by BarnaWilde
There was a swan on my ceiling, too. When I was a boy. Just a little one. I don't mean a little boy, I mean a little swan. It wasn't a real swan of course. It was just a little flick in the plaster where the workman had caught the edge of his trowel when the ceiling was first made. It was only a tiny mark. Right above the head of my bed. It looked just like a swan with it's head curled back over it's wings. You couldn't see it in the daytime, the light had to be just right. I used to look at it for hours some nights when I couldn't get to sleep.
I could do with a swan now.
I nudge Gail gently with my arm. "Are you awake?" I ask. But there is no response.
Some of my friends had planes on their ceilings. Real ones, not painted ones. Well not real ones, of course. Boy's didn't have real planes. Real models I mean. Made out of plastic kits with about a thousand pieces in them. All glued together.
My dad wouldn't let me put planes on my ceiling either.
I glued my fingers together once. Well more than once, actually.
I think I need to go to the loo, but with Gail's arm across me I can't get out of bed without waking her.
I'll try to go to sleep. If I empty my mind maybe I can. Have you ever tried to do that? To think about nothing? I keep trying to think of nothing, but every time I try I end up thinking about something. Usually it's the loo. Now that I've thought about it I can't stop. The more I try not to think about it, the more I need to go. But if I get out of bed, I'll wake Gail up. Maybe if I slid down the bed and got out the bottom I could do it without disturbing her.
I'll just wait one more minute. I'll try to empty my mind again. Perhaps it'll work this time. But all I can think of now are frogs, and blow pipes, and guns. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to murder Gail.
I didn't ever want to really, but I don't know how to escape otherwise.
I still love her. I love her too much just to walk away, and I can't bear the thought of her with someone else. But she doesn't want me, I know that. I wish I knew what to do. And then there's Julie, of course.
I do need the loo, though.
I suppose there's always botulism. I'm not sure what it is exactly, but I know that half a teaspoonful is enough to kill the whole world, or is it one teaspoonful is enough to kill half the world? I can never remember. By the way, how does anyone know that? How could you even get the whole world to drink out of one teaspoon? Surely even if everyone had just a tiny sip you'd run out after about twenty people? Anyway it's probably even harder to get hold of than Poison Arrow frogs.
I reckon that if I just slid down the bed I could get out from under Gail's arm without waking her up. I begin to inch my way down under the bed clothes. It's hot and dark down here. By hooking my ankles over the end of the bed, I can pull myself down about an inch at a time. A couple of times when I move I think Gail is going to wake up, but she slumbers on.
I get free of her arm and my legs are hanging out of the end of the bed, but as I progress downward she rolls over and throws her leg across my neck. I'm trapped. The position I find myself in has interesting possibilities, but the opportunities will be severely limited unless I can find a way to breathe.
To make things worse, something is trying to eat my left foot.
It's funny how things work out isn't it? One minute you are quietly minding your own business, trying to get to sleep, and the next you have a face full of pubic hair and only eight toes.
I figure I have about a minute left to live. I wonder if Gail planned this all along? Maybe all the while I've been plotting to murder her she has had a cunning plan to lure me into this position so that she could suffocate me.
There are probably worse ways to die.
I can't hold my breath much longer. I feel curiously relaxed, but if I don't do something soon, whatever is eating my toes may decide to sample other parts of my anatomy. With my legs hanging out of the duvet, and my back arched over the end of the bed, I feel somewhat vulnerable.
My left hand comes into contact with Gail's foot. I begin tickling her sole. At first she merely twitches but as I persist she rolls back off me. I gasp in lungfuls of air.
"What on earth are you doing?" she asks.
"I..I..I..," I gasp.
"Come back up here," she says. "You know I don't like that sort of thing."
"I..I..I..,"
I start to pull myself back up the bed. The cat decides this is all part of the game and continues to hold on to my big toe while I retreat.
"What ever are you playing at?" she demands.
"The cat," I pant.
"Don't blame the cat. I know it was you. Whatever were you thinking of?"
