Crazy Paving

by Louise Doughty

  She picked up the first aid box and he handed her the tube of antiseptic which she had left lying on the desk next to them. ‘Basement in fifteen minutes?’

  She nodded and said, ‘The main thing is to keep it clean.’

  Richard was in his office, making a list. He enjoyed doing that, although he often destroyed them afterwards. It helped to order things. He liked to see it down in writing, in black and white. He liked things to be real. Physical proof was important.

  When his mother had died, he had wanted physical proof. He had asked to see her body, in the private hospital room where she lay. The nurse had left them alone together and closed the door. Richard had gone over to his mother’s corpse. Beneath the crisp white sheet, he knew it to be mutilated – one breast missing, irradiated, full of chemicals. There was no doubt about it. She was dead. Richard stood over her, then bent down to her heavily lined face. Illness had aged Marion Leather beyond her years. The face was sagging, helpless. Richard spat in it.

  Afterwards, he stood back, breathing heavily. No one would ever know what he had just done; no one would catch him. He was going to get away with it. When the nurse came in ten minutes later, she found him sitting by the window, weeping.

  The list he was making in his office went thus: Helly, the old couple, William, Joan, Annette. Annette’s name had a question mark beside it. He still wasn’t sure about Annette. Still, the rest was well on its way to being sorted out. Timing was important. He wanted it to work out right – it was like being the conductor of an orchestra. The cymbals had to crash at exactly the right moment or the entire symphony was ruined. The way he had worked it out, the cymbals would crash some time around the end of the following week, before Easter. He and Gillian had planned a weekend away together over the holiday, their first for some time. Sailing in Norfolk, just the two of them, he with the full knowledge that this business was all sorted out. Perfect.

  He was smoking – he smoked a lot these days. He had made the list on a piece of paper torn from his notebook. He put it into his ashtray, a large, square-shaped one made of heavy smoked glass. The list fitted neatly in the bottom. He went to stub his cigarette out on it, then paused. He picked up the piece of paper between his fingers and, carefully, began to scorch small holes in it with the end of his cigarette. The flimsy paper browned, frizzled, dissolved. He spaced the holes evenly, so that the list became a piece of fragile lace, blackened around the edges. Eventually, it collapsed and fluttered helplessly into the ashtray.

  William was sitting on a stack of cardboard boxes. They were only just taking his weight. He could feel a slight sag beneath him and the muscles in his thighs were tense, ready to stand up quickly if it collapsed. Annette was kneeling on the ground in front of him. He was holding her face in his hands.

  ‘So,’ Annette was saying, ‘it’s very simple really. We need proof. We need proof or Helly will probably get the sack. We’ve got to do it quickly. If he sacks her or any of us we can’t make accusations then because it just looks like sour grapes.’

  William took his hands away from her face and sat back. Annette moved back on her heels. The distance between them doubled.

  William was thinking. They were probably right. It all fitted together, the way Richard had behaved over Rosewood Cottage. Technically, there was no reason for it to be demolished but that hadn’t struck him as particularly odd. Properties were often compulsorily purchased as a precaution. Surveyors or project managers taking money from contractors was commonplace. Then there were the lunches, the golfing trips, the cut price conservatories. It was a grey area.

  He sighed. ‘You know, what Richard is up to is really very ordinary. It goes on all the time. That John Summerton took me out for drinks after a site visit last week. I’ve never taken a bribe but, strictly speaking, nobody’s whiter than white in this business. You could make almost anyone’s behaviour look bad if you wanted to.’

  Annette was looking at him. ‘I know that,’ she said quietly. ‘Helly doesn’t give a damn about what Richard takes off the contractors. She probably wouldn’t have said anything to anyone if it wasn’t for her grandparents. And now he’s trying to get her sacked but he’s being sneaky about it. He took that money from Joan, he must have done, it’s him that’s involved the rest of us.’

  ‘He hasn’t involved you.’

  They held each other’s gaze.

