Crazy Paving

by Louise Doughty

  He seemed more relaxed than usual. He did not look as though he wanted to bounce an idea. He took his time, leaning back in his seat sipping from his coffee while she waited. Eventually, he put down his cup, leant over the desk towards her, and stared.

  Annette felt uncomfortable when people met her gaze. It made her wonder if she had plucked her eyebrows recently.

  ‘How’s Helen getting on?’ Richard said, at last.

  Annette frowned slightly. ‘Alright. Timekeeping isn’t brilliant but she does the work okay.’

  Richard said, ‘Hmm . . .’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  Richard sighed. ‘To be honest, Annette, I’m not sure. Something a little tricky has come up and I need your help. I need to take you into my confidence. I know I don’t have to tell you that confidentiality is very important.’

  Annette found the thought of being told something important rather refreshing.

  ‘I’ve been contacted by Personnel. Helen’s references didn’t come through for a while. I can’t really go into details – I’m sure you’ll appreciate. Anyway, I will be locking my office from now on. I want you to have a quiet word with Joan, but do it discreetly. Don’t mention Helen’s name.’ Annette nodded. ‘It would be very unfair on Helen,’ Richard continued, ‘if her name was mentioned. I don’t think we should discriminate against a person because of a few mistakes they may or may not have made in the past.’

  ‘No, yes,’ said Annette, thinking, this does not surprise me. This does not surprise me at all.

  Richard rose from his chair and went over to the window. He tucked his hands in his pockets and shrugged. ‘After all, we all make mistakes.’

  By his tone of voice, she knew that ‘the word’ was over. She rose from her seat. She saw that his coffee cup was drained so she reached out for it.

  ‘I appreciate your discretion Annette, I really do,’ Richard said. ‘It’s not often you find a personal secretary as trustworthy as you are, even in this current job climate. I’m very glad I am able to keep you on.’

  William was standing in front of Helly’s desk, running one hand absent-mindedly through his wiry brown hair and scratching his scalp. He was explaining to her that the Liverpool Street specification had to be photocopied by three, in time to catch the post. They were only giving the contractors a week to price the job. Helly had her feet on her desk. She did not look overly concerned.

  She brought her feet down smartly as Richard approached. She swivelled her chair to face William and said brightly, ‘Okey dokey. Do you want them bound?’

  ‘Er . . . no,’ said William. ‘Stapled will do.’

  ‘William.’ Richard came and stood beside him. He was smoking. As he talked, he paused occasionally to flick ash into the metal wastepaper basket next to Helly’s desk. ‘We need to have a chat about Rosewood Cottage. We are going to have to put the brakes on the purchase.’

  ‘Planning problem?’ William dropped the Liverpool Street spec onto Helly’s desk.

  Richard shook his head. ‘Budget. I did some sums over the weekend. We’ll manage though. We can put the portakabin on the wasteground to the east.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  Richard noticed that his cigarette had gone out. He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a small platinum lighter. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, nodding his head in the direction of his office as he re-lit his cigarette. ‘I’ll just get a coffee.’

  When William had gone, Richard paused for a moment in front of Helly’s desk. She had picked up William’s specification and was flicking through it, slowly. Richard took a deep drag from his cigarette and exhaled. Then he reached out a hand and picked up a red stapler that was sitting on Helly’s desk. She did not look up. He turned the stapler over in his hand. Then he leant forward and put it back down, gently, in a different position. He patted it twice, lightly. Then he tossed his cigarette into her bin, without stubbing it out, and went to get his coffee.

  Mr Arthur Robinson had not always been a building contractor. He had originally trained as a chef. Pastry had been his speciality; no one could coax a choux bun to rise the way he had. ‘Feeling hands,’ his supervisor at the Grand Hotel in Maidstone had told him, ‘your hands can feel, Robinson.’ He thought about it sometimes, his sensitive past. But there was more money in bricks and mortar. It was solid, and solidity was what was required of a man with three teenage daughters and elderly parents.