"Michelangelo," I say. I always try to tell the truth.
Sometimes it just doesn't seem to be the right thing to say, though. I have a feeling this may be one of them.
CHAPTER 22
Geoffrey dressed for work as normal. He put on his grey suit and shiny black shoes; his white shirt and a sober grey tie with a small blue motif. He ate his normal small bowl of muesli for breakfast and drank his usual one and a half cups of medium strong tea.
After breakfast he brushed his teeth, and, at precisely seven twenty three, he gave his wife her customary peck on the cheek and set off for work.
Exactly as he always did.
Today of all days it was imperative that he did not draw attention to himself. As far as the world was concerned today was just another day.
When he reached the station, however, he didn't join the queue at the ticket office, but bought himself a daily paper and headed for the station buffet. There, despite his recent breakfast, he ordered a coffee and installed himself in an out of the way corner. He would not be missed at work. He had taken the precaution of booking a day's holiday more than a week ago.
And there he sat. Insignificant and inconspicuous, his black umbrella dripping into a slowly widening puddle on the floor beside his chair. He planned not to move for at least an hour.
***
I'm running out of jackets. I'm standing in front of the wardrobe in my underpants wondering what to wear to work. The cat is sitting beside me, also contemplating my clothes. I guess she isn't impressed, because she gives a mighty yawn and starts trying to look up her own bottom. I haven't forgiven her for Saturday night yet. The choice is between going to work in pullover and slacks or the one remaining jacket. Mr Hudson doesn't encourage informality, so it had better be the jacket. It's a pity the weather has gone off.
Gail has already left for work. She still hasn't forgiven me for Saturday night. Nothing more was actually said, but things have been pretty cool ever since. My suggestion to paint the bedroom ceiling black wasn't even acknowledged. I guess I'd better bring some flowers this evening. It sometimes works.
The problem is what to wear with the jacket. I eventually decide on white cricket flannels and a pair of two tone brown and cream brogues. Actually they are the only shoes I can get on over the bandage.
It's the first time I've worn my rowing blazer in years. I think it looks quite fine with it's yellow, orange and white stripes. In a sudden fit of enthusiasm I search out my old straw boater. It's gone a bit yellow, but actually I think the whole effect is quite fetching. I stand and admire myself in the wardrobe mirror while the cat rubs itself around my legs. The same legs it tried to eat only thirty hours ago.
While I am searching through my other trouser pockets for my keys I come across two silver tassels. I think I'd better dispose of them before Gail comes home. Somehow I don't feel up to explaining their presence. I shove them in my pocket absentmindedly. Outside, the weather is tippling down with rain. I hook my big blue and red golfing umbrella out from the back of the wardrobe.
Did you know that the umbrella was invented by a man called Jonas Hanway in 1750? Well, not invented exactly, he just discovered that umbrellas could be used to keep you dry. Before that people used to put their umbrellas down when it started to rain.
"Damn. It's coming on to rain. I'd better put m
y umbrella down. I'd have left it at home if I'd known it was going to be wet."
"Good Lord. Look at that Hanway fellow. He's putting his umbrella up! Can't the fool see it's starting to rain?"
Of course the first umbrellas were made of paper. That probably didn't help. I wonder what people used to leave on trains before they had umbrellas?
It makes you think.
There are hoots of laughter as I walk into the office. I hear odd references to cameras and asylums, but I take no notice.
"Up for the regatta are we?" I hear. The question is greeted with titters from the others.
"Just trying to think positively," I reply. "My horoscope for today said 'think positively and change the world'."
"Good for you, Mr F," says Julie. She is the only one not laughing.
"Mind over matter," I say.
There are renewed sniggers each time I speak.
"Its a proven fact that the human mind is the most powerful force in the universe," I continue. "We just have to learn to harness it, that's all."
Despite the golfing umbrella the bottoms of my white flannel trousers have got rather wet walking round from the carpark. The material clings limply to my ankles. I notice I am wearing odd socks again.