  Annette stayed quiet, calm, although she could feel the walls of her universe folding in, gently, like a collapsing soufflé. This is how the world ends. Of course, she had thought, when Helly had mentioned it, William. William, of course. He loves me. He’s one of us. But William was not one of them. He was a man, a surveyor, a breadwinner. Helly could scheme and plot. Annette had a low mortgage and only herself to consider. Joan had a husband who brought money into the household. They were all so small and unimportant. But William was married with a child – he could not afford to join the game. She tried to reason with herself. She tried to say, there is more at stake for him. What she was thinking was, he isn’t one of us. He never will be. He’s on a different side of the barricades – and he doesn’t love me enough to clamber over.

  She sighed, then she got to her feet, turning and brushing some dust from her skirt. She looked around the store cupboard. Metal ladder shelving held boxes of supplies: envelopes, staples, indelible markers. This was their life, their job – to work their way through these supplies, a little more each day. What had they been thinking of? She and William. Helly and her schemes. Joan and her surprising bravado. They were all trying to pretend that they were not little people doing little daily activities. How pathetic they were. Grand schemes – they should be so lucky. It’s over, she thought, glancing round. Dirty, dust-filtered light came from the fluorescent strips above them. William and I can see each other too clearly. This is how the world ends.

  ‘What was it you wanted to ask me?’ she said.

  William looked up at her. His eyes were like lakes. He looks as though he is swimming in doubt, she thought, a pool of doubt. Perhaps he does understand, after all.

  William opened his mouth to speak. As he did, the stack of cardboard boxes beneath him buckled with a small sigh. He sank by a few inches. He stood up.

  ‘What’s in the boxes?’ Annette asked, her voice rich with misery.

  He looked down at them. ‘Paperclips,’ he replied, his voice low and dull.

  Annette turned to go. Then, as she reached the door, she paused. She waited for a moment, listening, deciding. Then she reached out and clicked the Yale lock. She turned back, leaning against the door. William was looking at her. He came to her. As her arms wound purposefully about his neck, he began to lift her skirt. She pulled him to the cold hard floor.

  It was the first time they had made love since Keith had turned up on her doorstep. And she knew it was the last. He felt more hot and sweet than he had ever done. She did not touch herself or want to come – she wanted to be aware of him, to feel his need of her. As it grew, he hesitated. She pressed him to her. ‘It’s okay,’ she whispered, ‘it’s alright, my period’s due tomorrow, it’s okay.’ She wanted him to come. She hated him.

  She hated him because it was the last time and he didn’t realise it. She hated him because she had been unfaithful and he didn’t know that either. She hated him for all the things he did not know.

  Afterwards, he looked at her, bewildered. She drew him in and stroked his head, murmuring, comforting. She could feel a trickle of semen down one buttock so she arched her back slightly and, still stroking his head, used her other hand to pull her skirt clear, so that it would not stain.

  Annette was leaning forward over the sink and peering into the mirror when Helly walked into the ladies’ toilet. Hastily, she tipped her head forward to hide her face and began combing her hair. ‘Hi,’ she said lightly.

  Helly did not answer. She went over to the window sill and hitched herself onto it. She paused, observing Annette’s attempts to repair herself. Eventually she said
, ‘I take it he said no.’

  Annette burst into tears.

  Helly jumped down from the window sill and went into one of the toilet cubicles. She detached a gigantic roll of loo paper from its metal fixing and brought it over to Annette. She unwound a long streamer of it, then handed it to her. When Annette had finished crying, she said, ‘I’m not entirely surprised.’

  ‘I am,’ sniffed Annette.

  Helly smiled. ‘You got a lot to learn, glasshopper.’

  Annette turned and peered in the mirror. Her face was red and smudgy. It was going to take work. Helly put the giant loo roll down on the edge of the sink and leant against the wall, her arms folded. She watched as Annette fumbled around in her make-up bag, withdrawing mascara, eye-shadow, liner and blush.

