‘Ruth, Mick’s on the line for a chat. Could you watch the shop, and replace the receiver down here when I’ve picked up?’ She seems to stiffen up, and perhaps flush, but maybe not. And does she share a glance with Nicki? Is something up? I hurry into the back room and up the stairs.
‘Hi Mick.’ There’s a click on the line as the phone downstairs is replaced. I watch the girls on the CCTV, hoping to read their body language.
‘Yeah, Simon, good to talk to you. So you’re doing a roaring trade, that’s great. You’ll spank those targets, pal.’
‘I’ve spanked them already.’
‘Course you have. How much of that Champagne order came back?’
‘None yet.’ And come to think of it, we haven’t had our glasses back yet either. No wonder we’re short. ‘It looked to me like they drank most of it.’
‘Awesome. Just awesome. Now, I wanted to talk to you about Ruth.’
Here it is. I glance at the monitor. Nicki’s doing a funny walk and Ruth’s laughing. There are no customers. ‘What about her?’
‘It looks like we’re losing her.’
‘What?’
‘Pity too, because she’s a damn fine assistant manager. And she really picked up the ball when you were away.’
‘She was a very receptive trainee. So what’s happened?’
‘She called me last week to ask if I’d promote her. She wants manager, or assistant manager at a bigger shop. I said I’d keep an ear to the ground, but it didn’t look as if something was coming up any time soon. And she wants to go straight after Christmas.’
‘So that’s that then. She has to stay.’
‘I’m afraid not. She applied for ass’ man’ at Dulwich. Phoned up Brian-fucking-Jenkins and he snapped her up. So she’ll pick up that hefty Christmas bonus you guys’ll make, and move right on out of my area. Any idea why she’s got such itchy feet?’
‘To be honest, Mick, she wasn’t so happy about what happened with Sam.’
‘She and I spoke about that. I’m sure it can’t just be that.’
‘Well in that case, Mick, I’m really not sure.’ On the screen, Ruth makes a ‘smile’ gesture by pushing up the corners of her mouth with her finger and thumb, turns her head as if mimicking a response, and gives the imaginary gesturer a firm middle-finger salute.
‘I really don’t know.’
We say our goodbyes and hang up. The phone rings as soon as I put it down. It’s Julia. The weather’s taken a turn up in Chichester. There’s only drizzle at the moment but the forecast’s grim for most of next week so it looks as if she can come home for a while. It’s nice to talk to her, because it’s been a few days. I tell her about the beating I took on Monday, claiming I didn’t want to worry her before, but not about being locked in the car and driven out to the country, because that seems like the kind of thing you can’t conceal from your wife. I can’t talk to her for long because the shop fills up again with alarming rapidity. I tell her I love her and that I can’t wait to see her, resolve to clean the house and buy some real food, and dash back downstairs.
At three o’clock I’m trying to understand some football talk from a man in a Chelsea shirt with an armful of beer, which I wish he’d just buy and leave me alone, when a large white Range Rover pulls up in the space outside my shop. The man inside sits like he’s got a curtain rod down the back of his shirt. It takes me three-quarters of a second to recognise him.
I bluster to the yob, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve just remembered I have an extremely important engagement,’ get Nicki to take over, and charge to the back of the shop. I don’t want to risk being in the office in case someone asks for me, so as I squeeze past Ruth, who’s washing tasting glasses in the sink out back, I tell her I have to go out. She shrugs, and I remember that I need to have a chat with her.
I don’t risk walking up the side road to the front in case he sees me, so I keep going down towards the river and cross the footbridge to Western Gardens, intending to cut through to the ring road and from there to the High Street.
Faces, families, bags, bustle. Moving down the High Street is like fighting the tide. Shop fronts dazzle in the dim light, the flashing snowflakes draped overhead leave dancing spots behind the eyes, and people throng everywhere. I imagine a time in the near future when the masses, so desperate for commercial gratification, pack the streets so densely they have to clamber over one another to reach the shops, then burrow down again through heaving mounds of flesh to get to the doors. Each fat, thin, muscular, scrawny, pasty, pockmarked, sagging, stooped, haughty, self-important, browbeaten, nervous, lecherous, innocent, rich, poor, ugly or beautiful person regards their existence as everything there is. And of course they’re wrong: I’m everything there is. I don’t understand how there can be room in the world for so many, and so varied, consciousnesses. My own is so huge, so firmly established, and so right on nearly every score, that the rest can only be shadows. But why am I here? All week I’ve been haunted by that phrase of Emily’s – life is killing time until you die – and trying to decipher it.
