by Alan Agnew
If I was labelled the angry man then Caroline was the opposite, all sunshine and rainbows, glass half full, Miss Positivity. I teased her, saying she just walked around handing out skittles, and to this day I don’t know why I teased her unique nature, maybe because I knew I could never compete. It was never a competition, but she won.
‘If I smiled at the same scruffy looking gentleman, he might just smile back.’ She would preach.
My response was nothing if not predictable. I’d remind her that she was a pretty woman, and what man wouldn’t smile back, maybe even wink.
She stuck with it. ‘The voice in your head does not have to be an angry, threatening voice giving you orders, it can be soft, it can be gentle, it can speak to you very calmly and very slowly.’
I sniggered back, why not just tell me to count to ten. Anger is the subconscious bubbling up like with Donald now. I am fully aware of it, I know anger breeds anger, but I don’t know how to stop it, I don’t know if I want to stop it. I miss Caroline, that ray of sunshine. Towards the end of our relationship I mistook her happiness for our happiness.
Sitting amongst the stillness of the garden, I am haunted by a creeping sense of unease. I think back to my day. I forgot about visiting Reg, I got side-tracked entirely by Donald and finding the Amyl Nitrite in his suitcase, and with this flashback, the frustration immediately returns, stirring me into action.
I take a bottle of wine upstairs and sit on my bed, with my laptop poised. I find Donald’s telephone number on 192.com, and without hesitation, phone it from my mobile, withholding my number. I hear the faint ringing sound through the wall, and I hear his footsteps, I imagine him waking up confused, worried, reaching for his slippers. I listen to him trudging down the stairs, his pace increasing, my attention goes to my phone as he picks up reciting his whole number back to me like my parents used to. I can hear the distress in his voice, I had given little thought to any plan, and so I just hang up.
I want him to be exposed for what he does, for what he did. I want him to worry about people knowing before the full exposure. I want him to sweat and squirm in anticipation. It is the worry and the lack of any control that will cause him the most pain, I have been there. My heart beats fast with excitement.
I navigate the web signing him up to numerous mailing lists, free trials, catalogues, scheduling sales calls and arranging a house valuation. Every search takes me down a new rabbit hole, new avenues of opportunities. I order him a taxi for the morning and sign him up to volunteering activities, all by using his full name, telephone number and address. The clock on the bottom left of my screen flicks to AM. I close the laptop satisfied I have done something today. I drift off to sleep, smugly satisfied at the upcoming barrage of annoyances to his life. Tomorrow is another day, more of the same.
Chapter Fifteen – 9 days after
I wake to a commotion, crashing sounds of metal and drilling. I sit up, forcing my eyes open to scan the room, expecting to see shadows. The bright sun fighting against the curtain puts me at ease instantly. I sit still, listening intently. I can hear raised voices coming from beyond the window. I think back to my actions last night with regret. This is my doing, I have caused this, and now I will have to watch the chaos unfold. I try picturing the scene of a taxi driver and Donald arguing, but the sounds throw me, it doesn’t correlate. It is not one voice I hear, but many.
I pull back the curtain and to my horror see three young guys dressed in scruffy clothes strutting around outside Donald’s house. One barks out orders above the radio noise, another has a cigarette in his mouth while carrying a huge metal pole above his head, the third is drilling bolts to hold them together. I watch them erecting the scaffolding against Donald’s house. His car is not on the driveway, in its usual place is a rusty old truck with a further hundred metal poles piled high. I go downstairs and put the kettle on as is my routine. The noise volume increasing from outside, filtering into my kitchen. I slam my fridge shut, and I bang the coffee down against the worktop as if a justified response, wanting to be noticed. I stand over the boiling kettle, my inquisitive nature getting the best of me, I peer out of the window but see little at ground level and so return upstairs.
