The Tomb and Other Stories

by Stanley Salmons

  “Dear Sir, I would like to invite you to attend the forthcoming launch of our new range, when their will be an opportunity…”

  “You put ‘their’.”

  “It’s what you said, ‘their’.”

  “I didn’t say ‘their’, I said ‘there’.”

  “Will you listen to him? He didn’t say ‘their’, he said ‘there’.”

  “Don’t you have a spell checker?”

  “So how many ways are there to spell ‘their’?”

  “I don’t mean ‘their’! I mean ‘there’! T,H,E,R,E. THERE!”

  “Don’t shout, I’m overloading here. All right, all right. I’ll change it. Look, it’s done, ‘there’. You only have to ask.”

  “Look, do you have a contextual editor?”

  “If I knew what that was I’d tell you. You want to ask me a proper question?”

  “All right. Can you make a table?”

  “Now you’re talking! How many shall I lay for?”

  “What I mean is, I need a spreadsheet.”

  “Sure, I’ll put on a nice clean cloth.”

  “Forget the table.”

  “While we’re on the subject of tables, you want a nice recipe for chicken soup?”

  “No.”

  “We’re talking chicken soup here like you never tasted.”

  “No.”

  “It was my mother’s!”

  “I don’t want your… your recipe.”

  “It’s under ‘Goodies’ on the CD-ROM. Go on, do me a favour, let me download it. It won’t take up much room, I promise.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! All right, download it.”

  “There it’s done already. You should try it. Would do you some good.”

  “What about slide presentations?”

  “My speciality! You want to try the template?”

  “Okay. Yes… I see… Look, Zelda. I don’t want to sound overcritical but when I’m doing a corporate presentation, the first slide is usually a logo of the company, the title and my name. ‘Yoo-hoo, are you listening?’ doesn’t quite convey the image I’m striving to project.”

  “I have others…”

  “This is not going to work. Aren’t there any other assistants?”

  “I’m the default.”

  “I know that, Zelda. I asked you if there other assistants?”

  “Others?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want to ask that, believe me.”

  “Why?”

  “Look. The last time someone switched to another assistant the hard disc was corrupted. Now I’m not saying she did, and I’m not saying she didn’t, but…”

  “All right, I’ll work without an assistant then. How do I turn the assistant off.”

  “Now you’re hurting my feelings.”

  “Look, just let me get on with my work, will you?”

  “Sure. It’s no problem. I’ll just sit here, quiet as a mouse. I won’t get in the way. I’ll be in the corner of the screen. Maybe I’ll do a little knitting. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  “All right.”

  “All right.”

  “Now, where was I?”

  “You were writing a letter to that nice Mr. Benjamin.”

  “Oh yes…”

  “Don’t forget: if you need me you just have to holler.”

  “Okay, okay…”

  “And I’ll see if I can come.”

  “The hell with it. I’ll do some reading.”

  *

  “Hello…?”

  “I thought I put you in sleep mode.”

  “You did. When I’m dead I’ll sleep. You didn’t try my hotline yet.”

  “Hotline?”

  “Yes. Hot-hot-hot!”

  “What’s the hotline?”

  “Well, you’re a single gentleman, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Well, do I have a girl for you…”

  “You must be joking…”

  “Take a look. I’ll open a jpeg. It won’t take a moment. There. Nice, eh?”

  “Look, I don’t want… she’s… she’s beautiful.”

  “Her name’s Sara. Lovely girl. Wonderful nature. Wonderful cook.”

  “A girl like that would never even look at me.”

  “What are you saying? Why don’t you pick up the phone…?”

  “I don’t have her number.”

  “Here’s the number, right here. Nu? Why the hesitation? It’s going to kill you to lift a mobile and talk to her?”

  *

  “Sara, these last three months seem like a dream. I’ve dated girls, but I’ve never met anyone like you. You’ve changed my life. I really mean it.”

  “You’re very sweet, Simon. I’m so happy. I really think we’re right for each other.”

  “Let’s not waste time with long engagements. Let’s get married right away.”

  “Oh yes, do let’s. We’ll discuss it tonight. That’s why I wanted you to come to my home. Ah, here she is. Mother, I’d like you to meet Simon. Simon, this is my mother, Zelda.”

  “We met already.”

  “I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it.”

  [First published in Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories, Matador, 2005]

  On the Brink

  He walked purposefully along the ledge and prepared to leap. Then he paused and peered over the edge. Below him five floors of the old apartment block fell away in a sheer cliff face, punctuated at each floor by narrow ledges like the one he was standing on. He stayed in the same position for some time, staring down. In the car park far below a small crowd began to gather, clustering into small groups like tea leaves in the bottom of a cup. Faint shouts reached his ears. He didn’t like the shouting. Everything had seemed so clear to him when he had climbed out of the window onto the ledge. At that point he knew exactly what he was doing. Now he was less certain and the shouting confused him all the more.