Immortality is impossible, but we reach for it in whatever way we can. Athletes aim to be the greatest that ever lived, so their name remains for future generations to admire. Actors, filmmakers, artists, architects and sculptors all leave something behind. Or you could have children, so your genes continue even if your consciousness doesn’t. Or your remains are absorbed by the soil, which fertilises some plant which produces a berry which feeds a bird which has little baby birds, and your molecules fly chirping off into the sunset until they’re shot by a farmer and the whole thing starts over. Sartre mentioned that the only true immortality lies in the written word: a painting’s canvas will deteriorate, its colours fade, and any copy is only a copy, whereas words can be copied until the end of the Earth and their essence remains intact: there lies immortality. But the Earth will have an end, and everything in this expanding universe will dissolve into plasma, and there’s no fucking God, everyone knows that, so what’s the point? Is what we do only worthwhile as long as there’s someone else to regard it? Is that why the cult of celebrity, and Instagram, and stupid nude selfies in the name of empowerment, has become so prevalent, and why factory workers and shop assistants and hairdressers – and yes, perhaps some wine merchant managers – clamour and fight and scratch and bite to get themselves noticed online or on TV, not noticing that every vacuous no-talent hero before them nosedived into obscurity in no time at all? So you’ve been seen, and you feel important, and people love you for your ‘art’, or for your thigh-gap, or, worst of all, for ‘who you are’, and then what? Big fat sweaty nothing, that’s what.
So what Emily said is true. You steer a course through life hoping to procure pleasure and stay out of pain’s way, and then you’re plant-food, and then you’re plasma. I remember being comforted by the idea that the rate the universe is expanding is decreasing, and that eventually it will stop expanding altogether and contract back into the singularity it started from, before another Big Bang. That feels like we all get another chance. Maybe next time round I’d be more comfortable in social situations, funnier and better looking; perhaps I’d get on better with my father, or be braver and rescue my brother; perhaps I’d have more chances to explore my sexuality before I got married, and not feel the need to cheat on my wife. It might take eight-billion years, but I always thought the wait would be worth it. Yet even that comforting morsel has been denied me, because it turns out the universe is accelerating, not slowing down. It’s getting apart from itself as fast as it can, and faster still, and personally I’m not surprised. So no more chances. I’m not a Buddhist: this is it. And if only for my own gratification, for my own empowerment, I need to feel better than other people.
Having burnt my tongue on a latté and fought my way back, I’m relieved to see the Chelsea tractor is no longer parked outside my shop. Back inside, there’s barely room to move. A stack of boxes has been dumped inside the front door, containing hundreds of my Champagne
flutes. Right at the bottom are two cases of Dom Perignon. Ruth and Nicki are trapped behind the tills and the queue snakes to the back of the shop, so I grab the sack-barrow and get to work transporting the glasses to the garage. I break a sweat doing it, but manage not to do my back in.
Her customers dealt with, Ruth calls me over.
‘The posh guy who dropped off the glasses asked me to give you this.’ She passes me a leather wallet. My wallet. So Lennox found it first.
‘His name’s Mr Lennox. He’s the Milstons’ butler. I must have left it at the tasting.’
‘Ok.’
‘He’s a complete wanker, by the way,’ I say as I turn the treacherous article over in my hands.
‘He seemed all right to me.’
I look up at her and try to read her face. Nothing. Blank, opaque, and over made-up. She’s had a haircut. I mentally juggle the beginnings of several sentences, before I settle for, ‘You and I need to have a little talk, I think.’
She nods, reaches for the box of price labels and starts sifting through them, picking some out and laying them on the counter. I wait for a response, but get nothing more. A few months ago, when awkward silences cropped up between us, I would evade the discomfort by giving her jobs to do, like facing up the shelves or sweeping the dead wasps out of the window display; now, though, she sees everything early and gets touchy about being told. So I wander away.
