The Domino Men

Chapter 5

At first, the next day didn’t seem any different. As usual, I woke a few seconds before my alarm whooped its good morning. As usual, I levered myself out of bed, rooted through the fridge for breakfast and hung around hoping for a glimpse of Abbey. As usual, I left the flat disappointed.

I had abandoned my bike in the parking lot at work so I had to trudge down to the underground and strap-hang for eight stops on the Northern line, sucking in stale sweat and halitosis. Consequently, I got into work late and, still half-asleep, retired immediately to the bathroom. I was busy splashing cold water on my face when Peter Hickey-Brown emerged from the stalls, produced one of those combs which look like a flick-knife and began to fastidiously scrape back his graying hair. He didn’t turn to look at me but just gazed adoringly ahead, a paunchy Narcissus in an office lavatory.

“How’s Babs getting along?” he asked, once the posturing was done.

“Fine, I think.”

“You show her round yesterday?”

I said that yes, naturally I had.

“Did you take her down to the mail room?”

The mail room? “No. Why?”

“I think she should see it.”

“I don’t like it down there.”

“So? Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Henry. Just take her.” He flipped on the cold tap, wetted his fingers and teased the hair at his temples back behind his ears. “Phil tells me you had to dash off early yesterday.”

“Family emergency.”

Hickey-Brown frowned, not from any anxiety for me but purely out of concern that the work of his department might be disrupted, that I might get behind with his precious filing — petrified that if I didn’t do my job we’d all be engulfed by an avalanche of ancient appraisal sheets and leprous-colored meeting forms. “Everything OK?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

“You’re in for a treat,” I said to Barbara once I’d tracked her down at the photocopier. “Peter wants you to see the mail room.”

The mail room squatted in the lowest floor of the building, stinking, forsaken and unloved. Something was always up with the heating, which meant that down there it was perpetually clammy and warm. A few weeks to go before Christmas and still everyone had a fan on their desk, all of them whirring away bad temperedly, grumbling about being used out of season. The room smelt stale, a pungent blend of perspiration and old socks.

“This is where it starts,” I said. I’d given this tour before, to a group of kids in last year’s Bring Your Child to Work Day. “This is where the files are sorted.”

The room was taken up by four large trestle tables, each stacked high with dun-colored folders, each populated by three or four workers — the only exception being the last table, whose occupant worked alone. A few of these unfortunates, pimple faced and greasy with perspiration, glanced incuriously over at us as we came in. They were sorting through the files, pulling out minutes, memos, action plans, graphs and annual reports, putting everyone in alphabetical order and placing them in a trolley. Later that day, someone would wheel them to the lift and distribute them amongst the floors above. This was the engine room of our department, the business end of the place.

“Big turnover of staff down here,” I said. “People don’t tend to last long.” I pointed across the room to the woman who sat alone and who was busy opening parcel after parcel, filleting the contents with automotive efficiency. “Except for her.”

Sausage-fingered, gelatinous and blubbery, she had greasy, lank hair and face, swollen and pink, had the consistency of Play-Doh. Beside her was a gargantuan bottle of cola from which she took frequent, compulsive swigs, as a baby might reach with blind dependency for the nipple. As usual she was pouring with sweat and her clothes were stained with inky spots of perspiration.

“Hello,” I said, realizing that I couldn’t remember her name. Pam? Pat? Paula? No matter how many times I’d been told it just didn’t seem to stick. The fat woman made a slurred noise in reply.

“This is Barbara,” I said, perhaps pronouncing my words a little too emphatically. “She’s just started upstairs.”

The woman made another incoherent noise (“herrow”) and groped again for her bottle of Coke.

As we headed toward the exit, Barbara whispered: “What’s wrong with her?”

“No one likes to ask,” I said. “It’s very sad, really. The poor thing’s been here longer than anyone can remember. She’s become a bit of an institution.”

“Looks like she belongs in an institution,” Barbara muttered, rather cruelly.

Governed by a strange impulse, I turned back. Coke bottle midway to her lips, the woman was staring at us, fury blazing from her blancmange face. Feeling suddenly guilty and ashamed, blushing scarlet, I hurried Barbara from the room, away from the grouchy hum of the fans, the omnipresent smell of sweat and the woman’s silently accusing eyes. We were both of us relieved to head back upstairs.

At lunchtime, I met Mum for a sandwich in Cafe Nero.

“How long did you stay last night?” she asked, slurping at her latte.

I thought about telling her what had happened with the window cleaner, but then, guessing how she might react, decided against it. “Not long. There’s nothing I could do.”

“He’d always had it coming,” she said. “We all know he used to like a drink.”

“Will he be OK?” I asked in a small voice.

Mum just shrugged. “Who knows?” She yawned. “Keep an eye on him, won’t you? Your Dad would have wanted you to.”

“I’m going again tonight,” I said.

She seemed surprised. “Really?”

“I want to be with him. It’s not like he’s got anyone else.”

“But who does he have to blame for that? Actually, darling, I was hoping to ask you a favor.”

Her motive for lunch had suddenly become clear. “And what’s that?”

