Telling Stories

by Geoff Palmer

  'And another thing. This supposed weight problem of yours. You haven't got a weight problem. Your weight problem's in your head. You're a few pounds over and you let it rule your life ...'

  I couldn't contain myself any longer. 'You've got no right,' I shouted. 'You've got no right to talk about our mother like that. What do you know about her? You escaped as soon as you could. What do you know of her really? What do you know of what she went through? What do you know of her dying? Did you ever visit? What did you contribute? You stood at her graveside and muttered bloody jingles. And you're proud of it, aren't you? It's a good little story, isn't it? You and your precious fucking image.'

  I stood up so quickly that my chair fell over backwards. I left it, I didn't care. I threw down my napkin and walked out.

  Fridge

  I have alluded previously to the ostensibly invisible Indian family who live in the apartment to the left of my delightful council residence in Barchester Towers, for invisible the Hamidullahs might as well be for all the times I have seen or heard them. Not so the apartment to my right. They are neither invisible nor inaudible. Living beside them is like living next door to the targets of an artillery barrage, complete with the yells and screams of the maimed. He, a ne'er-do-well ex-bikie apparently dismissed from the local chapter for foul language, sloppy dressing and poor behaviour, and she, a petite and rather attractive clerical worker, apparently do not see eye to eye on all matters. Or indeed on any matters.

  As I believe one can become accustomed to living in a war zone, I have become accustomed to living beside this noisy couple. Indeed, a night without a raised voice from them leads to a raised eyebrow from yours truly and the expression of an apposite remark such as (for it is indeed the correct direction), 'All quiet on the Western front.'

  On the afternoon of which I write, I had just returned from a distressingly combative lunch with my brother and unthinkingly pressed the thirteenth floor button of the lift. To my surprise, it lit and carried me all the way there with nothing more than its customary shuddering and pong, passing through the dreaded ninth-and-a-half floor without so much as flicker of its fluorescents.

  I suspect the rattlesome clatter of its opening door alerted the occupant of the battle zone for, as I made my way to 13b, the door of 13a swung open as much as its chain would allow, a pair of frightened eyes appeared and a voice cried, 'Go away. I'll call the cops.'

  I was about to reply with some suitably pithy remark when the light of realisation showed in the eyes and I heard a muffled 'Sorry' as the door was closed briefly while its chain was released.

  'Sorry Eric, I thought you were him.'

  The sight before me was disturbing. Julie, one of the aforementioned combatants, indeed looked as though she had been through a war. Normally smartly dressed and made up, she stood there in nothing more than an enormous baggy T-shirt advertising some pop group or other. Her hair was awry, her face was bruised and one lip swelled disturbingly. I recalled a particularly noisy confrontation through the alcoholic haze of the previous evening. Evidently I was now looking at its aftermath.

  'Are you all right?' I asked. 'And don't tell me you walked into a desk at work.'

  She smiled weakly and nodded. 'I've thrown him out. He didn't want to go.'

  'Well, if there's anything I can do ...'

  'Actually there is. I'm just cleaning-up. Can you give me a hand with the fridge?'

  She showed me in and quickly chained the door behind me. It looked as though the lounge had taken a direct hit.

  Upturned chairs, pot plants smashed on the carpet, books scattered far and wide, some of them torn apart, the curtains pulled down on one side, broken glass and bottles everywhere, the TV set on its back and clothes and shoes scattered among the mess. Someone had put a foot through the kitchen door and the door to the bedroom hung lopsidedly on one hinge. The devastation there looked even worse.

  'Sorry about the mess,' she murmured, leading me through to the kitchen.

  'Looks like he put up a bit of a fight,' I said.

  The kitchen was just as bad. Pots and pans everywhere, broken plates, a vase of flowers smashed in a corner, the microwave miraculously upright but now strangely sway-backed, two cupboard doors among the broken glass and a crazy-paving of bottles, cans and condiments on the floor. In the midst of it all sat a recumbent fridge, face down in all the mess, partially blocking the entrance to the kitchen but still humming happily to itself.

  'It's too heavy for me,' she said. 'Perhaps between us?'