  Arthur Robinson raised his bulk and wandered over to the window. Outside his portakabin, his lads were on their lunch break, sitting in companionable silence around the new cement mixer. They were good lads, his lads. It had taken him years to put together a team like the one he had now. Most builders didn’t give a toss; easy come, easy go – operatives were two a penny. Arthur liked to treat his employees properly. He took them out for drinks. He gave them bonuses. Once a year he took them racing and paid for the first bets. Jim the Chippie had won six hundred quid last time, on a horse called Smiling Esmerelda. From the look on his face as it had crossed the line, Arthur Robinson knew that Jim the Chippie had never won a penny in his life. Working for Robinson Builders was lucky for you, he liked to make them think. They were his boys.

  He returned to his desk and opened the right-hand drawer. From it he withdrew a little plastic packet. He opened it and slid the contents out onto his desk. Small round sweets in different colours toppled out: red, orange, green, yellow and mauve. Arthur Robinson rubbed his hands together and smiled.

  As Richard approached the portakabin, it began to rain. The group of men around the cement mixer looked up at the sky. One of them swore. As they rose to their feet, Richard called over, ‘Alright lads?’ He raised the flat of his left hand in greeting.

  The men glanced across. Most of them knew him by sight. The nearest to him nodded neutrally. The others stared.

  Richard tripped up the cement block steps and knocked on the door of the portakabin. He opened the door to see Arthur Robinson beaming at several piles of sweets which he had arranged on his desk according to colour; a pile of red, a pile of green, a pile of orange . . .

  As Richard came in, Arthur scattered them with his hand and leant forward, placing an arm over them protectively. ‘Oh, hello Richard,’ he said hastily. ‘Surprise.’

  Richard brushed at the shoulders of his coat. ‘Raining,’ he said. He went over to a free-standing gas heater which sat burbling beneath the window. Outside, the men had disappeared. One of them had left an open tupperware box on the ground next to the cement mixer.

  ‘I don’t have much time,’ Richard said. ‘Supposed to be on my way to Hammersmith. You got anyone you really trust?’

  Arthur Robinson had pushed his sweets to one side while Richard was talking. Now he selected a mauve one, popped it into his mouth and rolled it around while he talked. ‘Well you know me,’ he replied genially. ‘I trust all my boys. You know the way I like to work. It’s not everybody’s way but that’s how I do things.’

  ‘Yes I know,’ replied Richard. He was still looking out of the window at the deserted yard. The tall wooden gates opposite stood open and traffic rushed and zoomed up the Kennington Road. ‘I mean really trust. For something tricky.’

  ‘Arnolds?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘Uh-uh. There can’t be a connection. Just in case.’ He turned. ‘It’s serious. Either this gets done right or we all get blown out of the water.’

  Arthur Robinson held Richard’s gaze. I have never liked you, you weasel-faced git, he thought to himself. Richard was smaller than Arthur, but compact. Arthur was all soft belly and fleshy face. Richard had muscles that began on his forearm and seemed to make their way up across his shoulders to his neck in one thin, taut line, like steel cables. His hair was a light grey and always combed with an immaculate side parting. His face was narrow, with sharp hollows, whereas Arthur had rounded red cheeks. In a fair fist fight Arthur could beat him, but Richard was not a man to get into a fist fight, fair or otherwise. He’s like a pant
her, Arthur thought, or the devil, or a spy – and he’s got me by the balls.

  ‘What do you need?’ asked Arthur, keeping his tone light.

  ‘Someone who can hang around on street corners,’ Richard replied.

  Arthur got to his feet and went to the door of the portakabin. In the far corner of the yard there was a huge pile of second-hand tyres. They had been laid in alternate rows, like bricks, to form an igloo shape. At the bottom was a hole just big enough for a small man to climb through.

  ‘Benny!’ Arthur called across the yard.

  A head appeared in the opening. A wide face with smooth skin and black hair looked out. Arthur beckoned. A man clambered out, looked up at the sky, wrapped his arms about his body and trotted through the rain across the yard.

  Arthur turned away from the door and said to Richard, ‘Benny’s here on a six-month visitor’s pass that ran out three years ago. Where he comes from, he was going to be a vet. Good at plastering. Can’t stand thunderstorms.’ He returned to his seat.

  ‘No names,’ said Richard quickly as Benny entered.

  ‘Benny . . .’ said Arthur. ‘Have a seat.’