There’s a piece of folded writing paper in my wallet. I take it out back and open it. There’s a coat of arms at the top. Below it, in a delicate, flowing hand, are the words, “You will be hearing from Lord Milston.” I screw it up and clench my fist around it. My knuckles whiten and my fingernails dig into my palm. That’s all I need. I feel like I could kill somebody.
I’m cashing up alone again, tapping data into the office computer. There’s a glass of expensive Chilean Cabernet at my elbow. While I was in the cellar, I overheard the girls arranging to go for a drink after work, but they didn’t invite me. I let them both go the moment I locked the doors. At least they thanked me for that.
I finish the last job of my twelve-hour day, and log off the computer. I don’t think I want to go home. I’m not sure I want to go anywhere. I almost feel like I can’t go on. Suddenly, almost violently, the realisation that I miss my wife grips my insides. When she’s waiting for me at home, I can shift the focus of my day from work to there. Without her there’s just work, and now that I’ve finished I feel despondent and empty. It’s dark outside, and doubtless cold. Yet again happy hordes of revellers will be filling the bars, pubs and streets, their vicious carousing a cruel counterpoint to my solitude. And I will be hearing from Lord Milston. That I can handle. The problem is if Julia hears from him too. I couldn’t bear that. I’ve got to stop seeing Emily, and damn well sort myself out. But I’m so angry, it’s all so unfair. I can feel the tight, hard ball of tension in my brain motoring, revving. I needed Emily, she was payback for the shit hand I’ve been dealt. And it gets worse, not better. Ruth, Lennox, The Weasel, Christine, all those fucking happy people, Peter my stupid fucking lump of a brother. Thoughts fly past me and back again, feelings leap forward and retreat and I can’t grasp any of it. I want to just do something. Something concussive, finite, conclusive – just to let that anger bunch up in my right arm and gather and grow and strike and be transitive and potent and do something, be released, dispersed, like the shock waves from an explosion, into the air. I’ve had enough of doing nothing. My lip hurts. I’ve been biting it. Lennox, that bastard. And fucking Lady Milston, playing me for a fool, manipulating me, pulling my strings. And Ruth hates me. Why does Ruth hate me? I’ve been a fair, decent boss. And she hates me. My wife loves me, she’s the best person I know, apart from me, so it’s something in Ruth. It’s her problem, her mistake. Simple. So why do I get this feeling? It must be her error. That should help. Why doesn’t it help? She’s just a fat bitch anyway. Fuck her. And fuck Lennox, and fuck Christine and fuck Lord Milston and fuck The Weasel and I wish those fucking laughing clowns outside would shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ!
The streets are unendurable, like some nightmare circus; cadaverous leers, cackles, yelps and squeals. Thumping, discordant music. The city has been drenched in a pale sodium glow; the sky crawls, a vast, nebulous disc revolving around the cathedral spires; the oily stench of mass-market deep-frying stains the air I breathe; a persistent breeze penetrates the stitching of my clothes and I shudder. I found my rucksack in my office, with all my kit in it. Knives, hammer, hoodie. I’m going to get changed in the tunnel, just in case.
The park isn’t right. The low clouds, reflecting too much ambient light, are like dull magma in the sky. I can see the trees and hedges, even make out details like cans and crisp packets strewn along its borders. And it’s empty. I sit on a bench halfway along the path, and hold my weapons. It feels like I’m outside myself, or looking through myself. Nothing is normal, and very little is real. Only me. I’m real. With a groan, I get to my feet. A deep bass hum of pain resonates through my body as my bruised muscles protest. I start the walk home.
