The Kissing Fence

by B. A. Thomas-Peter

  “How long will it be before I start noticing differences? I don’t really know what to expect afterwards.”

  The surgeon rocked his head back and forth. “It’s difficult to be sure about that. You’ve had the condition for ten years or so. We don’t know what you would be like had you not had it. You also have your routines and habits, like we all do. Don’t expect these to change overnight. There are lots of men with the symptoms you describe without your condition, so I don’t think there will be dramatic change.”

  “I didn’t even know they were symptoms.” William shrugged.

  “Things happen slowly, so you wouldn’t notice changes. Remember, you are a busy man with responsibilities and lots of stress. Why would you notice?”

  “Put like that, it hardly seems worth doing something about it.”

  The surgeon’s eyes smiled again. “Well, it all depends on what type we are dealing with. We’re more concerned about preventing something worse happening. It’s only little, as adenomas are, but too big to be in your head. Eventually it could affect your sight and other things. And it has probably been upsetting your system for a long time. It’s worth it. Believe me.”

  “Thanks.” William grimaced politely.

  “No need for that,” said the surgeon. “It’s all part of the service.” His eyes smiled again over the mask as he moved toward the opening at the end of the bed. “The anaesthetist will be along shortly, and I’ll see you again in theatre. Rest now.”

  William waited in the cubical. Through the gap in the curtains at the end of his bed he could see people enter and exit his field of vision in not much more than a blink. Soft voices drifted to him from all directions. Trolleys moved. He shifted his head back and forth to widen the angle of view. Two nurses stood in their hospital fatigues behind a counter, huddled over a clipboard. He thought there was something holy in all of this cleanliness, reverence and quiet murmurings like the voices of churchgoers. He hated the helplessness of waiting for others to act.

  The small gap in the curtains opened suddenly and the anaesthetist swept in with a nurse.

  “Hello,” she said cheerfully. “All ready?”

  William nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. We can give you something to relax you before we take you into theatre,” she said, turning his arm over and exposing the back of his hand.

  She held his forearm and rubbed his hand. Her touch was unfamiliar and discomforting but he allowed it. He was always wary of being touched and it was made worse now that he was helpless. She produced a syringe and secured the cannula with tape to his hand. “You’ll feel a little warm and pleasant when this takes effect.”

  He watched her attach a syringe and inject something into him, bracing himself for the intrusion. The warmth came and he struggled quietly against it.

  The nurse said, “We’ll be taking you to theatre now.” Someone kicked at the legs of his bed and suddenly it was moving. The anaesthetist walked beside him along the corridor. Lights above him passed quickly. Looking up he could no longer make out her features against the light. A wide door opened into another room. There was bustle and conversation. It did not seem to matter what was being said.

  The anaesthetist’s voice retrieved him from the warm comfort that was embracing him. She held his arm again, did something with the cannula on the back of his hand and said, “Count backwards from a hundred for me.”

  “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six …”

  He was being shaken gently and spoken to in a soft voice, interrupting the warmth. The voice was concerned but not urgent. Inside, William tried not to listen.

  “William. William. Wake up. You’re in the recovery room; everything went well.” The shaking continued; it did not feel to be his body rocking. Inside, it was still. The cocoon of anaesthesia allowed him to hear but not care about the note of urgency now creeping into the voice asking his body to wake. It was too soon to emerge. Something else had to be dealt with before he came back to the world. What was it?

  * * *

  Treetops flashed by. The owl’s flight levelled and the ground appeared through the trees just below them. William searched for a place where he might land if he were to let go, but each time he saw a chance, it rushed beneath him and was gone.

  William said, “You’re going too fast. I can’t let go, and I can’t be late.”

  “And you don’t want to let go of your hat,” said the owl.

  “I have a meeting to go to.”

  “This meeting,” said the owl. “It doesn’t happen before you arrive?”

  “No, it won’t.”

  “It cannot happen until you arrive?”

  “Of course not!” said William.

  “Then how can you be late?”

  “Because I’m supposed to be there at a certain time.”

  “Is that a rule?” asked the owl.

  “I suppose it is.”

  “Whose rule is it?”

  “Well, mine, I guess.”

  “Then,” said the owl, “make a new rule, so it does not matter.”

  “What’s the point of a rule if you just make up another rule when it suits you?”

  “What’s the point of a rule if another one suits you better?”

  “That’s madness,” said William.

  “Perhaps,” said the owl. “What does it matter if it’s the first or second rule you make? It’s what you choose.”

  “It isn’t what I do.”

  * * *

  “William, open your eyes for me. Wake up.” The insistence stopped and the voice moved away from him. “No,” said the voice, “he isn’t coming round. Perhaps you should get the anaesthetist.” Footsteps left them. He could be alone for a time.

  His head was being moved, light forced in his eyes. The anaesthetist was talking. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. He just seems to be taking his time. William. Try and open your eyes.” Her hands stroked his shoulder.