I try and calculate how much scaffolding is going up. Already it is up to half the height of the house. I try to distract myself but find myself returning to the window every couple of minutes. I see the taxi I ordered last night pull up, the taxi I thought would wake Donald up, would cause him stress, and maybe even an argument outside in his dressing gown. I did not envisage it being greeted and waved away by a six-foot tattooed labourer with a wrench in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
I step into the shower. The fierce water pressure is demanding the full attention of all my senses and a quick release.
On turning the tap off the outside noise invades my conscience once again. I wrap a towel around me and take my position at the window. The scaffolding continues to grow beyond the second floor and onto the adjoining roof. Each time a new pole is connected, a sheet of plastic is discarded towards the ground. I watch with frustration as the rubbish gets picked up by the wind some landing in my garden. I could go out and complain, but I will wait for my real target to return home, a perfectly reasonable excuse to confront him.
I need to get out of the house, away from the noise. I reverse out of my drive, not even glancing in the direction of the scaffolding or reprobates strutting about like they own the place. Still no sign of Donald’s car, he scheduled this disruption so of course would have made plans for the day. Bastard.
I drive over to Teyford, a small town boasting a couple of retail parks and the children’s home where I hope to catch Reg or Anna. I appreciate the fifteen-minute drive to cool off a bit, although the annoyance stays with me. I do not know if either is there, but it is less embarrassing than admitting to the vicar I forgot and wanting to know their shift patterns for the week, like some kind of stalker.
The children’s home sits isolated at the end of a single track on the outskirts of Teyford, enclosed by tall pine trees that darken the windows. The stone driveway makes an excessive crunching noise as I reverse into the visitor space. A couple of ageing concrete steps delivers me to an imposing wooden door painted racing green to brighten up the 1950s redbrick building. Its compartmentalised shape, surrounding land and location makes me think this would have been originally a school. A large wooden sign says ‘Camwell Lodge, C of E,’ other than that there is no reference to its purpose or use. I slam the old brass knocker hard on the sodden wood door that feels 10cm thick. Even the brass letterbox is exaggerated in size and stiff to disturb. To my left is a big bay window, glass as thick as a beer bottle. I hold up my palms against it to deflect the glare and see a lady standing almost to attention in front of me. She does that thing of mouthing something to me, although I have no idea what, regardless, I return a smile.
‘Hello, do come in, how can I be of assistance?’ Marjorie says all in one go opening the front door.
She is the lady from the window, dressed in a bright green woolly cardigan with her name badge sitting proudly, and small round glasses sitting on the end of her nose. The inside of the house is a mash-up of old and new. A grand wooden twisted staircase dressed in a horrible cheap rubber matt running up the centre to control the noise I presume. Lined up against the back wall are sofas and armchairs of contrasting colour, shape and size, reminiscent of a second-hand furniture shop. The overflow of plastic chairs stacked up under the stairs and numerous posters depicting the many rules next to a first aid box fixed to the wall.
‘I was hoping Reg or Anna might be in today. I am a family friend of theirs.’ I proudly proclaim.
‘Oh no I am sorry,’ Marjorie relies with concern, holding her hands in front of her. ‘Anna no longer visits us because of her arthritis, but Reg does, although only once a week so he can be at home more to care for poor Anna. His day was yesterday. I am sorry you had a wasted journey, maybe you could visit next week?’
> No, not next week. I now need Marjorie’s help. ‘I am John Jenkins’ son, Phil. I met Reg and Anna at the funeral last week.’
Marjorie took a step towards me and reached for my hand, holding it in her cold, bony fingers, ‘I am so sorry for your loss, John was a good man, a welcome visitor here, and he will be sorely missed.’
I was taken aback. In my pursuit of Reg and Anna, I completely forgot what sparked my interest; it was they who informed me that my dad volunteered here occasionally. But what did he do here?
Marjorie stares at me, as if reading my mind, or more likely the confused look on my face. ‘Anything I can help you with Phil?’
‘Maybe. Dad and I,’ I began and paused, feeling sheepish. ‘We didn’t communicate often.’ Finding the words proved more difficult than I’d expected in front of Marjorie with her permanent smile and look of sympathy etched across her face. ‘Can you tell me what he did here exactly?’