"For instance, there was a man who could make electric lamps light up just by thinking about it in the paper the other day," I continue.
"Allelujah. You'll be telling us about a man who could turn water into wine next."
"That's nothing. I can turn wine into water!" adds another wit. There is hysterical laughter at this interjection.
"Take no notice of them, Mr F," says Julie. "I think you look very...well, very ....striking. Now why don't I get you a nice cup of coffee?"
The sniggering and taunting from the others continues for a while, but I scarcely notice. I sit and contemplate Julie's bum as she makes the coffee. She is looking gorgeous, as always. Her skirt today is so short it makes my eyes water. When she stretches for the mug and the milk, the line of her pants is clearly defined as the material pulls taut across her buttock.
Think positively and change the world. I wonder if Canute takes the same paper as me?
Julie brings over the coffee and sits on the edge of my desk. I can't stop looking at her legs. Whichever way I look I seem to be peering up her skirt. I can feel my collar getting tighter, too. The others gradually lose interest in me and settle down to their own work.
"Did you know that umbrellas are a sign of rank in some parts of Africa?" I ask Julie. Now why do I always say something naff like that? Why can't I think of something smooth to say? Please God, let me be smooth just for one day. I'll never ask again. I promise.
"That's interesting, Mr F. You do know a lot of things."
"Will you marry me, Julie?" I ask suddenly.
"Don't tease me, Mr F. Tell me something else about umbrellas."
Why won't she call me Tom? Why doesn't she take me seriously? Why am I joke? Why does she want to know about umbrellas?
"Good God, Fletcher! What the hell are you wearing? What do you think this is, a bloody circus?"
Mr Hudson has emerged from his office while we are talking. Julie slips quietly off my desk and drifts back to her own. The others have suddenly become aware of me again. There are nods and winks being exchanged.
"And where the hell did you get to on Friday?"
Friday? That seems to be a long time ago. I have a dim recollection of being in a police cell, but surely that can't be right?
"And what the hell were you playing at flooding that woman's house?"
Flooding a woman's house? I don't recall that. Julie is looking distinctly apprehensive opposite. I do love her, I know I do. Surely she can see that. I smile across the office to her, but she shakes her head gently at me.
"Well, Fletcher?"
I look up and see Mr Hudson towering over my desk. He seems to be expecting me to say something.
"I'm sorry," I say. "What was the question?"
There are shrieks of laughter from down the office, but they cease in a strangulated whimper after one glare from Mr Hudson. I wish I could do that.
"I think you'd better come into the office, Fletcher," Mr Hudson says as he turns and retraces his steps. "Miss Green. You can bring us some coffee, please," he adds as he disappears from view.
I follow quietly. I still have my half drunk cup of coffee in my hand as I enter his office.
"Well, Fletcher? Explanations please. What the hell is going on?"
I'm not sure where to begin. There seem to have been a lot of things happening to me recently. I suppose I'd better start at the beginning.
"I suppose it started with the hippos," I say.
"Did you say hippos, Fletcher?"
"Yes. I kept thinking it was Tuesday."
"Tuesday?"
"Yes. Only it wasn't. It was only Monday then. But it turned into Tuesday later."
"It does, Fletcher. It does."
I wonder if I ought to tell him about the gun and the blowpipe, but it would probably only confuse him. I pause, pondering what to say next. Suddenly I have a need to talk to someone.
"It's Gail, Mr Hudson. My wife. She isn't always there."
"Always where?"
"Well, anywhere. Sometimes she isn't where she says she is."
"Where is she, then?"
"Well she's at work now, of course. She's a teacher you know. At least that's where she should be, but I can't tell any more."
There is a knock on the office door.
"Come," bellows Mr Hudson. Julie appears carrying two mugs of coffee. She passes one to me and one to Mr Hudson. I notice he doesn't thank her. I smile at her for both of us. She hovers uncertainly in the doorway, apparently unsure whether to go or stay. I sip alternately at the coffees in my left and right hands.
"Miss Green?" says Mr Hudson looking at Julie.
