Provender Gleed

by James Lovegrove

  Reflexively he anagrammed the word table.

  TABLE - BLEAT.

  That was all. Only BLEAT.

  Then sense returned. His scattered wits came thronging back. He glanced up where the table had come from, not really looking. He saw tower blocks, balconies, windows, sky, sun. An impression of Needle Grove bearing down angrily upon him. He spun on his heel. He headed for the exit he had come out of. He plunged back into the shopping arcade, back into apparent safety, into a place where tables did not, could not, fall on you from a great height. He fetched up against a shopfront. He leaned into it for support, panting. Adrenaline surged through him like jolts of electricity. His legs went weak. He slumped. His heart rat-a-tat-tatted. He stayed there, shellshocked, for he didn't know how long.

  Death. Death had come within a hair's breadth of getting him.

  Gradually Milner began to realise how lucky he had been. How fortunate he was to be alive still. With that realisation a calm began to descend on him, and his breathing slowed and so did his heart rate.

  What he would never know was that the falling table incident was a near-miss in more ways than one.

  Had he remained outdoors a moment longer, had he kept looking up, Milner would have seen two heads appear, looking down from adjacent balconies directly overhead, fifteen storeys above the overpass. He would, if he had been in full possession of his faculties, surely have recognised one of the heads as belonging to none other than Provender Gleed.

  That was how close Merlin Milner came top cracking the Provender Gleed case, and in the process winning his gentlemen's bet with Romeo Moore.

  Painfully close.

  Lamentably close.

  Tragically close.

  40

  Is felt many things when the table dropped away. The first was annoyance. If Provender hadn't scuttled across in such a frantic hurry, the table would not have started bouncing and the end she was holding down would not have slipped out of her grasp. The next thing she felt was chagrin. She should have held on tighter. She was to blame for the table falling, not Provender. Then came exasperation, as an old, familiar thought-routine welled to the surface: Typical Family, taking everything, leaving nothing for anyone else. Finally there was a peculiar kind of guilt, as she recalled the real reason she had gone back into the flat before Provender set off across the table - not to fetch the hypodermic, as she had claimed, but to leave a kind of time-bomb for Damien. She had committed an act of petty vengeance, and already karma had caught up with her. She had done something she should never have stooped to doing, and here was her reward, to be stranded on the balcony with her means of escape well and truly gone.

  All these emotions came and went in a flash. It then occurred to her that there might have been somebody below when the table fell. She poked her head out over the parapet. Provender, on Mrs Philcox's balcony, did the same.

  The table had struck the overpass. It was in about a thousand pieces but none of those pieces, thank God, was embedded in the anatomy of a human being. There was no one on the overpass. The only person adversely affected by the table's fall was Is herself.

  'Shit,' she sighed. She looked across at Provender. His body language said puzzled and also sheepish. 'Well, that's that, then. What the hell am I going to do now?'

  'Erm...' Provender scratched his head. 'No idea. Bugger. I'm sorry, Is. I don't even know how it happened.' His expression turned hopeful. 'Look, I could go into Mrs What's-her-name's flat and asked to use her phone. Call the police.'

  'We've no idea how quickly they'll get here.'

  'If they hear my name, pretty quickly.'

  'They might think it's a hoax call.'

  'I didn't think of that. Still, it's our best chance.'

  'But if Damien gets back from the library before the police arrive...'

  Provender nodded. 'Then you just have to jump.'

  'Are you joking?'

  'Nope. Deadly serious.'

  'I can't jump that distance. We already established that.'

  'Why not? You could if we were on the ground.'

  'Maybe. But we're not on the ground. If we were it wouldn't matter, I could jump and miss. Here, I can't.'

  'But you won't miss. You'll make it.'

  'Says who?'

  'Says me. Is, a moment ago you promised me I'd get across that table safely. Lo and behold I did. Now I'm making you the same promise. You will jump across. You will reach this side. And I'll be here to catch you. Just do it.'