  I hoisted it off the floor enough for her to wedge the remains of a kitchen stool beneath it, then together eased we it up and back into its accustomed alcove.

  'Thanks,' she breathed, hauling the neck of the T-shirt back off an exposed shoulder.

  I stood there surveying the damage as she picked her way through it. There were more bruises on her arms and legs and she moved with a hint of stiffness that led me to suspect other injuries.

  'Look at my flat,' she said quietly, still evidently dazed. 'Look at my things. He's wrecked everything. Everything.'

  As she picked up some torn clothing scattered on the floor I realised that, apart from jandals to protect her feet from broken glass, she really was wearing only a T-shirt.

  At the breakfast bar she pointlessly righted a toast rack among all the other debris, then, with a cry, reached for something wedged beside the stove and retrieved a teddy bear with one arm ripped off and stuffing spilling down its side.

  'My bear, my bear,' she cried, then hugged it as she burst into tears, real weeping, let-it-all-out tears.

  I stood behind her and touched her shoulder and in an instant she was sobbing in my arms, great wailing cries at first, then breathless gasps and a slow subsidence into silence. We stood there for a long while, me leaning back against the fridge, feeling the warmth and smallness of her, the teddy bear crushed between us. I held her by the sobbing shoulders, then, as she calmed, began stroking her back, slowly, feeling the bumps and ridges of her spine. She relaxed a little, seemed to sink deeper against me and I increased the range of my massage.

  'Don't.' She caught my hand as it slipped under the T-shirt and cupped her bare behind. it sounded playful. I did it again.

  'No, don't.'

  At that moment, in the silence, the lift door clattered open and she leapt back with a sudden startled cry. 'No, no, no!' I caught one shoulder but she twisted away, stepping, as she trod, on a scattered can or bottle and pirouetted backwards in a slow motion arc. She threw out her hands but halfway down caught the back of her head against the breakfast bar. The sound. I could tell right away from the sound. Awful, like a ripe watermelon hitting concrete. And the way her head snapped forward as she hit. One arm caught the counter top unfeelingly as she slid down the face of it like a rag doll. She lay unmoving, head twisted at a funny angle, legs splayed, the T-shirt up around her waist, just lying . ..

  No, no, no, no, no! it was Friday. Friday. I'd just got home from work and she asked me for help to move the fridge. I remember because I was in a bit of a rush. I wanted to get home, get washed and changed, have something to eat and shoot out again because I was meeting Marie and the others in the pub. Some friends in the pub. Because I was meeting some friends in the pub. Everything in the flat seemed okay except for the fridge, which was lying face down on the floor. It was bizarre. I asked her what had happened and she said that Donny had done it because she'd forgot to put his beer in and he came home and didn't have any that was cold. He just pulled the fridge over and stormed out. I helped her get it back on its feet and asked if she wanted help clearing up the mess inside it, the spilt milk and broken eggs and stuff, but she said no she would do that and that I'd been a great help already. That was okay because I was in a bit of a rush anyway and I think she was frightened he might come back and find me in their flat. I mean, he went for me when I helped her after he'd stamped on her foot and that was just in the driveway. God knows what he'd have done if he'd found me inside. He's a nut
ter. I think he got really jealous about her talking to other men, so I left her to it. That would have been the last time ... I got changed and stuff and went out to the pub. When I came home about half past eleven he was obviously back because there was a hell of a row going on again, crashing and banging and stuff. I don't know what time he got back. Yes, I do. I saw him heading back that way as I went in to town about an hour later. He might not have been going back to the flat, but he was heading back that way. I just left them to it and went to bed. I mean, they were always at it, it was normal, it was nothing unusual. It was an accident. I didn't. It was. She fell. But it was Friday. Friday. I helped her with the fridge on Friday.