She pauses and takes out from her cardigan pocket a crumpled tissue to dab her nose. ‘Mr Jenkins led some classes here for the children and held some one-to-one sessions with some of our more challenging children, like a mentor.’
I feel my face screwing up in confusion, prompting Marjorie to continue. ‘Marie would know more as she runs the outreach program coordinating with all of our volunteers. She is teaching a class at the moment. Maybe I could ask her to call you?’
I run my hand through my hair, pulling at it and keep my eyes to the ground out of sight from Marjorie, not wanting to show her my frustration. I write my number on a post-it with my name and my dad’s name. I stand in the hallway staring at the children’s paintings proudly displayed on the wall, wondering what exact wisdom or life experience my dad could have passed on to these lost children.
As I get in my car to drive home, I remember the chaos that awaits. I decide to take a detour for an early lunch. I order a pint while waiting for the kitchen to open then order sausages and mash and another pint. Why was my dad visiting the children’s home? I drag myself out of my trance and look around me to see I am still the only customer as I drop off my empty plate at the bar and head home.
I pull up to an empty driveway, no sign of either the scaffolders or Donald, but my eyes are drawn to a parcel left outside his front door. Without much thought, I walk over and pick it up to take a look. Hungry for more evidence, and without thinking too hard, I tuck it under my arm and carry it inside my dad’s house. I google the company name it has been dispatched from, to reveal a pharma company specialising in online medication. I hold the parcel in front of me feeling a sudden unease, a shadow? I turn and freeze at the sight of Donald standing in my hallway, eyes fixed on me holding his parcel.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, the door was open. Thank you for taking in my parcel.’
Behind his left shoulder, I watch a plastic sheet getting picked up by the wind and being whisked off the scaffolding attached to his house.
‘I did request they just leave at my front door, but you know these delivery folk, not the sharpest.’
Scattered all over the driveway are abandoned tools and materials, heavy-duty bags stuffed full, planks of wood and of course the offending radio.
‘They would rather bang on the door of a neighbour, terribly sorry for the inconvenience.’
Every patch of his house is shielded behind scaffolding, ready to knock down and re-build?
I tune back into Donald only to see him walking away from me, the parcel having been removed from my hands and he is carrying his suitcase. That’s it? No mention of the monstrosity that is evolving right in front of us?
‘Donald, hold on a minute,’ I demand. ‘What is all this with the scaffolding? What is going on?’
I can see as he stands straighter, clears his throat and points his eyes to the sky that he has rehearsed his response. ‘Some renovations, nothing too major, I have the necessary planning permission.’ He turns to walk away again, but I follow him this time.
‘But you can’t, I am about to put the house on the market, you know this, how long will it take?’
He shrugs his shoulders. ‘I can, as I say, I have the necessary permission. It won’t take long.’ I stand dumbfounded. The nerve of the man, not even having the decency to discuss with me beforehand and hiding behind planning permission as his approval, his right, and nothing else matters. I shake my head towards his front door, already slammed shut.
I throw my dad’s clothes into two piles, my mind elsewhere. How can he be so arrogant? And just walking away from me like that. Bloody Donald. Two piles, charity or disposal. I find a strange assortment of sports tops, waterproof trousers, hiking boots. I admit to myself I did not know this man at all as I hold up a bright pink shirt with flowers on the cuffs.
Hearing movement again from next door I leap to the window and watch Donald load his car with the same suitcase he took from me earlier and place a jacket carefully on the passenger seat before driving away. Of course, he is going away to escape the impending noise, the disruption, the disturbance. I accept this as an invitation to walk around the back of his house to see for myself what is going on.
Much like the front, it is covered in scaffolding with wooden planks running the perimeter of the first level and planks of wood to form a makeshift platform. The garden is a mess, strewn with plastic covers blowing around, bits of wood cutting lying on the grass abandoned, nails scattered, empty boxes and even crisp packets and coke cans from their 10 am lunches. The scaffolding is firmly entrenched into his flower bed standing toe to toe with the fence.
