Crazy Paving (31 page)

Annette’s voice was anxious, irritated. ‘Couldn’t you remember the lock code?’

Joan looked at her, pulling a face. ‘How would I know that? I don’t normally have to use it do I?’

‘Did you see Richard at all?’

‘No why? I thought he’d gone home.’

‘So did I, then he turned up at my desk, and I can’t find Helly.’

‘She’ll be in the loo probably, staying out of his way. Let’s go and find her.’

The trick to causing pain without marking was to twist rather than press. Richard had worked this out at school and it had stood him in good stead ever since. There were other
things he knew without ever having consciously developed them as theories. For instance, he knew that physical pain was compounded by fear and anticipation. The best moment of this encounter, the
moment that he would treasure, had been the moment before he had jammed his handkerchief into Helly’s mouth, grabbed her hair and pulled her over onto his desk: the look on her face as all
the foolish bravado fell away – in her eyes the wild knowledge, she had let herself get cornered. She had lost.

Now, she was pinned down with her arms twisted up her back and her face pressed hard onto his blotting pad. He was bent over her, using his body-weight to keep her there. His face was very near
to her left ear ‘Corrupt surveyors are a real problem,’ he was saying calmly. ‘People write articles on how to deal with it.’ Helly gave out a muffled cry. Tears were
streaming down her face. ‘The point is,’ Richard continued, ‘your lover-boy is going to be summarily dismissed either way, as of Tuesday. And he’s going to find getting
another job very difficult indeed. But then that’s what you get for messing around with a bone-idle little slag like you. You needn’t bother turning up next week, either. It’s all
arranged.’ He pushed her arms up further and she made a choking sound. ‘You stupid little tart. My God, are you stupid. You judge everybody by your own stupid standards and you think
that everyone else is just as stupid. Even me. Well, you got it wrong. Oh, and the first thing I’m going to sort out next week? A little demolition job.’ Helly gave another muffled cry.
The handkerchief was still jammed into her mouth. With his body-weight still over her, Richard manoeuvred her arms further up so that he could restrain them with one hand. Then, with his free hand,
he began to stroke the side of her face where it streamed with tears, gently, with slow rounded movements. ‘Mind you,’ he said coaxingly, ‘you might find there’s not much
left to demolish.’ He bent back down. His voice became a whisper. ‘Take a good look next time you go round, and remember. You tell anyone anything about me or try to do something about
it, and this is just the beginning.’

Richard drew back and made a small noise, like a demented donkey. ‘You’ve got me all wrong. You thought I was doing it for money, because that’s what you’d do it for. But
you’re wrong.’ He leant forward again. His face was so close to hers that the rest of her body, still pinned beneath him, seemed blurred. Her loose, scoop-necked top had fallen open
and, almost distantly, he glimpsed the pale curve of her collar bone, pressed against the blotting pad. She was struggling to move, a howl of pain thrashing inside her. He knew that some men would
enjoy grabbing this small, fleshy girl but he was not attracted to a weak squirming thing like her, a helpless little heap. ‘I’m not breaking your arm,’ he said gently.
‘I’m not that stupid. I’m simply making sure that you realise just how wrong you’ve been.’ She was so formless there was hardly anything to break. She revolted
him.

The ladies’ toilet was empty. Joan and Annette stood looking at each other. ‘You sure she’s not upstairs?’ said Joan.

Annette shook her head. ‘Maybe she is now.’

‘Hang on, I’ll have a wee while we’re here.’

When they got back upstairs, the office was still deserted. Annette pulled a face. Joan shrugged. ‘We might as well be off then.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Annette, and walked round to Richard’s office, Joan following cautiously behind.

The door was ajar. She stopped, and held her breath.

She could hear something, a gasping sound. She stepped forward carefully and pushed back the door.

Helly was sitting against the wall. Her arms were pulled up over her chest and her knees were bent with one leg drawn up and the other splayed at an angle. Her top was dropping off one shoulder
and her tights were torn. Her hair was skewed half-way across her face. She was staring straight ahead and gasping, great heaving gulps of air which jolted her to and fro. She looked as if she was
trying to speak or cry out but could not draw breath. Annette ran forward and dropped to her knees beside her.

As they helped her up, Helly winced with pain. They sat her down on the chair behind Annette’s desk and Joan ran for a cup of water.