  There was complete earnestness in his face and voice. He believed implicitly what he was saying. He was trying to make her believe it implicitly too.

  To her surprise, Is found herself clambering up onto the parapet.

  The building swooped away beneath her. Her entire body went numb. Her head became as empty as a balloon.

  She lurched back down onto the balcony and stood there clutching the parapet and trying not to vomit. She wasn't scared of heights, but that meant nothing when you were teetering five hundred feet above the earth, contemplating a six-foot jump onto a foot-wide concrete wall. Then, the natural terror of falling took hold and overrode all else. It wasn't even a tussle between instinct and logic. There simply was no logic in what Provender was encouraging her to do.

  'Is,' he said, 'get up there again and jump.'

  'Fuck off, rich boy. You do it, if it's so easy.'

  'Just spring forward. Throw yourself. I'll be here. I'll grab you, cushion your landing.'

  'You won't cushion my landing because I'll be landing right fucking down there and unless you plan to be standing under me like a one-man firemen's blanket...'

  'Do you want to be there when Damien gets home?'

  'I don't have a choice, do I.'

  'Yes, you do, and it's jump.'

  Is thought of Damien coming home and finding her alone in the flat. She could undo her 'time-bomb', that wasn't a problem, but there would be no getting around the fact that Provender had absconded. That was something she could not undo, and there was just no predicting how Damien would react. The lump on her cheek was testament to that, not to mention the way her left eye was starting to puff shut.

  She heaved herself, trembling, back up onto the parapet. There, she clutched the side of the building, shuffled her feet forward till the tips of her toes were at the parapet's outermost edge, and waited for an upsurge of courage.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Courage didn't seem to want to arrive. Every nerve in her was telling her to step back. Every cell in her recoiled from the drop in front of her.

  If she leapt, for a moment she would be in flight between the balconies, nothing below her, greedy gravity eager to gets its hands on her and drag her down.

  She could not see herself doing it.

  Then she was doing it.

  She did not know how or why. She had no idea what impelled her. All at once, obeying some subconscious command, she crouched, tensed her legs, put everything she had into it, and sprang.

  There was no sense of transition. No notion of flight. One moment she was on Damien's balcony, the next she was on Mrs Philcox's.

  Or almost on Mrs Philcox's.

  One foot scraped the parapet. Then the lip of the parapet jarred into her knee. Then she was sliding, flailing, tumbling. She knew she had failed. She was going to fall.

  Then Provender had her. His arms were around her torso, his hands scrabbling for purchase, finding it in her clothing, in the strap of her shoulder-bag. She dangled, clinging onto him, he clinging onto her, and then she began kicking against the parapet, pushing herself up against it with her toes, mad, panicked, desperate to get onto the balcony, not caring what it took, screaming, yelling, clawing, fighting, and Provender hauled backwards, and the parapet was under her belly and then the balcony was beneath her and Provender was spreadeagled next to her, and Is caressed the solidity of the balcony's concrete floor, loved it like she had loved nothing before.

  A long time later, still sprawled f
lat out, Is said, 'Did you honestly believe I'd manage it?'

  'Not for a second,' Provender replied.

  'You absolute fucking bastard.'

  'I know.'

  'When all this is over, I'm going to kill you. You know that, don't you?'

  Provender grinned. 'It will be a sweet death.'

  She punched him. It was the least he deserved.

  41

  Lunch was done and Arthur took his leave. Threading his way through the house, he got a little lost. He was still not totally familiar with the layout - really, the place was a maze - but with time and a few further visits he would, he felt, have it solved.

  He emerged into one of the drawing rooms, expecting it to be an entrance hall. There he came upon his aunt, Cynthia, who was sitting with several string-bound stacks of post in front of her. She looked - and it was hardly surprising - desolate.

  'Arthur?'

  'I know all about it,' Arthur said, going over to her. 'I am so, so sorry.'

