Chasing Paper

by Graham Hamer

  Nobody spoke.

  “How is he?” Ian whispered, pulling his shirt collar away from his throat.

  “Conscious but under close observation,” Nancy said, sitting on the arm of his chair and putting her hand on his shoulder. “Irene's with him. Her mum's looking after the baby.”

  “What happened Pete?” Ian asked.

  “It was a combination of Boy and the wind. Boy was supposed to be setting the toes of the trusses on the wall plate, but Dave asked me to swap with him 'cos he was useless. Boy didn't want to go over the void, so kicked the truss and walked off site.”

  “You mean it was Boy who knocked the truss over?”

  “No, Dad, I don't think so; they're far too heavy for that. It was the wind that did it. Mind you, I don't suppose the jolt on the truss when Boy kicked it could have helped matters at all. It was hard enough up there without having to contend with that sort of stupid behaviour.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “This morning, a couple of hours after you left the site.”

  “Nancy, why didn't you call me? You knew where I was.”

  “Ian, old boy—”

  “Shut up Richard.”

  Nancy looked across the room to Tweedle, who had done as he was told. Her face was flushed. “Richard, thank you for coming down, but I think it's time to leave now and let Ian get things sorted out.”

  Tweedle coughed. “Yes, quite right my dear. Must be popping along. Things to do, you know.” He left the house without another word. As they listened to the sound of his car door slamming, Ian checked his watch. “Any idea when visiting hours are?”

  “Why don't you leave it until tomorrow?” Nancy said. “Irene said she'd give us a call later tonight and keep us posted.”

  Ian struggled for a moment to tidy his thoughts. “Yeah,” he sighed, “you're right.” He sat with his head in his hands, not knowing what to say or how to say it. Nancy moved from the arm of his chair to sit next to Pete on the settee. Their mutual distress was cut short by the sound of the telephone on the low table next to Ian. He picked up the receiver.

  “Oh hello — Oh did he? — Yes, well I will — No, no, not tomorrow — Well there's been an accident on site. One of the men has been hurt — I'll let you know — Yes I hope so too — Okay, goodbye.”

  Nancy questioned him with raised eyebrows.

  “It was Garfield at the bank. Richard phoned him this morning to tell him to prepare the guarantee documents. He wanted to know if I could go tomorrow to discuss them.”

  Nancy drew in her breath. It hit the back of her throat in a snort. “I can't believe this. Your best friend is lying in hospital thanks to a stupid decision, and all you and Tweedle can do is talk about restructuring the finances or whatever you like to call it. For the last two or three years, our lives have revolved around your damned business, and I'm getting fed up with it. We go nowhere, we do nothing, we hardly even talk any more. Where the hell is our bloody relationship going, for crying out loud?” She stood up and stormed from the room, slamming the door as she went.

  Ian looked at Pete. “Sorry about that, son. Your mum's just a bit upset.”

  FRIDAY 4 JANUARY

  “Hi, boss, what's new?”

  “Nothing much, Dave. Some idiot tried to commit suicide on the site yesterday. Other than that, it's the same boring old routine.”

  “Bastard isn't it. Anyone I know?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who tried to top himself. Anyone I know?”

  “Nah.”

  “That's all right then.”

  The room wasn't as Ian had imagined. Each bed sported coloured covers that matched the cushions on the adjacent chair - more akin to a private bedroom than a hospital ward. Even so, when he had glanced through the glass panel in the door before entering, the sight of his friend had alarmed him and his remorse had flooded back to gnaw at his gut. Dave's face was pallid and haggard, ageing him twenty years. Wide, dark circles surrounded his eyes, which were sunken like thumbprints in putty. Ian had taken a deep breath before opening the door.

  “How are you really?” he asked.

  “You don't want to know, boss.”

  “I do, Dave. Tell me.”

  “Friggin' awful. But thanks anyway for asking.”

  “Which bits hurts worst?” Ian asked, frowning as his friend caught his breath.

  “The bits I didn't know I had. The bits you don't even feel until you do a full back-flop onto concrete from fifteen foot up.”

