The Domino Men v-2 Page 4

  “We could go together,” I suggested hopefully.

  “Sweet thing, I’m going away.”

  “Away?”

  “To Gibraltar. With Gordy.”

  I set my coffee down on the table, frightened of spilling it. “Who’s Gordy?”

  “He’s a mate. Don’t fret, darling. He’s in the biz.”

  “Not another actor?”

  “Producer, actually. He’s booked us into the most marvelous hotel.”

  “Great.”

  “Don’t look so down. I’m happy. Just keep an eye on the old bastard for us, will you? Give us a tinkle if anything happens.”

  I stared down at the remnants of my sandwich and nodded.

  Mum’s handbag began to trill. She pulled out her mobile and clasped it to her ear. “Gordy! No, I’m still with him.” Tittering, she turned to look at me. “Gordy says hi.”

  “Hello, Gordy,” I said.

  “No, no,” she said, suddenly putting on a baby voice. “I think he’s Mr. Grumpy ’cause of his granddad.” She kissed me on the forehead, waved goodbye, walked out of the cafe and into the street, still bellowing her endearments, broadcasting her sweet nothings for all the world to hear.

  I looked at what remained of my sandwich and pushed the plate aside, my appetite suddenly curdled.

  I had just got back to my desk when Peter Hickey-Brown summoned me into his office.

  A stranger sat beside him. Baby-faced, clear-skinned and enviably exfoliated, he radiated good health. He was a walking advert for diligent grooming. When I came in, he looked at me but offered no smile and simply stared, unspeaking, in my direction.

  “You wanted to see me?” I said.

  Hickey-Brown, uncharacteristically grave, told me to sit. I was surprised to see that he had put on a tie since the morning and that he’d removed almost all of his jewelry.

  “This is Mr. Jasper.”

  I stretched my hand across the desk. “Hello.”

  The man just stared. I noticed that he had a flesh-colored piece of plastic buried in one of his ears and I remember wondering (how naive it seems now) whether he was hard of hearing.

  “I’m Henry Lamb.”

  Still nothing. Embarrassed, I withdrew my hand.

  Peter cleared his throat. “Mr. Jasper’s from another department.”

  “Which one?”

  Hickey-Brown looked as though he didn’t really know the answer. “A special department. I’m told it keeps an eye on the personal well-being of our staff.”

  At last, the stranger spoke. “We like to think of ourselves,” he deadpanned, “as the department which cares.”

  Hickey-Brown clasped his fingers together as though in prayer. “Listen. We know that something happened yesterday. Something to do with your grandfather.”

  The man who had been introduced as Jasper looked at me icily. “What is the matter with the poor old fellow?”

  “They think it might be a stroke,” I said, just about resisting the temptation to ask why it was any of his bloody business.

  “Is he likely to recover?”

  “The doctors aren’t sure. Though I suspect it’s unlikely.”

  Mr. Jasper turned his eyes upon me but said no more.

  I looked over to my boss. “Peter?”

  He managed an insincere smile. “We’re worried about you. We need to know you’re OK.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sure. But listen. You need any time off — just say the word. Just give the nod.”

  “Of course.”

  Jasper was still staring, coolly, unblinkingly.

  “Is that all?” I asked.

  Hickey-Brown glanced toward Jasper and the stranger gave the tiniest inclination of his head, a motion which might, in the right light, if you squinted a bit, have been a nod.

  “Alrighty,” said Peter Hickey-Brown. “You can go.”

  As I walked out, I felt the stranger’s unsympathetic eyes boring into my back like lasers.

  After work, I retrieved my bike and cycled over to the hospital. Although there was no change in my granddad, he was, at least, no worse, and it didn’t seem to me as though he was in any pain. I held his hand and told him something about my day, about the fat woman in the basement, my lunch with Mum and the visit of Mr. Jasper.

  Someone shuffled behind me. The nurse.

  “You recognize your grandpa now?”

  I blushed in shame.

  “He seems sad,” she said.

  “Sad?”

  “He was in a war.”

  “Actually,” I corrected her, “Granddad didn’t fight. He wanted to but they wouldn’t let him go. Some kind of heart defect, I think.”

  The nurse just smiled. “Oh, no. He was definitely in a war.” She turned and hurried away, the heels of her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor.

  I looked back at my granddad. “You weren’t in a war, were you?” I asked, although of course I knew there’d be no reply. “What war?”

  Half an hour later, with visiting hours at an end, I was on the ground floor and almost in sight of the exit when I saw a patient I recognized. He seemed quite cheerful, sitting up in bed, propped against a pillow and engrossed in a tabloid, his left leg hanging suspended in plaster. He looked like an extra from a Carry On film, the kind of potato-featured background artist who would have ogled Barbara Windsor’s wiggle and guffawed at Said James’s dirty jokes.

  I stopped in front of his bed. “I know you.”

  The man looked up from his newspaper. It was definitely him. The squitty face, the shock of ginger hair, the air of insouciant lechery — all were unmistakable.

  “Don’t think we’ve met,” said the window cleaner.

  “You fell,” I said. “You fell at my feet.”

  “Sorry, pal. Don’t remember nothing about it.”

  I nodded toward the cast and pulley. “You broke your leg?”

  “Nah, I’m doing his for shits and giggles. What do you think?”