  She made a vague gesture of acknowledgement which turned into a trembling caress of her forehead. 'Birthday cards,' she said, indicating the letters. 'For Provender. Most arrived today. From well-wishers out there. You do know it's his birthday?'

  'He mentioned it the other night.'

  'Twenty-five. Not a special age, like twenty-one or forty. Not a milestone. But still, a quarter of a century.'

  Arthur laid a hand on Cynthia's shoulder.

  His own mother he loved. She was outspoken, forthright in her feelings, handsome in a rough-hewn Hebridean way, and she had defended him throughout his boyhood against the taunts and jibes that were frequently flung at him, while also encouraging him to stand up for himself (it had not been easy, growing up a Gleed in a small island community). For all that, she was not a woman like Cynthia Gleed. Arthur was in awe of his aunt. She was glamorous, ethereal, saintly, compassionate, forgiving... In a word, perfect. The kind of mother every son should have. The kind of son he, in furtive, wistful moments, wished he had had.

  His heart went out to her now, and at the same time he inwardly damned Provender for any and all of the distress he had caused Cynthia over the years, the long litany of upsets and disappointments he had brought to this fine, upstanding, blameless woman.

  'If there's anything I can do to help...'

  Cynthia patted his hand. 'Thank you, Arthur, no. I can't think of anything.'

  'If you like, I could go back to the Chapel with you. We could pray together.' Arthur had never prayed for anything in his life, but for Cynthia he would. Happily.

  'No need, Arthur. That's kind, but it's all under control. I know what I have to do.'

  'Oh. Well. If you're sure...'

  She nodded, sure.

  'I'll be getting back to town, then,' Arthur said. 'We're having a full-dress run-through this afternoon. Clear up a few snags that happened last night. The director said it isn't necessary, but I wasn't completely happy with the performance, and when a Gleed's not completely happy there's no rest until he or she is. Isn't that right?'

  'I agree,' said Cynthia, with definiteness.

  'Anything and everything must be done to bring about the right conclusion.'

  'Absolutely.'

  She seemed cheered, and all through the drive back to London Arthur was pleased to think he had brought her comfort with his words. A better son than her own son, he opined. Far more deserving of her maternal affections than Provender would ever be.

  42

  Winifred Philcox was surprised to see her son Barry standing on her balcony, tapping on the window. He hadn't rung to tell her he was visiting. Come to think of it, he hadn't called in ages, and she couldn't remember when he had last dropped round. A month ago? A year? Time was strange, wasn't it. Sometimes it shot by and sometimes it didn't seem to pass at all.

  Winifred made her way to the window as fast as her trick hip would allow. She signalled to Barry that she would need his help sliding it open. Oh, and look. Barry had brought his girlfriend with him. Andrea, Angela, something like that. Winifred had met her twice previously. They hadn't got on. Not good enough for Barry, that was the trouble. Barry was a prize and that Andrea/Angela girl simply didn't deserve him.

  Still, Winifred was impeccably polite as she greeted them. She told them to come in, come in. She went to hug Barry and he seemed startled, but he returned the hug. Winifred then held out her hand to Andrea/Angela and said it was nice to see her again.

  'I'm sorry,' she added, 'you'll have to remind me. Is it Andrea or Angela?'

  'Neither,' said the girl. 'Don't you recognise me, Mrs Philcox?'

  'Of course I do,' Winifred said with a sniff. 'You're Barry's Andrea. Or Angela.'

  'No, I'm Is. I used to live next door, sort of. With Damien.'

  'Don't be daft. You're Andrea or Angela. I remember that Is. She looked nothing like you. Lovely girl, though.' Winifred turned to Barry. 'Now then, young man, why have I seen so little of you lately?'

  'Erm... Because I've been holed up in an ashram in the Himalayas for the past decade, pondering on koans?'

  Andrea/Angela hissed at him sharply, which Winifred chose not to comment on. Really, though, a girl should never backchat her man like that. No wonder she had that big bruise on her cheek and that swollen eye. Probably asked for it.