‘Okay,’ said Annette. ‘This is very simple. We go straight to the police. Right now. We don’t mess about. This is assault. It’s a criminal offence.’

Helly was shaking her head. ‘I’ve no . . . he didn’t . . . nothing . . .’ Joan returned. Helly took the cup of water from her and drank. Her face was red and bleary with
tears. Her fringe was smudged across her forehead. ‘He’s mad,’ she said, looking up at them. ‘Completely mad. He’ll do something awful to Gran and Grandad. If he had
lived during the war he’d have tortured people. He’s mad.’ Every now and then she gave another gasp, like a small aftershock. Annette was shaking her head. ‘You don’t
know the half of it . . .’ Helly continued. ‘William. He’s stitched up William.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s made it look like it’s him. He thought William and I were at it. He thought that’s how I knew.’

‘That’s why – God!’ said Annette. She drew breath. She took a step away and then back. ‘The police – his wife rang. He won’t have the faintest –
what will they . . . ?’ Her voice withered to a breathy squeak.

Helly had stopped gasping. She looked up at Annette. ‘Joan, do something,’ she said quickly. Annette had her hand over her mouth.

Joan grabbed Annette’s elbow and pulled her over to the coffee cupboard where there was a small stainless steel sink. Annette bent over it and gagged. A small amount of spittle dropped
from her mouth. Joan picked up a cup and filled it with water. ‘Here.’ Annette took the cup from her and drank, then handed it back. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Sorry,
it’s really stupid. We have to think. We have to work out what to do.’

Joan rinsed the cup, then put it down on the drainer. ‘Well let’s get Helly out of here for a start. Find out where her grandparents are.’

They went back to Annette’s desk. Helly had gone. So had the ornamental paper-cutter which was used for opening the tender envelopes.

William rose from his seat and wormed his way through the other passengers, so that when the train halted he could be first onto the platform. Annette would never have paged
him unless it was urgent. What could be urgent at the end of the day before Good Friday? For some reason he could not justify, he felt sick with apprehension.

On Victoria Street, everybody else seemed to be as frantic as Joan and Annette. ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ Annette repeated as they barged through the other
pedestrians. A few irate commuters turned to look as she pushed past. They should have gone through the backstreets, which were quicker and quieter. That was probably what Helly had done.
‘Excuse me.’ Annette repeated it like a mantra, even when she wasn’t elbowing somebody out of the way.

Joan was falling behind. As they neared Victoria station, Annette stopped and looked back. Joan had stopped and was resting her hands on her knees, panting hugely. She waved at Annette and
gasped, ‘Go on, go on . . .’

Annette turned. As she did, she caught sight of Helly’s small figure disappearing through the huge vaulted entrance to the station. She sprinted forward.

Richard walked through the rush-hour bustle of Victoria Street. He wound his way through the crowds, his step firm and purposeful from habit rather than inclination. I am not a
malicious man, he thought. I am not enjoying this. It is simply that I am right. Peasants – he exhaled, grimly – all of them. His staff were all peasants.

At the entrance to Victoria Station he paused by the kiosk and bought a packet of cigarettes. He put down his briefcase and dug a hand into his trouser pocket to find some loose change. A small
queue built up behind him while he counted out the exact amount and handed it over to the assistant. A pretty girl, she smiled and said, ‘Thank you sir.’

He smiled back.

The smile stayed on his face as he crossed the concourse towards his platform. The full extent of his triumph was becoming apparent. They were like schoolchildren, all of them. They had ganged
up against him and he had skewered them all. He had covered everything, every option, every possibility. It had all been a game, of course, for him. He had never seriously thought that any of his
activities were in jeopardy. A game. And he had won.

He paused in front of the departure board and checked his train time. He was slightly earlier than usual but the station was already packed solid with bank holiday commuters, all pelting around
to add those precious extra minutes to their long weekend. Platform 8. He had nine minutes. He pulled his cigarettes from his pocket. As he removed the cellophane wrapper, he saw William from the
corner of his eye, coming towards him across the concourse. Richard furrowed his brow. William seemed agitated as he crossed the concourse, hurrying back out towards the street. Last time
I’ll see you buddy, Richard thought. Goodbye. A clean sweep, that is what he would have, starting next week. New people, who would be so grateful in this climate they would mind their own
business and do what they were damn well told. Temps, perhaps. Temps always knew how to behave themselves, particularly when Fridays came around and they needed their timesheets signed.

