A Private Moon

by Peter Benson

  Bob began with A—G. He emptied the filing cabinet, tipping the contents into a pile he made in the middle of the office floor. Old cases spilled over ones they’d had last year; here was Mr Baxter’s request for a bug-sweep of his offices, there was a letter from a Foxwell’s Curtains and Blinds about a set of missing keys. Bob picked it up, read it and shook his head. So much paper and so many examples of greed and idiocy. He was not an old man, but he would be if he stayed another week. He reached for drawer H—P, pulled it out and dropped it on his foot. He yelled in pain, kicked out at the pile of paper, and fell over. Memos and invoices covered his legs; he swept some away but others took their place. The phone rang. ‘No,’ he hissed, and he reached out, grabbed its wire and wrenched it from the wall. ‘Go away,’ he said, and he put his head in his hands and wept.

  Frank looked at his mobile. He shook it, pressed recall and got unobtainable. He dialled his home and the number rang. He hung up, took a last look at Miss Austin’s house and drove away.

  He reached Mr Austin’s office twenty minutes later. He tried the agency again, but it was still dead.

  Mr Austin’s secretary was talking to a colleague about hygiene when Frank walked in; she adjusted her glasses as he introduced himself. She buzzed his particulars and invited him to take a seat; he had just settled into a copy of Country Life when Austin came from an inner office and beckoned him. The secretary watched the two men; when they had gone, she turned to her colleague and said, ‘It’s a yeast problem.’

  Austin was thickening. Once he had been a slim man, a keen squash player and moderate drinker; now he was changing, and the changes bred paranoia and a thick neck. He settled himself behind his desk and asked Frank to sit down.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Frank.

  ‘You’ve got a result?’

  ‘Yes.’ Frank put the report on the desk. ‘It’s all in there.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Mr Austin —’ said Frank, and he cleared his throat with a dramatic hack, ‘what I’m going to tell you will probably come as a surprise to you — it came as a surprise to me — but we’ve been very thorough in our investigations, so believe me.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Austin.

  ‘Your wife is studying Tai Chi with your sister,’ said Frank, and as the words came out, he felt the weight of their lie and the pain they balanced upon.

  ‘What?’ said Austin.

  ‘Your wife is studying Tai Chi with—’

  ‘Yes. I heard you the first time.’

  ‘And that’s the story.’ He reached into his pocket and took out the bill. He put it on the desk. ‘Our invoice,’ he said.

  ‘Tai Chi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Chinese exercise?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Austin swivelled in his chair, tipped his head back, pursed his fingers, made a point out of his fingers, and rested his chin on them. He sat like this for a minute, then turned, looked Frank straight in the eyes and said, ‘With my sister?’

  ‘Yes.’ Frank was tired of this. He was tired of the deceit and irritated by Mr Austin. The man thought he was important, with his tie-pin, his leather chairs and his locked decanters. He wanted power over people, and Frank had been colluding with him. Now it satisfied Frank to think that he was worried and confused.

  ‘You’ve times and places?’

  ‘All there.’ He tapped the report.

  ‘I see,’ said Austin.

  Frank stood up, took a step towards the door and said, ‘If you need us again, you know the number.’

  Austin nodded, but didn’t say anything. He had turned back to resting his chin on his fingers, and was staring at the ceiling.

  An hour later, Frank got back to the office. He found Bob lying on a pile of paper, mumbling about how fish don’t lie. ‘Fish don’t lie, they can’t lie, can they? Why should they want to? Oh yes, I know all about you fish.’

  Frank bent down, picked up an empty whisky bottle, put it on the littered desk and put an arm on his friend’s shoulder. Bob stiffened at the touch, stopped talking, then relaxed. He felt his head vomit, and then it was clear. He sat up.

  ‘What happened?’ said Frank.

  ‘I was clearing out.’

  ‘Clearing out what?’

  Bob put his hand out and picked up a piece of paper. He read it, screwed it up and threw it down. ‘This…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘… my life.’