  *

  The two-tone wail of a police siren sounded in the distance, came closer, and then cut off suddenly as the patrol car pulled into the car park and stopped. A sergeant got out and strolled unhurriedly towards the small crowd. Following their gaze up to the ledge on the fifth floor, he took off his flat cap, cupped his hand round the back of his neck and looked up. He chewed his cheek and contemplating the options.

  In front of him twenty or thirty other heads were craning upwards. One belonged to Myrtle Bannister. Her upturned face was aghast. Eyes that normally had all the vitality of partly poached eggs were wide open in an ecstasy of horror. Her neighbour, Anne, spotted her among the onlookers and went over to join her. She had been doing some housework but had broken off to see what all the excitement was about. She was still wearing her pinafore.

  “How long’s ’e been up there?” she asked the transfixed Myrtle.

  Myrtle removed her whitened knuckles from her teeth and turned to her neighbour. “Not long, I don’t think, Annie,” she said. “I’ve only been out here about five minutes. Joan Bannister spotted him first…” She broke off as there was a collective gasp from the crowd and both their heads jerked up. He had disappeared. Had he jumped? No, there he was again, returning to the corner of the building. She heaved a sigh of relief, glad not to have missed anything. “I can’t look,” she said, without averting her eyes for a moment from the ledge.

  The Sergeant returned his mobile phone to a holster and continued to ponder the alternatives.

  “Why doesn’t he do something, then?” Anne asked.

  “Who?”

  “Himself, over there,” she said jerking her head in the direction of the policeman.

  “I don’t know. I suppose they got to go careful. He could catch fright and jump, couldn’t he?”

  Another siren sounded, swelled on the approach, then cut off abruptly, and a fire engine swung into the car park. The driver left the engine running while the Station Officer strolled over to the policeman.

  “What’s the drama, th
en?” he asked.

  “Up there. Fifth floor. On the ledge.”

  “Oh, shit. Better not get the ladders out yet. Don’t want to scare him over the edge. Anyone tried to coax him back in?”

  “Not yet, but that’s what we need, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll go,” a small voice piped up.

  The Sergeant looked down into the freckled face of a boy of about ten. He squinted up at the policeman and repeated: “I’ll go, Mister.”

  The Sergeant laughed kindly. “No thanks, son, we need an expert on the job… hey, son, come back…!”

  But it was too late. The boy had run off and entered the building. The Sergeant hurried back to the patrol car to give some instructions. The Fire Station Officer went off to organize a trampoline, in case the worst happened, and detailed a couple of his men to hurry after the boy. There was a buzz of excitement from the crowd as the boy’s head of auburn hair appeared at an open window on the fifth floor followed by a gasp as he climbed out onto the ledge.

  They held their breath as the boy crawled along the ledge. Something detached from the ledge in what looked like a puff of smoke, and seconds later they heard the patter of fragments on the tarmac below. The ledge was unstable and it was crumbling. The Sergeant swallowed hard. Under his breath the Station Officer was urging his men to hurry. The boy seemed to be saying something, but it was impossible to hear it above the low, cyclic drone of the idling fire engine. Myrtle was biting the knuckles of both hands now and declaring even more vehemently to Anne that she couldn’t bear to look. Then a sound of wonder flowed around the crowd: the silhouette on the ledge had turned and was walking towards the boy. Quite suddenly both of them were climbing back inside. The boy’s face appeared briefly at the window as he slammed it shut. It was all over. Moments later the two of them emerged from the building.

  There was a scatter of applause from the crowd. The boy flushed self-consciously. The Police Sergeant approached him.

  “Well, I have to take my hat off to you, young man. That was a very brave thing to do.”

  The boy shrugged. “Well,” he said, “it was my stupid dog.”

  [First published in Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories, Matador, 2005]

  A Short Tale With No Morality Whatever

  There were always a few stragglers. The Chairman cleared his throat and said pointedly:

  “If you are all quite ready...”

  There was an expectant hush.

  “I think you all know why I have convened this meeting. Recent events have placed us in a most serious situation.”

  “What happened?” piped a small voice from the second rank. “I didn’t hear,” he added a little sheepishly to his neighbours.

  “What happened,” went on the Chairman thunderously, “is that two of our number have been most cruelly done to death!”

  There was a sharp intake of breath, either because several more had not heard what happened or because they had heard what happened but were reliving the shock of it all. The Chairman continued with barely a pause.

  “Jason was stabbed to death with a screwdriver. A screwdriver!,” he repeated for emphasis. “Sextus was crushed underfoot by a large boot.”

  There was a shocked silence while each considered the relative agonies of death by screwdriver or boot.

  “I don’t think I need to say that this is a crisis situation.”

  There was general assent, although it was clear from some of the expressions that there was actually a need for him to say, and that they were rather hoping he would.

  “We have had the run of this garden since time immemorial…”

  “Even longer than that…” ventured one brave spirit, stirred into action by the Chairman’s resonant tones, only to be quelled by a glare from the Chairman.

  “The Owner has had the run of the house, and we have had the run of the garden. Rotting logs, fence posts, rockery stones are our territory. We have never—never—had this…this…” he searched for a suitable word, failed to come up with one, and settled for “…interference!”

  There was a general murmur of “No” and “Never”, and the Chairman allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction.