  “So what's the verdict? Does everything function as normal?”

  Dave strained his shoulders, trying to seek the comfort of a better position. “Well, I know you're going to make some bloody stupid comment,” he said, his voice rasping through his discomfort. “but, to put it bluntly, my brain hurts. I must have smacked my head when I landed. Apart from that, they've put boards in the bed. It seems I've done my back a bit of a mischief. They're waiting to analyse the latest X-rays right now. Looks like my golfing days might be numbered.”

  “That'll please the other club members,” Ian said. Then added, “I shouldn't have let Tweedle talk me into it, should I.”

  Dave did his best to imitate a smile. “Don't worry, boss. I know what the arsehole can be like when he gets an idea in his head. It wasn't your fault. Mind you, if you come across Boy, you can give him a good smacking from me.”

  “Why? Was it Boy's fault?”

  “Not entirely,” Dave said. “If it had been a calm day, Boy's antics wouldn't have mattered. It was just that Murph and me were struggling to hold the bloody truss anyway, and Boy's kick came just at the wrong moment.” He screwed up his face as another sliver of pain caused his legs to spasm. “You can smack Boy for another reason though,” he said, through gritted teeth.

  Ian looked puzzled. “Go on, I'm all ears.”

  “You didn't hear then.”

  “Hear what?”

  “That Boy and I had a slight altercation when I told him he was going up on the roof with us to fix the trusses. The lowlife threatened to tell Irene that Suzy and I — well, you know.”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Yeah, the little snot rag. I'll tell you what, if ever he did, I'd bloody crucify him.”

  “You'd have to stand in line, old son. I reckon the rest of the guys on the site would be in front of you. And I'd be at the head of the queue.”

  “You mean that, don't you,” Dave mumbled.

  “Sure.”

  “It's just that I was a bit worried about it.”

  “About what?”

  “About how you felt after the Christmas party. You know, with Suzy and me. What with us all being good friends and — well, you know what I mean. I know we laugh and joke, Ian, but this one's serious. Between you and me, Ian, I've never been unfaithful to Irene before, and I don't plan being so again. What happened that night was just — well — it just happened that's all.”

  Ian touched his friend's shoulder. “You don't owe me any explanations, Dave. What you do with your life is your business. If it makes you feel any better, I've never been unfaithful to Nancy either, but if something did happen one night and you knew about it, I wouldn't thank you for telling her.”

  “Thanks boss. I knew you'd understand.”

  “I know one thing,” Ian said, a smile returning to his face. “You'd have a hell of a job being unfaithful to anyone the state you're in at the moment.”

  Dave chuckled, then screwed up his eyes as the pain seared through his back.

  Ian looked down at the broken body of the man who had done nothing more than follow instructions. The Portacabin was far from sound-proof so, for sure, Dave would have known that Tweedle had given him a hard time about getting the roofs on the houses. He would have understood the risks of trying to erect the massive roof sections in yesterday's weather conditions. And yet he had tackled the job without complaint, just to make life easier for him.

  The accident hadn't been Dave's fault. It hadn't even been Tw
eedle's or Boy's fault. It was his fault. He was to blame for allowing Tweedle to influence his decision. And now his best friend lay suffering, waiting for the results of X-rays to know whether he would ever be able to work again.

  Ian was angry. Angry with himself, angry with Tweedle, angry that Dave had been hurt. The accident could have been avoided. Nancy was right; it had been a stupid decision. He'd allowed Tweedle's influence to dominate. But the winds of change were blowing strong. Enough was enough and never again would Richard Tweedle or his spread-eagle oratory intimidate or browbeat him into anything that was against his better judgment. He owed it to Dave and he owed it to himself.

  It was a solemn vow. A vow that he would keep.

  MONDAY 1 APRIL

  The two hundred and fifty mile drive, from Dijon to Versailles, had made her tired and she closed her eyes while Philippe, her brother, made them both a drink. The comfortable warmth of his apartment that she would call home for the next six days, lulled her into a light sleep, disturbed only when Philippe said, “So, my dear, how is your fine, soon-to-be-ex-husband?”

