no hurry. Eventually she puts the cup to her lips, but it appears to me that she may only have mimed drinking. I study her closely to see her swallow. She glances over at me and smiles.

  "Do you feel better now?" she asks.

  "Yes, thankyou."

  "Why don't you drink your coffee before it gets cold?"

  "I'm just going to," I say. But I'm still not sure. I'm still waiting for her to take a good mouthful.

  She toys with her cup, and again takes a sip. Or mimes? I can't see from here whether she is actually drinking it. She is still watching me.

  "Isn't it a bit hot still?" I ask.

  "The coffee?" she replies. "No, it's about perfect. If you don't drink it now, it will be too cold."

  She seems very anxious for me to drink my coffee first. Why? If mine is poisoned and hers is not, why doesn't she drink hers? Or perhaps they are both poisoned and she is just bluffing with hers? Or maybe she was more subtle. Maybe she knew I would switch the cups. Maybe she kept the poisoned one and gave me the good one knowing that I would swap them over. Perhaps I've played right into her hands. Why does she keep smiling at me like that?

  I play for time. I smile back. "Why aren't you drinking your coffee?" I ask.

  "I am," she says, and takes another small swig. There. I'm almost sure she faked it that time.

  I put the cup to my lips, and pretend to drink. I try a little too hard to look convincing, and some of the coffee runs over the lip of the mug and into my mouth. Some of it spills and runs down my chin. I seem to do that recently. Isn't that what old people do? Or babies? I'm not old. Please don't let me be old. Not yet. I'm too young to be old. Let me have a few more years yet. Please.

  "You're spilling it, Tom. Be careful." Gail sets down her cup and reaches over to wipe my chin with her handkerchief as if I were a child. She is not especially gentle. She has put her own cup on the corner of the coffee table and when she turns to go back to her chair I am able to reach over and switch the cups again.

  "What are you doing?" she asks.

  "Nothing," I reply. I can feel my cheeks redden. I never could tell lies.

  "You did. You swapped the coffee cups over."

  "No I didn't."

  "You did, Tom. I saw you."

  "Just pushed yours onto the table," I say. "I thought you were going to knock it off." I take a gulp from the mug I am now holding. It tastes different. God, I've played right into her hands. She has tricked me into drinking from the poisoned cup.

  I spray the mouthful of coffee onto the floor.

  "Tom! What on earth are you doing?"

  "Ha! Thought you'd got me didn't you? Well I could taste the difference. You won't catch me that easily." I put the remainder of the coffee triumphantly onto the table. Gail has started to cry.

  "I don't know what has got into you, Tom," she sobs. "Look what a mess you've made."

  "I could taste it, Gail," I say. "Your coffee didn't taste the same as mine. I don't know what it was, but I could taste the difference."

  She looks witheringly at me. "Of course it tasted different, Tom. You know I only drink decaffeinated."

  ***

  When he had finished his tea, Geoffrey slipped quietly upstairs. He lowered the loft ladder again and climbed swiftly up. He retrieved the package he had stowed earlier and made his way over to the door of his secret little room.

  The door was not easy to spot. The wall he had built across the end of the loft had been deliberately made to look like the end wall of the attic. It wouldn't pass a close inspection, but to anyone who merely put their head through the trap door and glanced around it would not attract attention. He had piled boxes against it, too, and also made sure that the bulb in the attic light was not too bright. He wasn't expecting any investigation, but it paid to be careful.

  He unlocked the door to the little room and let himself in. He closed it behind him before turning on the light.

  The package was not difficult to unwrap, and he quickly emptied the contents onto the floor. He smiled in secret anticipation as he examined each item before carefully putting it away.

  ***

  Listen. Perhaps you don't understand what's happening. Perhaps you think I hate my wife. Perhaps you think that's why I have to kill her. I don't hate her. I love her. That's why I have to kill her.

  Listen. I've always loved her. Ever since I first met her. She used to love me too, I think. But somewhere she stopped loving me. I don't know when it happened. Perhaps you find that hard to believe. Perhaps I did too. It took a long while before I understood. It took a long while before I found out she was cheating me.

  Even when I found out, I still loved her. I wanted to start again. I wanted to rebuild, but she just went on cheating. Perhaps you think I want revenge. I don't want revenge, but she did a terrible thing. She destroyed trust. That's why I have to kill her. I love her too much to walk away, but it hurts too much to stay.

  Listen. I still love her. I promise not to hurt her. I just need someone to love me, that's not too much is it? Is it?

  When I get into work in the morning, Mr Hudson is waiting for me. I don't even get a chance to take off my coat. Julie is already typing, she gives me a smile but says nothing. The others are too busy to acknowledge me.

  "Fletcher," says Mr Hudson. "I'd like a word."

  "Yes, Mr Hudson. I'll pop in later."

  My response causes sniggers from my colleagues. A glance from Mr Hudson chokes them off. He regards me over the rim of his spectacles. "Now, Fletcher," he says. "If you please." I think I'd better please, and I follow him into his office. He sits down behind his desk. I sit in the visitor's chair.

  "Are you happy here, Fletcher?" he asks, after a few moments pause.

  "Oh yes. I think so Mr Hudson. It's kind of you to a
sk."

  He puts his spectacles on the desk and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. I am still wearing my outdoor coat. It's starting to feel a little warm.

  "Is anything troubling you, Fletcher?" he asks.

  "No. I don't think so," I reply. He is looking a little pained. I think he is expecting me to say more. "Well there was the blowpipe," I continue.

  "Blowpipe?"

  "Well it was the dart that was the problem really."

  "Dart?"

  "Yes. I couldn't budge it, and then I think I must have hyperventilated or something, and it got bent. The blowpipe, I mean. Not the dart. And then I spilled the coffee, of course. That didn't go down too well I can tell you." Mr Hudson looks puzzled.

  "Coffee?" he says. I wonder why he keeps repeating everything I say. Perhaps he's just trying to be friendly. Or perhaps it's a new management technique. Something to do with staff development. They do that from time to time you know. I decide to help him.

  "And my wallet. I seem to have mislaid my wallet somewhere. I think it must have been in my trousers."

  "Trousers, Fletcher?" He shakes his head in disbelief.

  Whatever this new technique is, I don't think Mr Hudson has quite got it. I'm sure he should be developing some interactive dialogue with me. It must be something to do with building rapport or team spirit, but he doesn't seem to know how to develop the conversation. He can't have been paying attention at the training session. I don't see how this can build into something meaningful if he merely repeats the last word I say each time.

  Unless that's it, of course. Perhaps it's got something to do with word association. Perhaps he says a word and I have to say the first thing that comes into my mind. It's some kind of psychological test. Like a Rorschach test. You know, the one with ink blots. They show you ink blots and you have to say what they remind you of. And whatever you say they can prove that you have a sexual perversion. Even if you say quite ordinary things like teapot or trousers.

  Trousers. That was what he said last. I have to think of a word associated with trousers that isn't sexual. Now let's see.

  "Roses," I say. Yep. That's got him. He's on the defensive now.

  "Roses?" he says, after a moments pause. Well that's hardly fair. If he's just going to keep repeating the last thing I say. He really doesn't seem to have much aptitude for this. Well, he won't get me that easily.