“The old bastard’s house. Lord knows why but I’ve got a spare set of keys. Be a dear and pop round in the next couple of days, will you? Just make sure no one’s trashed the place or turned it over.” She deposited a bunch of keys on the table with a resolute clunk, as though this settled the matter, like there was no need for further discussion.

“We could go together,” I suggested hopefully.

“Sweet thing, I’m going away.”

“Away?”

“To Gibraltar. With Gordy.”

I set my coffee down on the table, frightened of spilling it. “Who’s Gordy?”

“He’s a mate. Don’t fret, darling. He’s in the biz.”

“Not another actor?”

“Producer, actually. He’s booked us into the most marvelous hotel.”

“Great.”

“Don’t look so down. I’m happy. Just keep an eye on the old bastard for us, will you? Give us a tinkle if anything happens.”

I stared down at the remnants of my sandwich and nodded.

Mum’s handbag began to trill. She pulled out her mobile and clasped it to her ear. “Gordy! No, I’m still with him.” Tittering, she turned to look at me. “Gordy says hi.”

“Hello, Gordy,” I said.

“No, no,” she said, suddenly putting on a baby voice. “I think he’s Mr. Grumpy ’cause of his granddad.” She kissed me on the forehead, waved goodbye, walked out of the cafe and into the street, still bellowing her endearments, broadcasting her sweet nothings for all the world to hear.

I looked at what remained of my sandwich and pushed the plate aside, my appetite suddenly curdled.

I had just got back to my desk when Peter Hickey-Brown summoned me into his office.

A stranger sat beside him. Baby-faced, clear-skinned and enviably exfoliated, he radiated good health. He was a walking advert for diligent grooming. When I came in, he looked at me but offered no smile and simply stared, unspeaking, in my direction.

“You wanted to see me?” I said.

Hickey-Brown, uncharacteristically grave, told me to sit. I was surprised to see that he had put on a tie since the morning and that he’d removed almost all of his jewelry.

“This is Mr. Jasper.”

I stretched my hand across the desk. “Hello.”

The man just stared. I noticed that he had a flesh-colored piece of plastic buried in one of his ears and I remember wondering (how naive it seems now) whether he was hard of hearing.

“I’m Henry Lamb.”

Still nothing. Embarrassed, I withdrew my hand.

Peter cleared his throat. “Mr. Jasper’s from another department.”

“Which one?”

Hickey-Brown looked as though he didn’t really know the answer. “A special department. I’m told it keeps an eye on the personal well-being of our staff.”

At last, the stranger spoke. “We like to think of ourselves,” he deadpanned, “as the department which cares.”

Hickey-Brown clasped his fingers together as though in prayer. “Listen. We know that something happened yesterday. Something to do with your grandfather.”

The man who had been introduced as Jasper looked at me icily. “What is the matter with the poor old fellow?”

“They think it might be a stroke,” I said, just about resisting the temptation to ask why it was any of his bloody business.

“Is he likely to recover?”

“The doctors aren’t sure. Though I suspect it’s unlikely.”

Mr. Jasper turned his eyes upon me but said no more.

I looked over to my boss. “Peter?”

He managed an insincere smile. “We’re worried about you. We need to know you’re OK.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure. But listen. You need any time off — just say the word. Just give the nod.”

“Of course.”

Jasper was still staring, coolly, unblinkingly.

“Is that all?” I asked.

Hickey-Brown glanced toward Jasper and the stranger gave the tiniest inclination of his head, a motion which might, in the right light, if you squinted a bit, have been a nod.

“Alrighty,” said Peter Hickey-Brown. “You can go.”

As I walked out, I felt the stranger’s unsympathetic eyes boring into my back like lasers.

After work, I retrieved my bike and cycled over to the hospital. Although there was no change in my granddad, he was, at least, no worse, and it didn’t seem to me as though he was in any pain. I held his hand and told him something about my day, about the fat woman in the basement, my lunch with Mum and the visit of Mr. Jasper.

Someone shuffled behind me. The nurse.

“You recognize your grandpa now?”

I blushed in shame.

“He seems sad,” she said.

“Sad?”

“He was in a war.”

“Actually,” I corrected her, “Granddad didn’t fight. He wanted to but they wouldn’t let him go. Some kind of heart defect, I think.”

The nurse just smiled. “Oh, no. He was definitely in a war.” She turned and hurried away, the heels of her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor.

I looked back at my granddad. “You weren’t in a war, were you?” I asked, although of course I knew there’d be no reply. “What war?”

Half an hour later, with visiting hours at an end, I was on the ground floor and almost in sight of the exit when I saw a patient I recognized. He seemed quite cheerful, sitting up in bed, propped against a pillow and engrossed in a tabloid, his left leg hanging suspended in plaster. He looked like an extra from a Carry On film, the kind of potato-featured background artist who would have ogled Barbara Windsor’s wiggle and guffawed at Said James’s dirty jokes.

I stopped in front of his bed. “I know you.”

The man looked up from his newspaper. It was definitely him. The squitty face, the shock of ginger hair, the air of insouciant lechery — all were unmistakable.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” said the window cleaner.