"I think I might be able to explain, Mr Hudson," says Julie.
This surprises me. I didn't think Julie had ever met Gail. "She hasn't been with you, has she?" I ask.
"I'm sorry, Mr F. Who do you mean?"
"Perhaps you could start at the beginning, Miss Green," says Mr Hudson. He's beginning to look as though he wished he hadn't started this.
"I've already told him about the hippos," I say.
"Hippos, Mr F? What hippos?"
"You know," I say encouragingly. "I keep thinking it's Tuesday. Remember?"
"But it's only Monday, Mr F." She looks confused.
"Yes I know it's Monday now," I say. "But last week I kept thinking it was Tuesday, and that's when I decided to shoot her, except that I didn't have a gun." Damn. I wasn't going to mention the gun.
"Shoot who, Mr F?" asks Julie.
"Yes. What the hell are you babbling about, Fletcher? What the hell has all this got to do with flooding Mrs Carrol's house?"
A shiver runs down my spine. It happens every time I hear that name. "Carole," I say. "Just Carole. Not Mrs Carrol."
"To hell with what she's called," shouts Mr Hudson. "What do you mean by flooding her house?" He looks angry. I get the feeling it might be my fault, but I'm not sure why.
"It was her water bed, Mr Hudson," says Julie. "Tom, I mean Mr F, was helping her to fill it. It must have burst."
She called me Tom. Just then. When she spoke to Mr Hudson, she called me Tom. "You called me Tom," I say to Julie.
"Yes, Mr F. I always do, don't I?"
"Shut up, Fletcher. Just shut up and let Miss Green explain about the flood will you, please."
Suddenly it's all coming back to me. "Yes. I remember. My tie got caught in her underwear drawer, and then I couldn't stand up straight."
I think Mr Hudson might have stopped listening.
"At least I still had my trousers on that time," I add. Julie looks nonplussed.
"I think I've heard enough, Fletcher," says Mr Hudson after a short pause. "I think maybe you aren't cut out for this work."
"But I haven't told yo
u about the police and the pizza yet," I say.
"Enough, Fletcher. I need time to think. Thankyou Miss Green. You had better get back to your desk."
Julie casts me a long, concerned glance as she leaves. I try to give her a reassuring smile in return, but I think it probably came out more like a lecherous leer. I turn back to Mr Hudson and wait for him to speak.
***
Geoffrey tried not to watch the clock, but each time he looked up the hand had crept on only another minute. He wondered for a while if it was broken, running backwards perhaps, but a glance at his own wristwatch confirmed that the two were still in sync.
He studied the crossword, but couldn't solve any clues, and gave up after a few minutes. His coffee grew cold in the cup. He wasn't really thirsty. He had only bought it to establish his right to the table. He was excited. He tried to calm himself by controlling his breathing.
Eventually the minute hand crawled round to eight forty five. He folded his paper, picked up his umbrella and brief case and walked out into the street. It was raining harder than ever, but he scarcely noticed.
***
We sit in silence for a while, Mr Hudson and me. I wonder how he knew about the water bed? She must have phoned him I suppose and put in a complaint.
"I think it would be better for us both if you were to go, Fletcher," he says suddenly. "I don't think you are really cut out for this line of work."
"I think you're right," I say. "Assassination isn't really my forte. You need a James Bond for that sort of thing really. I was beginning to go off the whole idea anyway, actually." God, I hope this isn't an actually attack coming on again.
"Have you ever thought of seeking help, Fletcher? Professional help I mean."
"No. I hadn't," I say. "I thought the fewer people who knew, the better. You see the police would always suspect the husband first. Besides, I wouldn't know where to go. Not the sort of thing you find in Exchange and Mart exactly, is it, Mr Hudson?"
"I'm sure I could recommend someone suitable for you, Fletcher. I do have one or two contacts who could probably help."
I'm flabbergasted. Fancy Mr Hudson knowing people like that. I would never have thought he would have underworld connections. "Would that be Mafia?" I ask.