  A light drizzle misted the darkening countryside as Richard drove. The line between the landscape and the sky was blurred, smeared here and there with a gloomy smudge of tree. He had the heating turned up high and Fauré blaring full blast. Libera me, Domine: his favourite bit of the Requiem. He sang along, softly, gripping the wheel. He had spent the afternoon on site visits, ringing in to Annette to pick up messages. He had stayed out until it wasn’t worth his while going back to the office before he went home. It would be a good idea to spend a lot of time out and about this week, he had thought. Give Helen time to settle down. Let her relax a bit. He sighed. He had done what he should have done that day. It was a question of stitching really, stitching everything into place, so that no unforeseen event could interfere with his plans. That had been his mistake; not anticipating. He had learnt. Nothing unexpected could happen to him now.

  A white BMW overtook him in the fast lane and then nipped in between him and the lorry ahead. He eased off the accelerator, allowing the BMW room. Some people; some people had a lot to prove. Libera me, Domine, de morte eterna . . . The chorus was joining in, softly, whispering their plea: Free me, oh Lord, from eternal death – then the push and swell as their voices rose – Free me, oh Lord . . . The great cry of the human race, a huge, wrenching shout of pain: free me . . .

  Suddenly, the clouds caved in. There was a huge tearing sound, as if God had been listening and was standing over the world, pulling the sky apart. Even as Richard thought – thunder – his foot was shooting out to the brake. Directly ahead was the white BMW, but side on. Looming over it was the dark hulk of the lorry. The driver of the car was facing out to Richard’s right. His hands were lifted from the wheel and his face was a mask of open-mouthed, wide-eyed horror. Richard stared, frozen, as the side of the BMW rushed towards him. In the same moment, he heard the bang of the impact and the blare of his car horn as his hand came down on it. Then there was another huge crunch from behind which seemed to echo and shudder through his seat. Another horn was blaring in discordant unison with his, then came two more successive crumping noises. There was a moment of blackness. Libera me, Domine . . .

  When he opened his eyes, he found that he was pushed back in his seat with the car wheel very close to his chest. The windscreen had shattered and there was glass everywhere, over the dashboard, in his lap. Directly in front of him, sitting sideways, was the driver of the BMW, his car crumpled around him like cooking foil. His head was twisted forwards against the wheel and blood cleaved a neat line down the centre of his forehead and along his nose. His eyes and mouth were open.

  Richard tried to turn in his seat. He couldn’t move. The door on his side had folded inwards and his arm was trapped. His legs could move two inches either way but no further. It was raining harder now. He could hear shouts, a groaning sound and, from somewhere, a woman’s voice calling weakly for help.

  He thought to himself, very clearly, I must breathe deeply. That is the important thing, to stay still and take deep breaths. He began, but it seemed to make his chest shudder alarmingly. He could feel air rushing past the back of his throat. He tried to work out if the sensation was one caused by physical injury or panic.

  Gradually, his breath subsided. I am alive, he thought distinctly, I am alive.

  Gillian. He spoke the word silently to himself. There was nothing else he wanted to say. He just wanted to hear her name articulated, as if conjuring it up would procure her warmth, her steadiness, her hands calming him. Gillian. Now that he was certain that he was alive, he found himself already noting how he felt, so that he could tell her later.

  A face appeared at the side window, which was still intact but somehow skewed out of place. ‘Are you alright?’ asked the face.

  Richard nodded. He pointed towards the BMW driver with his free hand.

  ‘He’s had it mate,’ said the face. ‘Someone will be here bloody quick. I think they’ll have to cut you out. Oh, hello Richard.’

  Richard turned his head slightly. The face had broken into a warm smile of recognition. He blinked and his sight became a little clearer. It was only then that he realised it had been blurred. The face belonged to Nobbie Patterson, a leading member of the clay pigeon club where Richard and Gillian had gone for a shoot last Whitsun weekend. Gillian and Nobbie were distantly related.

  ‘Nobbie,’ said Richard.

  ‘Well I never,’ said Nobbie, shaking his head with a would-you-credit-it grin. ‘Fancy meeting you like this. You never know do you . . .’

  Richard was still struggling to free his trapped arm. He was afraid to pull too hard amongst the glass and twisted metal. ‘Er . . . Nobbie . . .’ he began.