As he inhaled the first drag of his cigarette, he was suddenly overcome with an enormous feeling of exhaustion. The adrenalin of victory drained into his shoes. He looked at the people rushing
past him. What was it all about? Here they all were, weaving in and out in this inelegant, pointless dance, some pausing for a moment like him, others rushing as if their lives were at stake.
Pausing and rushing, pausing and rushing, the human traffic ceaselessly flowing in and out and around London. I never wanted to do this for a living, Richard thought. I never planned to work for
the Capital Transport Authority. If I had had my choice, I would have liked to go out to Africa, like David Attenborough or one of those types of people. I would have liked to raise leopards for a
living.

He glanced to one side. A few feet away, in the middle of the concourse, there was a mobile cleaning trolley with a small bin attached to the end. Its attendant had wandered off. He took a
couple of steps towards the bin and tossed the screwed-up cellophane wrapper from his cigarette packet, but it sprang open again as soon as it left his grasp. He watched it flutter to the concourse
floor. The nasal tones of a British Rail announcer started to say, ‘This is an announcement for all passengers and staff . . .’

Richard heard a young female voice behind him shout, ‘Hey!’ The voice was bitter, furious. He turned.

Then the bomb exploded.

The acupuncturist was called Julia. She practiced in a white room above a flat in Tufnell Park. Hanging in the window of the white room was a mobile made of coloured triangles
of glass.

‘Do you like my seagull?’ asked Julia, as she inserted a long fine needle into Annette’s right elbow.

Annette was lying on her back on a high couch covered with a white paper sheet. From where she lay she could see the coloured patterns of light made by the triangles: purple, pink, green.
‘It’s not a very mobile mobile,’ she said, feeling Julia smile in reply. Outside the window, poplar trees waved to and fro in a light summer breeze; beyond the poplars, sky.

‘You seem more relaxed now,’ Julia commented.

‘Perhaps it was the – yinglan?’

‘Yintang,’ Julia corrected softly.

‘The needle in my forehead.’

‘Yes, also the massage helps I think. I only did your shoulder for today because that’s where I’m putting most of the needles. Next time we can do your neck and back as
well.’

‘How long will it take to put the rest in?’

‘Not long, then we leave them for twenty minutes. Are you comfortable?’

‘Yes.’

After she had finished inserting the needles, Julia sat in an armchair next to the couch. It was covered with a fine cloth on which were embroidered tiny roses in various shades of pink. Julia
sat among the roses, the pinks reflected in her white coat. She was just visible in the periphery of Annette’s vision. Annette could see she that was holding a clipboard.

‘Annette . . .’ Julia said, her voice warm and coaxing.

‘Yes?’

‘I wonder if we could go through a few more questions. I know we’ve done your medical history and I’ve had the details from the hospital but I’d like to go a bit further
back.’

‘Yes of course.’

‘There’s something I’m not quite clear about.’ Julia coughed. ‘You made a reference to attacks of nausea that occurred before you were injured. You weren’t
very specific. Can you tell me a bit more about it?’

Annette did not reply. Instead, she watched the coloured triangles of light on the white ceiling.

Julia waited in silence. Eventually, she said, very softly, ‘Annette, how old were your parents when you were born?’

Annette remained silent. From somewhere inside her chest she felt a swelling; she knew it was only emotional but it felt as real and as physical as if a loaf of bread was leavening beneath her
heart. She began to cry.

Julia rose from her seat and stood behind Annette’s head. She placed her hands on either side very gently, so gently that Annette could hardly feel the touch. She stayed there while
Annette sobbed.

When Annette had finished, Julia said quietly, ‘I think we have a lot of work to do.’

After the treatment, Annette asked to use the toilet. Julia showed her downstairs. The bathroom was also white, with a lilac patterned lino. A clothesline made of string hung
from brass hooks in opposing walls and washing dripped into the bath; socks and T-shirts, two pairs of men’s boxer shorts striped in white and candy yellow and pale green – ice-cream
colours. Annette lifted up her skirt and gripped it between her teeth. Then she pulled down her tights and knickers. She had removed her tights so that Julia could put needles in her knee, then
struggled back into them afterwards. She should have left them off until she had been to the toilet. Tights were the thing that caused her most difficult. It would be more sensible to stick to
loose trousers for the time being, as her physiotherapist had suggested, but that somehow seemed like too large an admission, too big and visible a change.