Observatory Mansions (10 page)

On a table by the fireplace was a tin of tobacco and a wad of black cigarette papers, I took them for my friends, I gave them to my pockets (lots 44 and 45).

But Emma was still to be found in the neglected graveyard of the church. I sat, that day, looking at the tombstone:

EMMA

Our second conversation
.

I became aware of the new resident standing in the church porch, smoking a cigarette, looking at me.

You’ve been following me, haven’t you?

No, thank you.

Why have you been following me?

I’m laying flowers at the grave of a friend.

No. Do you want something from me?

You’d better be out by the end of the week.

I’ve no intention of leaving.

It’s been known for people to change their intentions.

I
won’t.

It’s been known that people who promise never to change their intentions actually do change their intentions.

Well, I won’t.

We’ll see.

Are you trying to threaten me?

You may come across unforeseen obstacles.

You really are an exceedingly malicious little man.

If you have to put it like that, I prefer the word malignant. In any case, I’m taller than you.

I won’t be frightened.

We’ll see.

The Porter said you were slightly backward, is that true?

I’ve had enough of this conversation. (I began to leave.)

Is it the truth?

The Porter knows nothing about me. (I began to leave hurriedly.)

My name is—

I’ve no need for names!

Oh, you’ll need this one, Francis Orme. Learn it.

I’m not listening!

My name is Anna Tap.

The findings of Peter Bugg, retired schoolmaster,
retired personal tutor, etc
.

Peter Bugg was waiting for me when I returned that day, just after my second conversation with the new resident who now, I was forced to understand, went by the name of Anna Tap. Peter Bugg was puzzled. Puzzlement in the guise of drops of sweat and tears trickled out of him. Had he been into Anna Tap’s temporary residence? He had. Had he made an inventory of her possessions? He had. He held the sweaty list in his sweaty hands. Had he moved the objects into new positions? He had. He promised. Though, he said, it had been difficult. Heavy objects? No. Too many objects? No. Delicate objects? No.

He showed me the list of his findings:

An inventory of the possessions of Anna Tap,
18 Observatory Mansions.
Temporary resident.

These were all the objects to be found in flat eighteen. I insisted that there must be more. Some writing implements, some letters? Some photographs, books, periodicals? No. Some paintings, posters, ornaments? None. He had not searched everywhere. He insisted that he had. The only things he neglected to place on his list were, he said, various items of food. He also added that she had no kitchen machines. No refrigerator, no cooker. The food, he said, was either fresh or in tins. All to be eaten cold.

The difficulty poor Peter Bugg had was in arranging Anna Tap’s possessions in such a way that would make them look as if they had assumed new positions. His first attempts at moving dresses and shoes (which were distributed, before he arrived, in various different places throughout her flat) had resulted in the flat looking identical. As if Peter Bugg had not been there at all.

I did not touch the undergarments. Though I noticed that the knickers had tiny little white bows on them. The bows made me feel sad, I’m not sure why.

He did not move the bed either. Too heavy. The chairs he did move, but afterwards they did not look as if they had taken up dramatically different positions. They were both identical. In the end Peter Bugg chose not to be subtle about his displacing. He moved the bed linen into the living room. He moved all the dresses and shoes into the dining room. He
placed all the washing items (towels, toothpaste, etc.) in the kitchen and all food in the bathroom. The spectacles case (empty) he placed in the spare bedroom. But he did not, he maintained, touch the undergarments.

The procedure had been further complicated for poor Peter Bugg by the pink rubber gloves that I had pressed him to wear. The gloves, he said, had made his hands even more sweaty. What’s more he was very nervous about his tasks and sweated and cried a great deal during their enactment. Wiping his forehead or his eyes with rubber gloves proved of little use, the rubber wouldn’t soak up the wet.

The lack, and the similarity, of Anna Tap’s possessions worried us deeply. The repetition of the items, we eventually decided, was the choice of a tidy, too tidy, mind. They also showed a remarkable lack of vanity or love of objects. We managed to convince ourselves that Anna Tap’s somewhat frugal style of living was only temporary. The rest of her belongings were sure to follow on shortly. We would, of course, ensure that Anna Tap had left us before they arrived, more items would only encourage her to reside with us for longer; personal effects give people a sense of security. We were pleased that she had not completed the business of moving in. This meant, happily, that there was less to move out.

We heard Anna Tap returning to her temporary home, and then, a little later, a sudden scream came down to us from the third floor.

Down below, in flat six, Bugg and I smiled.

A death upsets us more than the bereaved
.

At the appointed hour, during the evening news, when we went to pay a visit on Miss Higg to inform her of our progress, we heard talking coming from inside her flat. The voices, there were two, did not belong to a television set.
The voices belonged to Miss Claire Higg, television anchorite, and Anna Tap, temporary resident of flat eighteen.

Two hours later, during the next news broadcast, we received an explanation. Claire Higg had suffered a distressing loss. There had been a death. We were surprised, we could not remember her having any friends or relations, we could not imagine anyone whose death might have upset her. The news of the death had caused her to scream. It was Claire Higg who had screamed and not Anna Tap on entering her temporary residence, as we had first believed. She had opened her flat door to scream, hoping that that scream would reach the ears of Peter Bugg or even Francis Orme. She wanted some company. She needed consoling. But the company she had required had not been forthcoming. Instead she had been visited by Anna Tap. Claire Higg was quick to point out that, unlike Peter Bugg and Francis Orme, Miss Tap had immediately come to console her.

The death had come as a great surprise. The deceased had been shot, she said, at point-blank range. Seven shots. He fell to the ground. He didn’t have a chance.