  Sudden change, unexpected raging, upset Frank, and the worst change was the strange happening to friends. He felt unequipped; all he could think about was the look of amazement on the Austin women’s faces, and the look of suspicion and disbelief on Mr Austin’s face, and the holes in the deceit, and Bob started crying, and then he was dribbling and talking about fish again. Frank liked the simple life, the uncomplicated day and quiet nights following quiet nights. He liked a small drink, but didn’t like to see whole bottles going down at once. And he didn’t like to see confusion; you never knew where it was coming from, and what it was going to do. He bent down, took Bob by the arm and lifted him up. Bob had this idea that some trout was out to get him; ‘I know what you’re looking at, you fish,’ he burbled.

  Frank said, ‘I’m taking you home.’

  ‘Home,’ said Bob.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fish live in the sea.’

  ‘And in lakes,’ said Frank, as he steered his friend around the piles of paper, kicking at a wastepaper-basket and grabbing his hat and coat as he passed through the outer office.

  ‘Oh yes. Lakes and rivers,’ said Bob. ‘Lakes and rivers.’

  ‌4

  Frank put Bob to bed, made a cup of coffee and sat down to watch afternoon television. He saw the last twenty minutes of an old episode of Dallas, then went for a game-show. Contestants from Finland, Denmark, Belgium, France, UK, Ireland, Spain and Portugal answered questions about food, farm animals and history; Frank snapped it off after ten minutes and looked for something to read. There was a pile of old fishing magazines on the sofa, some travel brochures and a copy of Exchange & Mart. He picked this up and flicked through it. Cheap office equipment, second-hand air compressors, unusual pets and a hundred different ways of making a lot of money. Personalised pens and key-rings, land in Spain and holidays in Jersey. Frank turned to the motoring section and thought, for a minute, about buying a new car. The thought passed when he heard Bob moaning, and the sound of retching and bed springs. He heard his friend get up and go to the bathroom; taps were run and a cupboard door opened and closed.

  The sound of bath taps running was a comfort to Frank. When he had been a child, frightening nights were sometimes relieved by light under the bathroom door and the sound of his mother running taps. The sound made him feel warm and remembered, and cared for. He sat down again, picked up a newspaper and read half an article about plastic surgery. He studied some before-and-after photographs, and thought about his nose. He’d known a few noses in his life; noses like chisels and noses like tomatoes, noses that ran and noses in the air. He heard Bob sigh and then start to hum.

  The vet arrived as Mrs Platt was putting the kettle on for a cup of tea; he took one look at the bird and knew that it had only a few days to live. Its feathers were hanging off it like weeds, and its one sad, open eye had turned milky. Mrs Platt tapped the top of the cage and said, ‘He’s such a good friend.’

  ‘They can be,’ said the vet. He was a young man. He enjoyed the variety of his work, and the fact that he was always welcome in other people’s homes. He loved relieving worry and pain, and the trust the work bred. His favourite animals were cats, and the most difficult to treat were invertebrates. Once, he had an oyster as a patient, an enormous thing that lived in a salt-water tank with a lobster. The oyster’s owner claimed that it was depressed, a diagnosis rooted in madness. The vet had tasted the water and said that it was too salty; what a stroke of genius! The owner had changed the water immediately, and the oyster had cheered up.


  The vet was happy in his work, and he was also in love with a dental nurse called Cheryl. Every time he thought about her, his brain throbbed and the blood in his legs slowed and buzzed in its veins. She filled his head and all the things he did. Every time he saw her, he felt the hairs on his head sing and the palms of his hands walk. When he kissed her, he felt as though his whole world could slip away and disappear in her, and he felt the warm hands of chaos playing with his heart.

  ‘Is he very ill?’ said Mrs Platt.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said the vet. He opened the cage and put his hand inside. Joey attempted to back off, but all his hopes and all his primeval dreams were betraying him. The flock of budgies he had been roosting with had flown south, heading towards the coast. They would rest in a corn field before flying on.