  From inside the cocoon, William appealed, Not yet. Please don’t wake me yet. What was it that could not be grasped?

  “Try!” His voice breached the surface.

  “Oh,” said the anaesthetist, “you’re back with us. We thought you might sleep till tomorrow. You’re in the recovery room. Everything went as we wanted. The nurse will be along to see you and then we can get a drink for you. I’ll check on you later.”

  Footsteps left and others approached, two people walking with quick steps. He had not remembered what he wanted to deal with. Maybe, he thought as his eyes opened, it was nothing, but he was not content. William closed his eyes and tried to find the thought that evaded him.

  “Don’t go back to sleep on me, William.” The nurse’s hand came to his face and rubbed him gently, smudging out the last chance of recovering it. He was awake now. It was gone.

  * * *

  Dennis closed the warehouse door and turned to the stack of yellow and black SynchronoX boxes. Cathy was upstairs in the office, but she would have to wait until he had sorted the boxes as the boss had instructed.

  He lifted the manifest from the wall and began inspecting the box ends. The first he found within seconds. It was high in the pile and it slipped out with a tug. Dennis carried it near the warehouse roller door and began a new stack. The second took another minute to find and was lower. At least ten bicycles lay on it, and it needed coaxing out. He pulled at one corner, pushed at another and steadied the swaying boxes on top of it. Again he pulled, pushed and steadied until the target box balanced those above it on an edge. Upstairs a Christmas treat was waiting, and he cursed himself for cutting corners. He began easing it out an inch or two at a time. It was the only choice.

  Gradually the box moved out and the stack leaned gently back and forth several times, until three boxes slid off the top and split open on the concrete
floor. The clattering sound of boxes opening and titanium parts spilling out was unmistakable. Dennis knew the damage without seeing it.

  He could hear Cathy coming down the stairs. Quickly he pulled the target box out of the stack; from the doorway all would seem normal.

  “Are you all right?” Cathy asked as she came through the door.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I heard a noise.”

  “So did I,” said Dennis. “It must have been someone next door or in the alley.”

  Cathy hesitated. “Do you need help?”

  “No, thanks. I’m doing fine with this.” He smiled at her. “I might need some help a little later.”

  “I can only stay till twelve. Don’t be too long.” The door closed as she left.

  Dennis walked around to the back of the stack. Two boxes had split open and one was compressed at the corner. He started gathering the parts. It was not as bad as he had thought. The carefully engineered pieces had been in form-fitting polystyrene and in individual plastic bags. He just had to gather up the parts and push them into their rightful place and claim the shipping company had done the damage to the boxes. There was no one to say otherwise. The army had taught him not to confess to anything unless he had to, and he would not change the habit on this occasion. He would, if he had to, apologize for signing off on the delivery without inspecting each unit, but if there was no damage to the contents, there should be no problem.

  Dennis crouched on his haunches and picked up two sprockets with the same part number stuck to the two plastic bags containing them. He looked for anything to match each with the right box, but there was nothing. There was something unusual in their weight. He inspected them. They were marked the same, but one sprocket was heavy and the other light. It might be, he thought, that they were from the same box. He laid both boxes side by side and opened them both. The preformed polystyrene packaging had space for only one large sprocket in each box. Each part had a number, and one of each number was associated with each box, but the parts were different. The bikes were labelled the same on the packaging but were not the same in the box. Jesus! he thought. It was time to close up the packages and get on with the separation as the boss had asked him to do.

  As the cardboard lid came down on the last box, he checked the number against the manifest. It was one of those he was to separate out. Then he saw it, written in pencil, on the bottom corner at the end of the box: the number fourteen, in his handwriting. For fuck’s sake! What is going on here?

  The separation was complete and the new stack of twenty bicycles sat by the roller door of the warehouse. The separation had not taken very long, but it had offered enough time to think through the implication of what he had stumbled on. It was an opportunity if he could avoid blowing the chance.

  The camera in the corner of the warehouse, at the junction of wall and ceiling, watched. It would have caught everything. No problem. He would delete the tape and say nothing. No one checks it anyway. A random period deleted this close to Christmas would go unnoticed, and in any case, the video recorder would start its cycle again and no one would suspect anything. He would go upstairs and see that Cathy was content, as if nothing were unusual. She was not expected to be at work anyway, which meant she would say nothing about the noise of crashing boxes. It was a plan likely to work, especially with the boss in hospital.

  He washed his hands, pulled off his overalls and walked up the stairs.

  “Hi,” he said to Cathy. “Sorry it took so long.”

  “I’m still here.”

  She smiled nervously at him, smoothing out the ripples of her skirt along her thighs.

  “That was nice,” said Dennis. “Can you show me where the security tapes are?”

  “You’ll get me in trouble. Why do you want the security tapes?”