“You fell,” I said. “You fell at my feet.”

“Sorry, pal. Don’t remember nothing about it.”

I nodded toward the cast and pulley. “You broke your leg?”

“Nah, I’m doing his for shits and giggles. What do you think?”

“Sorry. It’s just that you seem… I don’t mean to be rude but you seem absolutely fine.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You fell five stories.”

“Then I’m made of tough stuff, aren’t I?” Evidently irritated, he made a big deal about returning to his tabloid.

“Yesterday,” I said, “just after you’d… landed.”

“What?”

“There was something you were trying to tell me. You kept saying that the answer is yes.”

He snorted. “Did I? Well, you do funny things when you’ve had a knock, don’t you? Can’t have been thinking straight.”

“You’ve got no idea why you said that to me??”

“Mate, I can’t even remember.” His next look began as truculence but shifted halfway through into one of recognition. “Don’t I know you?”

“Ah,” I said. “So it’s coming back?”

“You’re off the telly,” he said. “You’re a little boy.”

My heart sunk. “I was,” I snapped. “I was a little boy. Not anymore.”

“I remember your show. What was it you used to say?”

Now I just wanted to leave. “Don’t blame me. Blame Grandpa.”

The window cleaner started to chuckle, then abruptly broke off. “Wasn’t very funny, was it?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Come to think of it, that show was a real shitcom.”

“It’s always nice to meet a fan.”

“You’d better hop it. Visiting hours are over.”

“Well, I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Your mate’s waiting.” He nodded behind me.

“What?”

“Over there. By the door.”

He was right. Standing on the other side of the ward, just by the exit, someone was watching us. He vanished through the door as he clocked me but I’d already seen enough to be able to recognize him as the man from Peter’s office. Mr. Jasper.

The window cleaner turned to the soccer results with the air of a reader who does not wish to be disturbed. I left and went outside into the cold but, if he’d ever been there at all, Jasper was nowhere to be seen.

I cycled home, my mind clamorous with unanswered questions.

Abbey was up, flicking through an encyclopedia of divorce law. My landlady worked in some mysterious capacity for a city legal firm, although the precise details of what she did there always eluded me. I’d asked her about it several times, desperate for any excuse for a conversation, but she was always evasive on the subject, saying that it was too depressingly humdrum to talk about. Whatever it was, I was in no doubt that she was bored of it, as she had complained to me on more than one occasion about wanting to do something better with her life — something more noble, she said, something worthwhile.

“Henry! I was getting worried.”

“I was at the hospital.”

“No change?”

“No change.”

“Sit down. I’ll get you a coffee.” Abbey was up on her feet and into the kitchen before I had a chance to protest. “Two sugars, right?”

I said a grateful yes and sank into the sofa, relieved that the day was drawing to a close.

Abbey pressed a hot mug into my hands and I thanked her. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt several sizes too big for her and I’m a little ashamed to admit that I wondered whether she was wearing anything beneath it.

She sat cross-legged on the floor. “Henry? Do you…” She trailed off, embarrassed. “Do you notice something different about me?”

“Not sure what you mean.”

“I mean is there anything different about me?”

Grateful for the opportunity to admire the contours of Abbey’s face without her thinking I was gawping, I gazed for a minute or two, uninterrupted.

“No,” I said at last. “Not that I can see.”

She tapped the side of her nose and at last I saw what she meant — a flash of gold, a small, discreet stud like an expensive outbreak of acne. My first thought was that she’d had it done to impress someone — some square-jawed hunk at work, some broad-shouldered pin-up of the assizes.

“You like it?”

Too tired and guileless to lie, I said: “I prefer you without.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “I thought you might like it.”

“It’s just that you’ve got such a lovely nose it seems a shame to spoil it.” Even as I said it, I could feel myself turning pink.

“Have I really?” she asked. “Have I really got a lovely nose?”

I was just about to stutter out some reply when rescue arrived in the insistent peal of the telephone. As I picked up the receiver I looked back at Abbey and saw that she seemed almost as grateful for the reprieve as I.

“Hello?”

The voice, cracked with age, seemed faintly familiar. “Am I speaking to Mr. Henry Lamb?”

“You are.”

“I represent Gadarene Glass. Would you be interested at all in purchasing a new window?”

“Haven’t you called before?”

“I have, yes.”

“The answer’s still no,” I snapped, “and I thought I asked you last time not to bother.”

Click. The hornet buzz of the dial tone.

Abbey rolled her eyes as I replaced the receiver. “I don’t know how they get this number.”

I yawned. “Think I’ll go to bed.”

“Sleep well. But Henry?”

“Yes.”

“If you need to talk…”

“Of course.”

Abbey smiled. As I turned to go, I saw that she was touching the side of her left nostril, running her fingers over the stud, suddenly, sweetly, adorably self-conscious. I stole another look and felt something unfamiliar, something strange but wonderful, begin to flutter in my chest.

If I’d known at that moment all that was to come, I would have stamped out those feelings right then. I’d have those flutterings at birth.