  Nobbie was still shaking his head. ‘I was on my way home, about a hundred yards back,’ he said. ‘I had to skid to avoid the guy behind you. He’s alright so I thought I’d come up here and see what I could do. And here you are. Amazing.’ He chuckled, then made a clicking noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He shook his head again. ‘Amazing . . .’

  It was nearly an hour before Richard was cut out of the wreckage. The emergency services arrived in a flurry of wailing sirens and spinning lights. An ambulance man rushed over and asked him questions. Was there any pain? Could he feel his legs? He put his hands either side of Richard’s neck and asked him to turn his head. Then he told him not to move and ran off.

  Nobbie chatted to him while they waited. He was glad that he and Gillian had enjoyed the shoot. Why didn’t they come again? Richard listened and nodded occasionally, watching the dead face of the dead driver of the BMW. He had never seen a dead man before.

  Nobbie was saying, ‘You wouldn’t believe what I found out yesterday Richard. Do you know, there is a company somewhere in Essex that makes the British Standard turd? Honest, honest to God.’

  Richard recalled that Nobbie was in fixtures and fittings and had talked of crossing over to bathroom and sanitary equipment.

  ‘The toilets all have to be tested of course, and to conform to the Standards inspectorate they have to be able to flush a turd of a certain size, shape and density. Sawdust, I think. I hope so, anyway.’ He chuckled. ‘So yesterday we had to ring up this place in Essex that manufactures the standard British turd and order a box. Now, what I’d like to know is . . .’

  ‘Excuse me sir,’ an authoritative voice came from somewhere out of Richard’s field of vision. A fireman stepped forward. A group of others was surrounding the BMW and examining the point at which it was jammed into Richard’s car.

  ‘Oh sorry,’ said Nobbie, stepping back.

  ‘My arm . . .’ grimaced Richard at the fireman.

  ‘Right-o sir,’ said the fireman, and worked a heavily-gloved hand into the gap between the window and the buckled door frame, feeling around Richard’s trapped arm. Nobbie was leaning over the fireman’s shoulder and calling, ‘How
do they get the measurements? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  Gillian was listening to reports of the crash when the hospital rang. The radio announcer was telling her, with admirable calm, that it was one of the worst pile-ups in the history of the M23. Four dead and as many as twenty injured. Gillian was in the middle of polishing a set of six stainless steel dessert dishes and continued her work, determinedly. A policeman on the radio informed her that people these days found it impossible to keep their distance.

  When the phone rang, she dropped a dish and it landed on her tiled floor with a metallic clatter that echoed around the kitchen.

  Richard was completely uninjured. A young lady doctor informed him, with some venom, that he had had a remarkable escape. There was bruising to the right forearm and he had wrenched his back; nothing that a couple of days’ rest wouldn’t cure. She saw no reason to keep him in hospital overnight.

  When they reached home, Gillian saw him up to bed and then went down to the kitchen to make hot drinks. Horlicks, they had decided. There was an old tin in the pantry somewhere. They would normally be drinking whisky at this time but Horlicks somehow had the right sound. The tin was so old it was rusty around the seam. Gillian peeled back the blue plastic lid and peered in. The Horlicks had got slightly damp but other than that it seemed fine. She began to cry with relief.

  Richard was in bed when she took the drinks up. She had arranged some fruit cake on a plate. Settled beside him, on top of the coverlet with the tray on her lap, she broke off small pieces of cake and began to feed them to him until he shook his head. They drank their drinks in silence. Richard cradled his cup between his hands. ‘You know,’ he said eventually, ‘I saw dying today.’

  ‘You had a very lucky escape . . .’ murmured Gillian, lifting a hand to stroke his head.

  ‘No, I don’t mean that.’ Richard frowned.

  ‘You mean when you were watching the dead man, when Nobbie was talking to you?’

  ‘No. Before that even.’ Richard turned the mug round in his hands. ‘I mean just before his car hit mine, when it was swinging round. I saw him, his hands up in the air, mouth open, the look on his face. It must have lasted only a split second, but in that split second . . .’ Richard coughed, wincing at the stiffness in his back, ‘. . . in that second, that man knew he was about to die.’