  “Well, you came into the warehouse this morning, and in reception.” He could see it made no sense to her. “Are you supposed to be in today? Because there’s a record of you and me being in the building at the same time, when you are not supposed to be here at all. Someone might think that you’re here because you’re being very naughty. Could that be true?” He walked toward her with a sway of someone who knows what will happen next.

  She lifted a key ring from a pot on her desk and selected a key for him. “Just there,” she said, nodding toward a steel cupboard low to the floor.

  “I’ll wipe the tapes when you go. I can lock up.” He kissed her. She was soft and warm. “Merry Christmas,” he said. “I think you better go before we get started again.”

  “Then I better go now.” She lifted her coat from a chair by the door and left him in the office.

  He turned to the camera recorders as she left the building. There was a rack of three recorders in the cupboard. It took a minute to work out that it was a series of VHS recorders, each with two tape decks, each recording two cameras—an antiquated system, but effective. The recorders were labelled with the camera they tracked. That’s peculiar, he thought. They were all turned off. Why would they be switched off over Christmas? Cathy might be in trouble for forgetting to turn them on. He pressed the power and the record buttons. The lights came to life and the machines began humming.

  One last job to do. He pulled the manifest from his pocket and went to the photocopier.

  December 22, 2017

  It was quiet, dark and too early for morning traffic. Thirty metres from the reception area, Uri watched the van arrive at the delivery door. He moved quickly from his car to the doorway and put his key in the lock. The door opened; he moved to the alarm panel, inserted the key, punched in the code and waited for the panel lights to turn green. Inside, the layout was just as William had described, and in a moment he was in the warehouse with the lights on.

  Uri took stock of his surroundings. Two stacks of SynchronoX boxes, one large and one small, waited. He opened the delivery doors, and men emerged from the van and began loading the smaller stack.

  They were done quickly. Uri closed the delivery doors as the van departed, and recalled the remainder of the plan. His job was to set the alarms and lock up. William would be back before Christmas to start the security tape recording. He scanned the office and decided there was nothing else to be done. Quickly he set the alarm and closed the front door behind him.

  * * *

  “How are you feeling?” asked Julie. She sat next to the bed.

  His forehead throbbed front and back, and his ears rang constantly. He reached for the apple juice remaining on his lunch tray and sipped tiny amounts through a plastic straw. His throat was raw and the taste of blood was constant. William peered through swollen eyes and a dressing taped under his nose, and spoke carefully.

  “Better than I thought I would.”

  “You look like you’ve gone ten rounds with a boxer.”

  “I feel like I have.” William allowed his head to fall back against the pillow and then lifted it quickly to prevent a new slug of blood sliding into his throat.

  “That’s honest,” Julie said, and then hesitated. “I am pleased it’s Christmas. The office is closed. All the deliveries made. You can be off for a week or so … and let yourself recover.”

  William heard the emphasis in her words. She continued, “When you’re home and feeling a little better, I want to spend some time talking.”

  “Do we have something we need to talk about?” It did not come out as he expected.

  “We haven’t spoken in years. Yes, we have some things to talk about. Now, you’re not in a state to argue. You can’t even ignore me and cycle off. Anyway, I have to get back for Kelly. She really wants to see you. I’ll let her know how you look, so it doesn’t come as a shock. She might be able to see the colour. Maybe you could phone her and tell her you’re okay, and I’ll bring her tomorrow when we pick you up.” She stood and began putting on her coat.

  They did not seem to be th
e whining or complaining words he normally heard. “When?” He asked.

  “After lunch. They’ve said about two o’clock. I can come and get you, providing you’re okay.”

  “No, when did you get unhappy?”

  Julie let her coat hang on her arms and shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. When the business really took off; four years ago when your dad died; ten years ago when you”—her voice broke suddenly—“lost interest. It’s hard to say when the change happened. When did you?”

  William shook his head. It was a perplexing question. He had never thought of being happy or unhappy. In any case, he could not find words to reply.

  “Well, I better get going.” She pulled her coat over her shoulders. “Kelly will be wondering where I am.” Julie stopped at the door and turned to him. “See you tomorrow.”

  William smiled as best he could through the gauze. It was not intolerance or contempt in her voice or in how she looked at him from the foot of the bed. Was it sadness or pity? How could it be that she had become sad, with all that he had provided and after all his effort?

  Lying helplessly in a hospital bed, he imagined his father watching as he left one of the terrible Riverview Hospital visits. Was there sadness or pity on his face as he left his father’s room? Did his father see it or know of his anger and disappointment? A twitch of anguish cracked a crust of scab at the tip of his nose and brought moisture to his eyes. The thought of adding a burden to his father’s torment discomforted him. He closed his eyes and turned his face away to escape the thought. A clot of blood slipped into his mouth. William reached for the polystyrene cup and allowed the slug to drip from his lips. There was something about being alone and helpless that kept drawing his mind to his father.

  Suddenly a gush of liquid filled his mouth. He spit into the cup. It was clear, and it was something he knew to be watching for. William reached for the nurse alarm and in a few seconds he arrived.