  ‘Is there anything you can do for him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The vet had Joey in his hand now; he took him from the cage and turned him over. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘but I’d guess he’s quite an old bird…’ he stroked it under the chin, ‘aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve had him about ten years.’

  ‘That long?’

  Mrs Platt nodded.

  ‘I have to tell you that he’s one of the oldest budgerigars I’ve come across; he’s lucky to have lived this long.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mrs Platt had to turn away from the vet. He was a nice young man with a kind voice and clean fingernails. She picked up a piece of cuttlefish and picked at its edges; as she did, the vet held Joey’s head between the forefinger and index finger of his right hand, and snapped the bird’s neck. Then he put the body in the cage, propped it against a water bowl and closed the door. ‘I have to say,’ he said, and he picked up his case, ‘that I don’t think he’s got more than a few hours left.’

  ‘Is he in pain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As long as you keep him quiet and warm.’

  Mrs Platt turned back to look at Joey. The bird looked happier than it had done before she’d called the vet; it was resting its head against the bars of the cage. She was pleased that she’d done the right thing. You must look after your pets. You must not let them suffer.

  Bob came from the bathroom wearing a dressing-gown. He went to the kitchen, filled a kettle and said, ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Frank, and, ‘How are you feeling?’

  Bob stood in the kitchen door. ‘Better. Did you bring me home?’

  ‘Yes; but I let you trash the office first.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Why, Bob?’ Frank put on his biggest stare, and pursed his lips. ‘What’s going on?’

  Bob absent-mindedly scratched his crotch and shook his head. ‘What can I say?’

  ‘Cut the bullshit and tell me straight.’

  ‘That’s what you want?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Bob!’

  The kettle began to boil, Bob took a step back into the kitchen.

  ‘Forget the coffee!’ Frank was angry now. He didn’t want lies. Life had to make sense. He had to have it neat, with hospital corners and folded pyjamas. He wanted reasons, he wanted to know where he stood, and he wanted his friends to trust him. Deceit bred chaos, and chaos was Frank’s greatest fear. He wanted phones to work, Volvic to taste sweet and Mrs Platt’s budgie to cheep. He needed Lisa to tell him her news, and he needed the News at Ten. ‘Tell me!’ he shouted. ‘Bottles of whisky in the afternoon, lying to Austin, wrecking the office; you want me to do the work, but it’s hard—’

  ‘Hard?’ Bob laughed. ‘You think it’s hard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then do what I’m doing.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I’m jacking it in…’ said Bob, and he turned around, went to the kettle and switched it off.

  Frank didn’t say anything for a minute. ‘I’m jacking it in…’ floated in the air, riding a thermal that rose from Bob’s head, always out of reach, but always visible. The words were solid, they were meant and they were clear. Frank examined them, trying to see them from all angles, but he couldn’t. They were in his head, they were in the air, they twisted around, he could not understand them. They confused him and made him nervous. He heard Bob fiddle with some mugs, but the noise didn’t disturb his thoughts. They trundled on, travelling down a straight track, unable to deviate. They struggled with confusion and they fought his nerves; Bob came back with the coffees, put them on the floor and said, ‘I’ve had enough.’

  Frank didn’t like mugs of coffee on the floor; he picked his up and held it in front of him.

  ‘Did you hear me, Frank?’

  His name came out of a trance; he looked up and said, ‘You’ve had enough?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Now Bob laughed and said, ‘Austin. He made me realise. You think we’ve had to lie to him, but we’ve been lying to his wife and sister for a fortnight.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘I have, but I know I’m off your track.’

  ‘All our sitting outside the house, following them into cinemas, watching them walk along the beach; that’s lying. Deceit. What business is it of ours? If Austin can’t sort his own problems, if he can’t take a day off from the office and treat his wife like a human being, if he can’t see trouble coming, then what the hell does he expect? What do he and all the other fuckers we’ve worked for expect? And what do we expect? Ten per cent discount for early settlement?’

  ‘We’re providing a service,’ said Frank, steadily.

  Bob laughed again.

  ‘People need us.’