I return to the front of his house and open his recycling bin, lifting out the box stuffed of paper and card. Underneath, where mine is full of bottles and cans, sits a solitary empty can of beans. I carry the heavy-duty plastic box into my kitchen and start leafing through his recycled papers, desperate to build a better profile of this man.
A couple of shopping catalogues, some utility bills, and a quotation from a building company for a house extension. I pull it out and study it line by line. The quote is for a ground floor extension, two bedrooms and en-suite with the required scaffolding. Renovation? He is doubling the size of his house. I screw it up tight and throw it hard against the kitchen wall. How can he possibly be planning such a massive building project at his age and how on earth did he get planning permission? I grab hold of the box wanting to smash it to pieces, but something catches my eye. I pull out his mobile phone and broadband bill listing his private email address and mobile number. I carefully fold it and place in my pocket, returning the box to his recycle bin, my confidence rising.
I need to up the ante. My activity last night would only inconvenience him, what if he didn’t even notice? I need to be less subtle and start testing his resolve. I have his personal details now. Masquerading as Donald Lloyd, I start registering his details on gay websites, inviting a response, inviting awkward liaisons. I lose myself in this unfamiliar world as I uncomfortably write about fetishes, and upload fake profile pictures. I find local blogs and gay chat groups which I register and add his details, opening the floodgates. A little calmer I grab a can of beer and settle back on the couch, more confident I can hurt him. I want to hurt him.
I want to uncover his mask.
Chapter Sixteen – 10 days after
The phone ringing. I lay in bed listening to it embedded into my dream before I realise it is real. I stand, head pounding and answer groggily. I apologise to the solicitor for the delay and promise to get the financial paperwork over to him today. I look out my window taking a second or two to focus and adjust to the brightness. There is an old pale blue van in his driveway marked ‘Marsden Builders,’ the front dashboard looking like a bin has been emptied onto it with newspapers, coke cans, cigarette packets squashed between the dashboard and front window. A Portsmouth FC air freshener hangs from the mirror. I hate Portsmouth.
I watch as a middle-aged guy walks up Donald’s driveway. He has receding hair, three-day stubble, and a heavily stained
jumper that sits above his exposed belly. He is holding up his stained trousers, phone held to his ear in his other hand. I watch him ducking and diving outside the front door looking for something. He tilts a plant pot and tucking his phone to his ear, he reaches down to pick up a key. He slots it in the door and pushes it wide open, walking in without hesitation. Despite the cold weather he wedges the door open and in follows a couple of much younger lads from the van, in similar attire, but very much apprentices. I stand rooted to my window watching them carry toolboxes and make return trips to empty the contents of the van in the house.
I force myself to get dressed and grab my car keys, needing to extract myself from the horror show unveiling from my window.
I have a horrible sense of déjà vu in the supermarket. The pitiful looks from the suits buying breakfast on the go, the horror from mothers protecting their small children and giggles from schoolkids stocking up on crisps and chocolate. All eyes are on me and my basket of food necessities with enough beer and wine for weeks already knowing I will make a return trip in a couple of days.
When Caroline and I were together, the grocery shopping was my task, although I didn’t find it a chore. I took pleasure in surprising her with simple offerings. It could be as simple as a cupcake or her favourite chocolate bar, the gesture being she was in my thoughts as I followed the herd of broken trolleys and screaming kids around the aisles. I always tried to be creative, seeking out new dishes for us to try, making a new desert or trying an exotic fruit. Shopping is easier for one, but more fun for two.
As I turn the final corner in Hatch End, I hit the brakes taking in the sight before me. I am greeted by what looks like a wrecker’s yard. I count three vans, an old Volkswagen Polo, and sitting in the centre of the driveway is a big yellow skip. I weave between cars and vans having to manoeuvre past the skip by putting my left tyres onto the grass. My dad would have hated this. He would have been out here, fist-waving and shouting at them all. But look how that approach worked out? Cautions from the police.