  As she inspected the damage, Annette said, ‘So what now?’

  Helly shrugged. ‘What we should have done in the first place, I guess. Go and see the boss, take the risk. Do you know anyone up there?’

  Annette shook her head. ‘I met Gregory Church once.’

  ‘Which one is he?’

  ‘He’s the one who had his papers biked to his house in Surrey when the lift was out of action. Somewhat corpulent.’

  ‘Oh, the fat git.’

  Annette was trying to dry her eyelashes with a tissue. ‘Let’s talk to Joan when she gets back on Monday.’ She stood back from the mirror. The glass had a slight greenish tinge. It was difficult to tell what she really looked like.

  ‘Look,’ said Helly. ‘Thanks for trying but really, don’t fuck up your relationship with William over this.’

  Annette shook her head. She was still looking at herself in the mirror. ‘It isn’t just this. And I haven’t fucked up anything. I’m not upset because it’s over. I’m upset because I’ve realised it never began.’

  They stood in silence for a moment or two. Annette was looking at herself.

  Helly was looking at Annette. ‘You want to know what I reckon your problem is?’ she said gently.

  Annette did not turn from the mirror. She stayed observing herself, and gave a half-smile. ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t know what sort of woman you are.’

  Helly went on her lunch break. Annette went back to her desk.

  She picked up a pile of typing from her in-tray and opened up a file on her computer.

  She had only been typing for five minutes when William came over to Joan’s desk and picked up a cardboard wallet lying amidst her pile of filing. ‘I’ve got to go over to Fairlop,’ he said, without looking at her. ‘Will you tell Richard if he’s asking after me? He wanted a word about something but he isn’t in his office and I’ve got a contractor waiting.’

  Inside herself, Annette felt something collapse, leaving an empty cavity in her stomach, as if an extra space had been created that wasn’t there before. ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice perfectly neutral. He glanced over at her and she looked down at her keyboard, as though she was trying to concentrate on something. There was a pause, both momentary and eternal. Then he left.

  After he was gone, there was a period of time when she felt he might come back. Five minutes, say, in which he could be in the toilet and popping back to pick something up, or getting to the lift and remembering a phone call he had to make before he left. For this transition period, she remained sitting stiffly at her desk, typing with her back rigid and her fingers flying over the keyboard, making it rattle like a machine gun. Then the moment came when she knew that he must by now be out of the building, walking down the street, going down the steps to the tube, whistling away from her on a train. He was gone. There was no chance that this scene was going to turn out differently.

  She knew she was about to cry again. Raymond was standing a few yards away, talking to a surveyor. A post lady ambled past, dropping Richard’s afternoon correspondence onto Joan’s desk. There were too many people around for Annette to run to the toilet without someone noticing. Her only choice was to stay at her desk and wait for them to wander away. She prayed that nobody would come over and speak to her. If they did, she would be finished.

  She picked up her audio headphones and put them on so she could at least keep her head down and look engrossed in her work. She returned to the schedule Richard had given her that morning, forcing her mind to concentrate on building construction. But language itself seemed against her, falling apart in the same way it had in the early days, when she had first loved William. Minor amendments to the layout will be required to comply with racking and benching requirements. Racking and benching. She was being racked and benched.

  Her eyes were so brimful with tears that she could not see the screen. The lines on the schedule swam and wavered. She typed furiously, unable to see the numerous errors she must be making, determined only to keep working, to work as hard as she wanted to run. Richard’s voice continued evenly. Repair cladding. Stop. In addition, comma, ensure prevention of water leakage from gutter down front elevation. Stop. Her leg began to tremble and her foot caught on the pedal of the audio machine. She pressed and her foot slipped. She pressed again. Richard’s voice repeated solemnly, stop, stop, stop . . .

  She bit her lips. She drew breath. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She kept her head down and kept typing.

  That evening, Annette arrived home as dusk was beginning to gather over Catford. She walked from the station through the small residential streets, where flowers were showing off in the neat terraced gardens. Early evening, spring, the beginning of things. The end.