  'Mrs Philcox,' Andrea/Angela said, 'actually we haven't got time to stop and talk. Could we use your phone?'

  Winifred turned round again. 'All right, I've been very patient with you, young lady, but even I have my limits. I was speaking to my son and I'll thank you not to interrupt. When and if you want to ask me something, you can jolly well wait until the right moment arises. Otherwise keep yourself to yourself.' She clucked her tongue, uttered a little snarl, and shook her head. Honestly!

  'As a matter of fact, er, Mum,' said Barry, 'we do rather need to use the phone.'

  'Go on then,' Winifred said, somewhat irritably. That girl had put her in a bad mood. Completely ruined what should have been a happy reunion. It hadn't escaped Winifred's notice that Barry appeared not to have shaved for three days. The blame for this clearly lay with Andrea/Angela. She was a bad influence on him in so many ways. He used to be such a clean and tidy lad.

  'Dead,' Barry said, with his ear to the phone receiver. 'No dial tone. Nothing.'

  'Are you sure, Prov-- Barry?' said Andrea/Angela.

  'If Barry says it's dead, it's dead,' said Winifred. 'Is it really, Barry?'

  'As a dodo. When did you last pay your bill, Ma?'

  'I don't know. Can't remember. I'm sure it was recently.'

  'Well, I'm afraid you've been cut off.'

  A light dawned in Winifred's head. 'That'll be why you haven't rung in a while. I bet you've been trying and trying to get through.'

  'Yes. Quite. That's it.'

  'Payphone, then,' said Andrea/Angela. 'That's our best chance.'

  Barry agreed, and together the two of them made for the door.

  'You're going?' said Winifred, not even trying to hide her dismay. 'Already?'

  'I'm sorry, we have to,' Barry said. 'It's been great to see you. I'll call again soon, I promise.'

  'You won't even stay for a cup of tea?'

  'We'd love to but we just can't. Next time.'

  'Well, take care then. Look after yourself.'

  'Thanks. I fully intend to.'

  It might be argued that Mrs Philcox, mild senile dementia notwithstanding, was not in fact wrong to mistake Provender for her own son. After all, Family members were in some sense members of everyone's family. People knew them as well as, and sometimes better than, their own kin. And people often preferred them, or the idea of them, to their own kin.

  Certainly Barry's visit, brief though it was, left Mrs Philcox with a warm glow of happiness that lasted the remainder of the day. Her son, whom it so happened she had not seen in nearly four years, still loved her. Her son, who in fact couldn't stand the sight of her any more, still cared.

  43

  A
nxiety dogged their steps as they headed along the corridor towards the lift bank. It seemed that at any moment Damien might appear. He might be riding a lift up to this floor right now. The lift car would stop, the door would roll open, he would step out - and there would be Provender and Is straight in front of him, not where they were supposed to be, and with nowhere to hide.

  Reaching the lift bank, Is stabbed the call button urgently. Nothing appeared to happen, but the lifts in this block, as in all of them, were notoriously sluggish and sometimes simply refused point-blank to work, for reasons no repairmen could fathom. If lifts had souls, the ones in Needle Grove were as downtrodden and surly as those of long-abused slaves. They bore a grudge about their lives of constant hard labour and all the times they had been pissed in and shat in and the fact that the legal minimum of maintenance work was done to keep them going. They resented their own existences, and it showed.

  Is couldn't bear to be out here in the corridor, exposed, waiting for a lift to deign to come. She tried the button a couple more times, then jerked her thumb towards a nearby access door and said, 'The stairs.'

  44

  'May I be of assistance?'

  The voice was mildly accented and polite but with an undertow of quiet warning. It belonged to an Asian man - Chinese, Milner thought - with a soft round face, hair that had receded to the crown, and eyes that were deep-set and yellowed and, at this moment, wary.

  'Only,' the man continued, 'you're leaning against my shop window, and I'm always a bit concerned when people lean against my shop window.' He gave a wry grimace. 'It often precedes people breaking my shop window.'