  ‘People need us when they can’t be bothered themselves.’

  ‘That’s bullshit. We’ve got expertise. Skills.’

  ‘Expertise my arse. Anyone could do our jobs. Think about it; if you can sit in a car you can be a Private. Maybe it helps if you can write, but it’s not important. A mobile and a second-hand car, and you’re away.’

  ‘You…’ said Frank, but he couldn’t catch any more words. They were stacked in his mind but wouldn’t go to his mouth. He drank some coffee, glanced at his old friend and looked out of the window. A streetlamp tinted the sky orange, and a fluorescing seagull flew by. Flurries of snow blew against the windows, catching in the corners and climbing up the glass. Bob’s place was above a newsagent; the top of a Christmas tree was level with the sill. Frank could see a pink fairy’s back, a yellow light flashing on the top of her wand.

  ‘I’m selling,’ said Bob, ‘and I’m going to relax. Read a few books, watch some telly, sit in the bath a lot. Maybe I’ll go on holiday. I think Tunisia’s nice at this time of year. It’s cheap too.’ He smiled at the thought; the sun, the camels, the sand in his hair and the busy bazaars. ‘Everyone owes themselves some time.’

  ‘You’ve got it worked out?’ Frank had wanted to sound sarcastic, but Bob heard statement of fact delivered in a level tone of voice.

  ‘I certainly have,’ said Bob.

  ‘When? When’s this happening?’

  ‘As soon as I find a buyer. Maybe you’d be interested.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No,’ said Frank, and he’d had enough. He stood up and picked up his coat. ‘No,’ he said again, and he went to the door.

  ‘Frank?’ said Bob.

  Frank stopped and looked around.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Frank shook his head in despair, and let himself out. He stood on the street for five minutes and let snow cover his head. Some children were skidding down the pavement on plastic sacks, shouting and throwing snowballs. Frank watched them and thought, We are not children, we are adults. Our lives are not games, we were not born to play. Then he thought about
Lisa, and how she would be coming in from a day at the chemist’s, smelling of TCP and lozenges. She’d be looking forward to meeting Adrian in a pub, and enjoying a drink in comfort. She would glow with happiness, smiling at the perfect way her life was developing. She would come home later and smile at him over a late cup of tea; oh yes, thought Frank, how simple life might be.

  ‌5

  At half-past six Frank let himself into Mrs Platt’s house, stamped his feet on the mat, checked the hall table for post and began to climb the stairs. He had his left foot on the third step when Mrs Platt put her head around the door and said, ‘Usual time tonight, Frank?’ He listened for her bird, but heard nothing. ‘Joey’s not been well,’ she said, ‘but the vet came and he’s been better since. He’s asleep at the moment.’

  ‘Asleep?’ said Frank.

  ‘Yes. Do you want to see him? He looks so peaceful.’

  Frank was feeling very tired, but he couldn’t say no to Mrs Platt. Her smile grabbed him and would not let go. It shook him until he rattled. He climbed back down the stairs and followed her into her rooms.

  Her rooms were dark and smelt of cabbage, mothballs and candle wax. There were antimacassars on chairs, pictures of uniformed men on the walls and lace curtains at the windows. Frank was suddenly, inexplicably, attacked by the memory of a woman he thought he had loved, but he’d been mistaken. He’d left his heart for lust, he’d allowed himself to become trapped by the random flight of desire. As Mrs Platt led him to Joey’s cage, he remembered. The woman’s mother had lived in rooms like these, rooms from a time when skin was sin, Christ was king, tradesmen called at side doors and little men mended your car when it broke down. Pianos with brass candle-holders stood in rooms that were never used, and Paris was days away. Sherry was dusty and beer died in the glass; a dead and terrible time, a false construction that bled itself to death.

  ‘Look,’ said Mrs Platt.

  A lie, Christian fakery. Order, thought Frank, came from people, and chaos was God’s work.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and he went to stand next to Mrs Platt. They stared at Joey together, and the first thing he thought was — the bird is dead.