  Her house was the same as it always was.

  She made tea, still wearing her coat, feeling too tired to take it off and hang it up. She took the mug and sat on her sofa, staring out of the patio doors onto her small square patch of garden. She sipped gently at the hot drink, with her coat still on and her handbag on the cushion beside her. It was like being in a waiting room.

  She tried to tell herself it was peaceful, while knowing it was merely silent.

  When the phone rang, she jumped so hard that tea slopped over the edge of the mug and onto the sofa. She was lifting the receiver before she even had time to hope.

  ‘Annette?’

  It was her mother.

  ‘Hullo, Mum.’ Her tone of voice was chirpy, the stock reaction whenever her mother called. No matter how tired or upset or annoyed she might feel, she was always chirpy.

  ‘Is that you, Annette?’ her mother repeated.

  No, thought Annette, it is a burglar talking falsetto. Annette is upstairs tied to the bedstead with the cord from her dressing-gown. I am about to do unspeakable things to her.

  ‘Yes Mum, it’s me.’

  ‘How are you? Are you alright?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  It was the same every phone call. What have you been doing? This question did not mean, what have you been doing that was interesting or worthy of note? It did not mean, has anything happened that you would like to tell me about? It meant, give me a full account of your week. Tell me from start to finish: how work was, whether you went anywhere, if you spoke to anybody, what television programmes you have watched and, most of all, how the weather has been in London on each of the days since we last spoke.

  Annette drew breath. Then she began. ‘Monday was okay. Things are rather busy at work at the moment. Joan, the other secretary, is on holiday this week and the new budgets are being prepared so I’ve had to . . .’ She told her mother about her week. It took twenty minutes, slightly shorter than usual because it was only Thursday. Annette’s mother usually rang at the weekend, to get a full account.

  ‘How are you?’ It was always a relief to get to this part of the call.

  ‘Fine, dear, as well as ever. I was just wondering whether you’d made your mind up about Easter.’

  Ah, Annette thought. Now we are getting to it. ‘No Mum, I don’t think so. I think I’m going to stay here. I’ve got things to fix. The house. There’s some stuff I’ve been waiting for a cha
nce to get at.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  Annette had learnt by experience that the worst time to visit her mother was at the expected times: Christmas and Easter, the festivities. It allowed too long a period for a build-up. When she arrived, they would both be so full of dread it was sometimes hard to speak. Visits home were easiest to get through when they were spontaneous.

  ‘What about this weekend?’ Annette said, in a moment of inspiration. What else would she do? Sit wondering if William would call?

  ‘Oh . . .’ Annette’s mother always pronounced oh in exactly the same way, whether she was pleased or disappointed. ‘Oh, yes. Yes alright, dear.’

  By the time the phone call was over, the remainder of her tea was cold. She went back to the sofa. I am nothing, she thought. I am a dirty little liar who never tells her mother anything. My life is something that I hoard away like a squirrel hoarding nuts. Squirrels are also vermin.

  The following day after work, Annette caught the train from Victoria. The unfamiliar route was a pleasant variation: Oxted, East Grinstead, Uckfield – hardly an adventurous itinerary, but different at least from New Cross, Lewisham, Hither Green. Such is the detail of my life, she thought, sitting against a window with her weekend bag on her lap. Small change.

  She visited her mother roughly every two months. The last time had been in February, when she had brought a bag of old tights, for stuffing cushions. Her mother was fond of collecting objects to use in some way to change or decorate her home. One of her favourite activities was tearing out advertisements from colour supplements. Last time, she had shown Annette one for a collection of china butterflies. She was paying a monthly subscription. Every other month, she received a butterfly through the post. There were a dozen to collect. So lifelike, so real, the advertisement said in curly letters above a glossy picture of a hand painted fine bone china Cabbage White. Below it were the words, Butterflies of the World. Annette had been seized with the desire to grab a biro and add the word, Unite.