Who is dead? Who was shot?

Miss Claire Higg pointed at one of the photographs, scissored from a magazine, of the man with the moustache.

Now it may be thought that such a death, the death of a fictional character, may hardly be a cause for sobbing. Generally such deaths perhaps merit a sigh, no more. Not to Miss Higg. To her that death was a genuine tragedy. To her the moustached man was a real person, her friend. Taken cruelly from her by what she believed were genuine bullets. There was even fake blood to prove it. We could not say – Don’t worry, Miss Higg, it’s only a story. The actor with the moustache is still alive and well. We could not say that. If we had attempted, Miss Higg would only have looked at us with incredulity and sighed – Poor thing, poor thing. Been in the
sun, have we? No, no, we had to continue the absurd charade of consoling Claire Higg because we wanted to find out what it was that had happened between her and Anna Tap.

Anna Tap had been very kind, apparently. She had even offered Claire Higg one of her cigarettes. Smoking was a habit of the deceased. A different brand, but the effect was the same, Higg felt closer to that moustache. Anna Tap had listened, patiently it seemed, to all Miss Higg’s remembrances of the dead man. Dead
character
, that is, I forget myself. Miss Tap had even said that she wished she knew what such a loss felt like.

But no, Annie dear, you mustn’t mind if I call you Annie dear and not Anna. You must consider yourself lucky never to have suffered such a loss. It’s a terrible thing. I shall have to wear black now, probably until I’m dead.

You see, Miss Higg …

Call me Claire, all my friends call me Claire.

You see, Claire, I never had anyone to lose.

No one to lose? Nonsense.

You see, I’m an … orphan.

On encouraging the new resident to leave
.

The next day, I had been out early and purchased from the locksmith’s, a ten minute walk from Observatory Mansions, a new door lock, which came with two keys.

Bugg and I heard Anna Tap leaving and, armed with screwdriver, chisel and hammer, we approached flat number eighteen. Outside flat eighteen was an unpleasant welcome. Tufted-haired Twenty, the Dog Woman, crouching, a little cleaner than usual perhaps, but still repellent, standing guard for her new friend. A human watchdog. She growled at Bugg, who began to sweat, and also at me. I put my hands behind my back.

We returned downstairs.

That’s it then, there’s nothing we can do.

Stupid Bugg, dense old schoolteacher, dense old tutor. A head for books, a head made of books, a head of sheets of paper, the typefaces all tiny. Skin of paper, the paper of his skin burnt with words, words that glistened under sweat. Who has read the book of Peter Bugg? No one. Who wants to read the book of Peter Bugg? No one. It remains on the library shelf. It was placed there shortly after publication, an edition of one, and no one has ever asked for it. It would be dusty, but this type of paper sweats. No one wants to borrow the book of Peter Bugg. The last pages remain blank. For the moment. It’s a book covered in black woollen material, which sags outwards at its bottom. It’s called
The history of Peter Bugg, retired schoolteacher, retired personal tutor, etc
. There it sits, one book in many. It’s not a love story, it’s not a thriller, there’s no murder hidden between its jacket covers, no adventure either. There’s a few pictures in amongst the pages to break up the tedious reading: one of the subject’s father, the others are all school photographs, happy, smiling boys – where are they now? That’s all. It’s rather an old-fashioned book, to be honest. Not that it was ever in fashion. Nor will it ever be. Peter Bugg was born, Peter Bugg taught, Peter Bugg breathed. Who cares?

So that’s it then, there’s nothing we can do.

There was, Peter Bugg, there was, sir, everything that could be done. I sent him out. Off you go. Go fetch a dog, one of the city dogs, a wild one, not too wild, try not to let it bite you, bring it back.

He came back crying, sweating and moaning, his nervous body terrified of what it barely managed to carry: a dog, a flea-infested puppy. I placed some raw bacon on the stairs just beneath the third floor and sent the puppy up to fetch it. The puppy fetched. But the puppy came back rushing, yelping down the stairs, sprinting for its life. After it came Twenty, Dog Woman.

There, sir, that’s what could be done.

We changed the locks of flat eighteen that day. Bugg kept the old lock. I kept one key to the new lock, Peter Bugg the other.

There.

Now she’s sure to leave.

Now I could return to work.

Work
.

Of work during that morning, I have little to report. Save that I was back on my usual unusual form. I was able to achieve both outer and inner stillness and my public rewarded me tolerably well for my concentration.

Of work during the afternoon, I have a matter of some unpleasantness to report. I was quite happy until I noticed on one of the occasions when a coin was dropped (when I opened my eyes) that among my crowd of appreciators was Anna Tap. When I closed my eyes I realized that I could no longer acquire my inner stillness. When I opened them again I noticed (by following the sounds) that the coin had been dropped by Anna Tap. I blew bubbles in her direction. I closed my eyes. A coin was dropped. I opened my eyes. Anna Tap had dropped the coin. What I heard though, between coin drops, is the most unpleasant part of this history. The coins that were dropped by Anna Tap were not coins taken from her pocket. They were taken from my box of coins which lay at the bottom of the plinth. Anna Tap was taking a coin from the box and throwing it back into the box. Again and again. Each time one of these coins was dropped I felt myself forced into the action of blowing bubbles at her. I noticed, too, that during Anna Tap’s disgraceful abuse of my talents the number of my appreciators decreased. Anna Tap picked up my (hard-earned) coins some ten or twelve times during that afternoon, and during the intervals I noticed that she smiled each time a little more fully. Finally there was a long gap between coin throws and when I opened my eyes again she had left.