  Monday, May 18

  I think she's all right. I'm sure she is. It's just that it's been very quiet the last few days, but of course it would be now that he's gone. She'll just be going to work and stuff as usual. I mean, I hardly ever see her normally, so why should I run into her now? The only reason she's got to come round the back here is to hang out her washing and there's no point in doing that because the animal ripped up all her stuff. That's what she called him. She said, 'He was like a wild animal.' I heard her. And he is. I've seen enough evidence of that. She'd only come round the back with her washing and she's only got a T- shirt left. The T-shirt. Oh God. Or maybe she's just gone off to stay with friends. That would make sense. The flat was such a mess it'd take a month to clean it up and I'd be surprised if anything in there ever worked again. Except the fridge. Especially the fridge. It was Friday night, the fridge. Friday night the fridge. Friday night the fridge. I have to remember that. Friday, after work. Friday after work and before Marie. No, don't say that. Friday after work and before going out for drinks. With some friends. Oh, just one or two people from work, no one special. Leaving drinks. One of the girls. Going to Europe, I think. And some others too. A few. You know, people drifting in and out, you meet up with them and their friends and friends of friends, it's hard to keep track. I left oh, about eleven and walked home. When I got home I knew he was back because all the lights were on and they were having a right old go at one another, shouting and screaming and throwing things. That's usual with them, they're always at it. I thought, I hope he leaves my fridge alone. Yeah, I remember thinking, I hope he leaves my fridge alone. Not that it's really heavy or anything. Stick to the facts, stick to the facts. Just a bit awkward, that's all. It's not like Julie was any help in lifting it. Yeah, that would be about half past eleven, the time I got home. I walked round the back thinking I hope he leaves my fridge alone. And they woke me up on Saturday morning with their noise. No. Did they? Stick to the facts. No, I don't think so. I don't remember. True enough. I was still a bit hung-over so I could have slept through anything. And I went out to lunch with my brother and sister-in-law, they picked me up, and I got home about, oh, two o'clock. Yeah, I remember because I followed the tall girl down the back. She was going down to hang out her washing. Her washing. She was a few yards in front of me so she wouldn't have seen me, but I heard the Hamidullahs' clock strike as I went past their door. They've got one of those old chiming clocks. You don't see them much any more. And the last time I saw her was on Friday after work, when I helped her with the fridge. Before I went out with Marie. No, not Marie. Friends from work. People from work. Oh God, Marie! If she says anything I'm history. But surely I'd have heard by now. It's been days. It wouldn't take that long. No, no, she won't do anything. She's going away, doesn't want the hassle. Anyway she's not that sort, she'd deal with it herself. She did. Nothing happened. I was drunk. We both were. Anyway, even if she did the marks are almost gone now. It was only a graze. I slipped on the stairs. My face is practically healed now. You can hardly see it. Ha! It'd be her word against mine because no one saw us. No one. And there's no harm done. She's all right. She's going away, she won't say anything. Forget all that, that never happened. Nothing's happened in the last few days so just leave it, she obviously hasn't said anything. I could say I was drunk and don't remember. That's what I'll say — I don't remember. I was pretty drunk and I honestly don't remember. I don't even remember how I got home, but I do remember standing outside in the street listening to them having a punch-up in the front flat and thinking, I hope he leaves my fridge alone. Yeah. And if she has said anything, I'll fix her. I'll tell them about her blackmailing Tom. That's why she's kept quiet. Because she knows I know. She's a blackmailer so she won't tell. I was trying to convince her to give the money back because I knew it wasn't right, but all of a sudden she turned nasty — she could do that, you ask Fletcher and the guys at work— she turned nasty and told me to bugger off, said she'd finished with me now, I'd served my purpose, that she'd got what she wanted. Oh, and by the way, she said, if you're thinking of going to the police I'll tell them you tried it on in the alleyway. Yeah, it all fits. I was too scared to go to the police, not so much because of what she'd say — which isn't true—but because I felt she'd made a fool of me, the way she'd used me, and that if it came out I might lose my job. Yeah. And I love my job, I've been there years. It'd be her word against mine. The word of a blackmailer. But it won't come to that, I'm sure of it. Not now. She'll just go on her trip and that'll be it. But it's good to have that, just in case. Yeah. You can't be too careful. You have to think of everything. Tie up all the loose ends, look for weaknesses in the plot. And it was Friday the fridge. Friday the fridge. But all this is stupid because she's all right. I'm just making myself jumpy. She's gone away for a few days to stay with friends or can't play the stereo because it's broken like everything else. That's why it's quiet. That's why it's been so quiet. It's good it's been so quiet after all the rows, after all the upheavals. Gives me time to think. Quiet. No distractions. Nice and quiet. Quiet as a grave.