  “Grumpy,” she replied, accepting the strong coffee he offered and blowing across the top of the cup.

  “How on earth are you going to survive the next few weeks with him, under the same roof?”

  “Well, I've managed for the last fifteen years, so I don't suppose another few weeks will kill me.” She balanced her cup in her lap and rubbed her eyes. “I must admit, though, it's not been too easy.”

  “It shows.”

  “Yes I know. I do look in the mirror from time to time. I guess I'd better buy some thicker make-up.”

  “Has it been that bad?”

  “It's been pretty tough. He's a psychiatrist so he knows exactly what buttons to press to make my life hell. I've settled for a lot less than I felt was fair just to get away, and that's why I wanted to get out of Dijon too. I could do with a break if I'm honest, Philippe. Perhaps once I get settled in a new apartment and get into the routine of the new job, I can take some time off for a holiday.”

  “Well talking of holidays, I had a little thought the other day. What exactly is your schedule for the next three weeks?”

  “I'm here with you until next weekend, as you know, looking for an apartment in Paris and finalizing a few details with my new employers. Then back to Dijon next Sunday and carry on as normal until the move.”

  “What about at work? Is there anything important keeping you there?”

  Claire thought for a moment as she sipped her coffee. “No, not really. I've got a few bits to tidy up before I leave, but my replacement has already taken over my office and I'm pretty much just kicking my heels now. Why do you ask?”

  Philippe leaned forward. “How do you feel about seeing the Isle of Man? I'm going over there for an Old Boys dinner at College in a couple of week's time. I’ve not been before, but I've got a bit of office business to attend to with an offshore investment company. Other than that it's just a lazy week doing nothing. Come with me, Claire. Take a week off and come with me. You'd only have to spend two more nights in Dijon after we get back, then you'd be here in Paris.”

  “Do you know,” she said, setting her cup on the arm of the chair, “that's not such a bad idea. In fact, it's not a bad idea at all. I don't relish the thought of spending any more time in the same house as my ex-husband than is necessary and the thought of a week out of the office appeals to me. The lab still owe me some holiday and I don't have much to do before I leave, and I would get to see your favourite island. It's a deal. I'll phone the office and tell them.”

  “Great. I'll make a couple of calls tomorrow and book the extra tickets.”

  Claire sank into the armchair. “Philippe, you're a genius.”

  “I know.”

  She closed her eyes and wiggled her toes. “What hotel will we be staying at?” she asked, staring at the insides of her eyelids.

  “We won't. We'll be staying with an old school friend of mine - Ian. You'll like him, he's a nice guy.”

  “Are you sure he won't mind me coming with you?”

  “Of course not, I'll ring him this evening and make sure it's alright.”

  She remained silent for a moment, deep in thought. “My eyes make pictures when they're shut,” she said.

  “What do you see?” Philippe asked, filling her cup with fresh coffee.

  She opened one eye. “Tell me about it. Tell me about your schooldays and your friend Ian.”

  He closed one eye in mock imitation. “Tell you over dinner tonight,” he teased. “Where shall we go?”

  She closed both eyes and screwed up her nose. “Will you call Hugo, or shall I?”

  * * *

  Ian didn't bother looking up from the drawing board. It was easier to follow his own line of thought whilst blocking out the conversation in the background. Ignoring Tweedle's bully boy tactics for last three months had been easier than he had imagined.

  “I don't know what's come over you,” Tweedle was saying. “Since New Year, you've been bloody obstreperous and quite unreliable.”

  “What?”

  “Are you listening to me or are you going to keep staring at these plans all day?”

  “Sorry?”

  Tweedle waved a plastic mug of ice tea around as he spoke, spilling it over the floor. “Jesus H. Christ. I'm not getting through to you am I?”

  Ian looked up, and sighed. “Richard, if you must drink that stuff, is there any chance you can stop waving it round and spreading it all over the place?”