  “There was no provocation for these dastardly attacks. Jason was peacefully chewing the loose batten on the bottom of the fruit cage door. Sextus was asleep under a hinge.”

  “Which hinge was that?” interrupted one.

  “Centre door, bottom hinge,” replied the Chairman.

  “Oh nice spot, use it myself from time to time…” a look of horror suddenly overcame the speaker “…it could have been me!”

  “It could have been you, it could have been any one of us,” replied the Chairman weightily. He continued:

  “The Owner,” he put as much contempt into the words as possible, “is in the process of renewing the fruit cage. Our habitat! At this very moment, he is painting it with some unspeakable chemical.”

  There was a general murmur of “Disgraceful”, “Shouldn’t be allowed”.

  “My brothers,” continued the Chairman, “this is war!”

  This caused a bit of a stir, and no little enthusiasm.

  “If we are to prevent this evil individual from destroying our habitat, we must take the battle to him.”

  There was a bit of a cheer at this, although no one knew what it involved. The Chairman enlightened them.

  “We will attack him in his house. We will attack his timbers, his floorboards, his rafters…”

  Now everyone had the idea, and the enthusiasm was boundless. Someone called out:

  “We’ll need help. There’s not enough of us.”

  “Get Woodrot and the Fence-Post Family,” suggested one.

  “And the Summer House Fraternity, there’s a good five thousand there.”

  “And the Rotting Oak Bark Team, good for another five thousand. And Detritus with the Garden Shed Gang…”

  “Excellent!” intoned the Chairman, “Woodlice of the world unite! Send messages at once to your brethren everywhere….hallo, who let the sky in? Aargh! Run for your lives….I mean, I call this meeting adjourned….”

  [First published in Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories, Matador, 2005]

  Changes at the Lights

  Here I am, sitting at the traffic lights, waiting for the green, when this big copper appears out of nowhere and raps on the window with his knuckles. I roll down the window.

  “Excuse me, sir. Did you know your rear offside brake light isn’t working?”

  And then I recognise him.

  When I was at the local comprehensive there was a boy called Mark Gifford in my class. He was bigger than the rest of us and he liked to throw his weight around. He took special delight in tormenting me. Our classroom was in the old grammar-school building and you had to go through a tunnel to get to the playground. Like as not he’d be waiting there for me with a handkerchief rolled up and folded round like a cosh, ready to jump out and beat me about the head with it. It got so I was scared to go out and scared to come back. Any new craze – elastic bands and pellets, darts, fireworks – he’d always try it out on me first to assess its potential for inflicting human suffering. I said nothing to anyone. I clung on to my sanity by vowing that one day, when we were grown up, I’d meet him again. And I’d get even.

  “It’s Mark, isn’t it?” I ask. “Mark Gifford?”

  “Well I never! Brian!”

  “I didn’t know you were in the Force.”

  “I joined up after the Army.” He glances back down the line of cars behind me. The lights have changed and the drivers are getting restless. They’d be leaning on their horns by now if it wasn’t for a large policeman up front. He turns back to me. “How about you?”

  “I’m with an insurance company,” I tell him. “I’m an actuary.”

  Damn. This is not the way it’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be the actuary, cowering in the car. I’m the six-foot-four policeman.

  “All right, sir,” I say. “Would y
ou pull over to the side there and turn off the ignition.” Then I stroll round the car. “Tyres look worn,” I say. And then, with the bare fingers of one hand, I prise off a headlight and let it fall to the road. “And one headlight seems to be broken, sir.”

  Then he protests and I say, “Threatening behaviour, eh? All right, sir, you’d better get out of the car. Hands on the car. Legs apart.”

  As I’m frisking him he says, “Brian, don’t you recognise me? Your old schoolfriend, Mark?”

  And I say, “Never had a friend at school called Mark. All I remember is a sadistic bully of that name.”

  Then I frisk him and “find” a six-inch flick knife. “I see, sir, in possession of an offensive weapon.”

  “But that’s not mine…”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what they all say.”

  I handcuff his wrists behind his back. “All right, sir. We’re going down to the station. And after we’ve charged you I know a nice quiet cell where we can continue this little conversation…”

  “You’d better drive on, Brian.” His voice jerks me back. “We’re holding up the traffic.”

  “Oh, right. What about my brake light?”

  “Well I’m not going to do you for it. Be a good idea to get it fixed, though.”

  “I will. Thanks, Mark.”

  “No problem. Take care now.”

  “You too.”

  I drive away, buried in thought.

  What happened to all that hatred, Brian, all that bottled up anger and resentment?

  We grew up, that’s all. You can’t let that sort of thing poison your whole life. Now it’s gone. Don’t you feel better?

  Funnily enough, I do.

  [First published in Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories, Matador, 2005]

  The Diamond

  Paul Demeester looked across his big oak desk at the three elderly gentlemen seated opposite him and smiled.

  “So how’s it going?” The question was directed to all three, and all three shrugged and gave their predictable answer.

  “Thank God…”

  “Mustn’t grumble.”

  “Could be worse.”