  Fall

  A return to Barchester Towers. It seems as if I've been away for ages. I've almost come to miss the place: the view, the grubby comfort of its unyielding concrete faces, the sharp astringent pinkness of my door, the shuddering stinking lift and wheezing stairs. It's like a homecoming. A place I've been yearning for, a sanctuary, a hideaway from the rough and tumble of the world below. I have here all I want: privacy, peace, quiet. What else is there?

  Up here the real world is toy town with matchstick houses and matchbox cars, the people meaningless ciphers, as populous and unfathomable as ants. Height and distance gives one a true perspective; you see things as they are. A hilly city, a rocky coastline, the monoliths like this one clinging to the scant flat land between. And even this land isn't real, not real land, not land with history. That road was shrugged up by a casual earthquake a century and a half ago; they used to sail ships along it and refit them in the basin where the cricketers now play. A hundred and fifty years. Not much in time, two lifetimes near enough, but those lives and lifetimes are barely known to us now; dimly imagined, barely appreciated. We're selfish individuals in a very selfish species. We really matter only to ourselves.

  • • •

  No rest for the wicked, no flight from the knock that comes in the middle of the evening torpor. Insistent knocking, like that of a child, annoying, making you hasten to open the door and cool the grated nerves. And on the step, familiar faces. I recognise the panting.

  'Mr Balding?'

  I touch my head. 'Well, I am getting a little thin ...'

  'Thank goodness we've arrived after the diet, eh Roger?'

  'Look I think you've got the wrong chapter.'

  A quick check of a notebook. 'Oh, it must be Mr Dumpey then.'

  'I see your reading skills haven't improved. It's Dombey And I'm surprised you knocked. Wouldn't you rather kick it in?'

  'Quite frankly, yes, but we're pacing ourselves. We hope to end the evening with a good kicking, but for now I'm afraid I must call a halt to all this banter. There's serious police business afoot. We'd like a word.'

  'You'd better come in then.'

  I usher them into the lounge. 'I suppose I should offer you something.'

  'What have you got?'
/>
  'Well if this is a British cop show I'd say a cup of tea. If it's American I'd say a hail of bullets.'

  'Tea please.'

  I go to the kitchen and switch on the jug, then realise I'm out of milk.

  'I'm out of milk,' I say, poking my head around the door.

  'Oh, we prefer it black,' says old Bill. 'Like our suspects.' They both laugh.

  Three steaming mugs of suspect tea and we sit sipping in the lounge, though it seems my arrival's interrupted something.

  'Surprising thing, the human body ...' the older one is saying.

  'What it can take ...'

  'Eleven floors ...'

  'Eleven and a half...'

  'Splat! you'd think.'

  'Splat!'

  'Not much left.'

  'Strawberry jam.'

  'Just hose the pulp into a body bag ...'

  'You'd think ...'

  'What is it?' I ask. 'What's going on? What's all this double-act? You're like a couple of third-rate music hall comedians.'

  'We're in the right place, then.'

  'Stick to the script, Roger. Ahem. Are you acquainted with one Harold "Harry" Purvis, lay preacher ... ?'

  'Drunk.'

  'That's not an occupation, sir.'

  'With him it is.'

  '... lay preacher, late of this building?'

  'Late? You mean he's dead?'

  'You didn't know?'

  'No, I didn't.'

  'Yes, dead sir. Took a walk, our Mr Purvis.'

  'A long walk...'

  '... off a short balcony.'

  'Cut it out, you're talking in riddles. You mean he fell?'

  'Fell. Good word. Succinct. I like it.'

  'I'm not surprised,' I say. 'He was pissed out of his tree most of the time.'

  'Fell,' he repeats. 'Did he fall ...

  '... or was he pushed.'

  'It's very hard to say.'

  'Or maybe even "dropped"?' his colleague adds.