Frankie doesn’t have a head, so I fetch an overripe melon from the bag in the corner and squoosh it down on his neck. My rucksack drops to my feet, and my hammer and knife slide out of my front pocket. First I jab the knife where his eye would be, and twist it in. Then I hit him on the head with the hammer, really hard, way too hard. The melon shatters, the knife flies out and clatters somewhere. I beat him around the shoulders, the ribs, I grab another head and smash it, the hammer drops, I grab his upper arms and shake him; knife in hand again, I throw my arms around him and stab him with both hands in the back, over and over, through his plastic ribcage, into his rotten organs; he’s bleeding everywhere, deflating, sagging, his clothes are in tatters. I embrace him, briefly try to staunch his wounds, then pull back my arms and stab him in the belly, upwards, twisting, under his ribs; something leaks from his lungs and there’s a terrible smell, like death; damp sawdust clings to my hands; standing on his base I start to punch him; my wrists hurt, my knuckles hurt, my damaged arms hurt; then I lean back and fire the strongest kick I can at his chest. His broomstick spine snaps and he collapses backwards, limp and broken. I’ve killed him. It makes me sad. I wish I hadn’t done that. I should never have given him a name.
Chapter fifteen
Sunday’s my day off, and there are nine days until Christmas. I wake up with a flutter of excitement in my stomach, as I realise I’m going to see Julia soon, perhaps even tomorrow, and it gives me energy to face the day.
I assign myself a number of tasks. First, I stroll to the corner shop opposite the park to buy a paper and some bread, bacon, eggs and juice for breakfast, and pick up a roll of refuse sacks while I’m there. The first hour of the morning is leisurely, as I take time preparing breakfast. The radio plays classical and the open windows blow clean air through the house. Outside, the light has that crisp quality you only get on winter mornings. My food is delicious, the juice refreshing. A strong cup of coffee complements both and sends strength to my limbs. I remember that some of the pleasures in life are not so hard to come by. Then it’s time to tidy. I begin in the shed.
The smell of rotting fruit is strong but not overpowering. I prop the door open and lift the blinds for the first time since I installed them. There’s sawdust everywhere. With a broom and dustpan and brush, I clear what I can from the floor. Then it’s time to dismantle what’s left of Frankie. By a mixture of ripping and sawing I break him into manageable chunks and stuff him into sacks. I wonder what on earth I was thinking.
Clearing the shed takes time, but the result is pleasing. Leaving the blinds up, I heave the mower out from the corner – with a straight back and little steps – to get to work on the lawn. It’s a slow job, because of the care I need to take over my back. The smell of cut grass and dew reminds me of being a child. My cheeks feel pink and cold, but not unpleasantly so, as I’ve generated my own warmth from the exertion. It’s a pleasant sensation, evocati
ve of school cross-country or snowball fights or sledging.
Finally, the house gets the treatment. Tidying, dusting, hoovering. I fill more bin bags and place them in the shed with the others. I’ll take them to the tip when Julia gets back with her car, or when mine comes back from the shop. Job done, I stand and admire my handiwork. It looks good. It’s been a good morning. One more cup of coffee, then it’s time to go shopping.
Sainsbury’s is not the most pleasant place in the world, but it’s tolerable. I load my shallow trolley with as much food as I think I can carry home, including the ingredients to cook Julia a stir-fry when she gets back, and in passing grab a handful of Christmas baubles to put up in the house. We’ve got our own in the cupboard under the stairs, along with the plastic tree, but some are past their best. Having filled my rucksack with shopping and hoisted the other bags, with equal weight on either side to save my spine, I start home. The shopping proves to be heavy, and I’m only just in the park when my hands start hurting from the plastic handles and my shoulders ache under the straps of my rucksack. The park is filled with life on this brisk winter noon. Most of the activity is around footballs or Frisbees, but there’s a group of youngsters juggling clubs and doing tricks with a diablo. A jogger brushes the hedges in his anticlockwise circuit. On the bench I stopped at last night, an elderly couple in thick coats and woolly hats are holding hands. Families walk their dogs. Nobody’s drunk or angry. I catch a glimpse of myself a long time ago, when I thought the world was always like this.
Back at home, it’s a relief to unload the shopping. I put it away then fix a lunch of ham, cheese and salad sandwiches, with gherkins, on granary. Another coffee, and to the comfort of a lunchtime play on Radio 4, I put up the decorations. The afternoon cruises by, and the evening is spent with a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon and a book. A Scotch on the rocks helps send me to sleep.
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