  Tweedle banged the mug down on the corner of the desk. “For crying out loud. Ronald and I are trying to talk business with you and all you can do is stare at those damn plans, and talk about my drink. Hell, I'm the major shareholder in this company, not to mention your best bloody customer, and you just ignore me.”

  Ian glanced at Ron Scott, who leaned against the filing cabinet, adjusting a luminous ketchup and egg yolk, striped bow tie. Ian strode across the room to his desk and sat in the new, high-backed chair behind it. Placing both hands, palms down, on the desktop, he diverted his attention to Tweedle. “Listen to me, Richard, and listen good. If you don't like the way I'm running this company, then sack me. I don't give a monkey's wank. So far as ignoring you is concerned, I'm busy trying to finalize the details of Sean Legg's project, which we start next Monday. If this company is going to survive it needs to take on work that's both profitable and paid for and Headland View meets neither of those criteria.”

  Tweedle spluttered, knocking the remains of the ice tea on the floor. “Jesus, man, you can't talk to me like that. I would remind you that — “

  “You don't need to remind me of anything. I'm well aware that you own the majority of shares in this company. I'm also well aware that you owe the majority of money due to this company and, as such, your work takes second place to other, more lucrative, contracts.”

  “How dare —”

  “Don't interrupt. Let's understand each other, Richard, in case you haven't got the message yet. While you're the major shareholder, you're free to dismiss me if you want. If you can find anyone else daft enough to work for you, good luck. On the other hand, if you'd like to sign two percent of the shares over to me, so that I have the majority shareholding, I'd be glad to sign the bank guarantees that Garfield's been screaming for - subject, of course, to the proper, legal paperwork being finalized on the boundaries of my house.”

  “You're one bloody ungrateful son of a bitch, Ian Gidman. I'm the one who — “

  “Don't give me the sob stuff. I've heard it a hundred times these last few weeks. Either we've got a deal or not. Simple 'yes' or 'no'- that's all.”

  Scott took a step forward. His bow tie made his shirt collar seemed dirtier than normal. “Ian, we're all finding it difficult to understand your attitude. For the last three months, Richard and Frank have kept their payments up-to-date and —”

  Ian tutted and waved his forefinger from side to side like a metronome. “That's
crap, Ron, and you know it. There's another payment due —” he glanced at the calendar to verify the date, “ — today. It's the first of April so the money's owing, but I don't suppose we'll see any of it for another week or ten days. Each of the last three months has been short by about five thousand quid and there's still the twenty five thousand owing since the end of last year. Excluding what's due from last month, the old, unpaid balance due from Bishops Road is over forty thousand.”

  “Yes but if you'd signed the bank guarantee as you promised, Richard and Frank would have been able to bring you right up to date.”

  “Like I've said, I'll only accept the company's liabilities if I hold the majority of shares. Also, I'm not prepared to sign over my house till the boundaries have been clarified.” Ian stood up. “Now, I've got to go and meet Sean Legg, so you two will have to excuse me. I'm sure you'll have lots to discuss.” He picked up his papers, collected his battered leather jacket from the floor in the corner of the room, and left the two men staring at his back.

  Dave Kelly watched through the window as Ian's car disappeared from view. He sighed and surveyed the mess of papers before him. Grateful though he was for having the chance to earn something while he recuperated, he had to admit that he was well out of his depth. Give him a few bricks and a trowel and he could make the construction of a three-centred arch look easy, but pens and calculators were not the tools of his trade. I mean, just what is the difference between a Delivery Note and a Dispatch Note?

  “Good morning, Dave,” Ron Scott said, as they entered the office. “How is everything?”

  “What do the doctors have to say about things, old chap?” Richard added.

  Dave looked up and raised his eyebrows. “They're not very optimistic,” he said. “My back's the real problem. I think my days as a bricklayer are over so I guess I'll be looking for another job soon.”

  “Not at all, old boy. No need to do that.”

  “Thanks Richard, but we all know I can't stay here forever. I'm no bookkeeper or secretary, and in any case Irene's champing at the bit. She can't wait to get back to work now the baby's a bit older.”