  “Sorry. It’s just that you seem… I don’t mean to be rude but you seem absolutely fine.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “You fell five stories.”

  “Then I’m made of tough stuff, aren’t I?” Evidently irritated, he made a big deal about returning to his tabloid.

  “Yesterday,” I said, “just after you’d… landed.”

  “What?”

  “There was something you were trying to tell me. You kept saying that the answer is yes.”

  He snorted. “Did I? Well, you do funny things when you’ve had a knock, don’t you? Can’t have been thinking straight.”

  “You’ve got no idea why you said that to me??”

  “Mate, I can’t even remember.” His next look began as truculence but shifted halfway through into one of recognition. “Don’t I know you?”

  “Ah,” I said. “So it’s coming back?”

  “You’re off the telly,” he said. “You’re a little boy.”

  My heart sunk. “I was,” I snapped. “I was a little boy. Not anymore.”

  “I remember your show. What was it you used to say?”

  Now I just wanted to leave. “Don’t blame me. Blame Grandpa.”

  The window cleaner started to chuckle, then abruptly broke off. “Wasn’t very funny, was it?”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Come to think of it, that show was a real shitcom.”

  “It’s always nice to meet a fan.”

  “You’d better hop it. Visiting hours are over.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for bothering you.”

  “Your mate’s waiting.” He nodded behind me.

  “What?”

  “Over there. By the door.”

  He was right. Standing on the other side of the ward, just by the exit, someone was watching us. He vanished through the door as he clocked me but I’d already seen enough to be able to recognize him as the man from Peter’s office. Mr. Jasper.

  The window cleaner turned to
the soccer results with the air of a reader who does not wish to be disturbed. I left and went outside into the cold but, if he’d ever been there at all, Jasper was nowhere to be seen.

  I cycled home, my mind clamorous with unanswered questions.

  Abbey was up, flicking through an encyclopedia of divorce law. My landlady worked in some mysterious capacity for a city legal firm, although the precise details of what she did there always eluded me. I’d asked her about it several times, desperate for any excuse for a conversation, but she was always evasive on the subject, saying that it was too depressingly humdrum to talk about. Whatever it was, I was in no doubt that she was bored of it, as she had complained to me on more than one occasion about wanting to do something better with her life — something more noble, she said, something worthwhile.

  “Henry! I was getting worried.”

  “I was at the hospital.”

  “No change?”

  “No change.”

  “Sit down. I’ll get you a coffee.” Abbey was up on her feet and into the kitchen before I had a chance to protest. “Two sugars, right?”

  I said a grateful yes and sank into the sofa, relieved that the day was drawing to a close.

  Abbey pressed a hot mug into my hands and I thanked her. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt several sizes too big for her and I’m a little ashamed to admit that I wondered whether she was wearing anything beneath it.

  She sat cross-legged on the floor. “Henry? Do you…” She trailed off, embarrassed. “Do you notice something different about me?”

  “Not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean is there anything different about me?”

  Grateful for the opportunity to admire the contours of Abbey’s face without her thinking I was gawping, I gazed for a minute or two, uninterrupted.

  “No,” I said at last. “Not that I can see.”

  She tapped the side of her nose and at last I saw what she meant — a flash of gold, a small, discreet stud like an expensive outbreak of acne. My first thought was that she’d had it done to impress someone — some square-jawed hunk at work, some broad-shouldered pin-up of the assizes.

  “You like it?”

  Too tired and guileless to lie, I said: “I prefer you without.”

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “I thought you might like it.”

  “It’s just that you’ve got such a lovely nose it seems a shame to spoil it.” Even as I said it, I could feel myself turning pink.

  “Have I really?” she asked. “Have I really got a lovely nose?”

  I was just about to stutter out some reply when rescue arrived in the insistent peal of the telephone. As I picked up the receiver I looked back at Abbey and saw that she seemed almost as grateful for the reprieve as I.

  “Hello?”

  The voice, cracked with age, seemed faintly familiar. “Am I speaking to Mr. Henry Lamb?”

  “You are.”

  “I represent Gadarene Glass. Would you be interested at all in purchasing a new window?”

  “Haven’t you called before?”

  “I have, yes.”

  “The answer’s still no,” I snapped, “and I thought I asked you last time not to bother.”

  Click. The hornet buzz of the dial tone.

  Abbey rolled her eyes as I replaced the receiver. “I don’t know how they get this number.”

  I yawned. “Think I’ll go to bed.”

  “Sleep well. But Henry?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you need to talk…”

  “Of course.”

  Abbey smiled. As I turned to go, I saw that she was touching the side of her left nostril, running her fingers over the stud, suddenly, sweetly, adorably self-conscious. I stole another look and felt something unfamiliar, something strange but wonderful, begin to flutter in my chest.

  If I’d known at that moment all that was to come, I would have stamped out those feelings right then. I’d have those flutterings at birth.

  Chapter 6

  The next day I made up my mind to go to Granddad’s house. Not one other member of the family (nor a single constituent of his fair-weather entourage) had emerged to offer their assistance, and as the only relative who had ever admitted to actually liking the man, I felt the persistent tug of responsibility.

  The day passed in a blur of routine — Hickey-Brown’s jokes, lunch with Barbara, an errand in the mail room, a dirty look from Philip Statham, an eternity spent idling on the computer, staring at my screen and waiting for five o’clock. Once it was over I cycled up to London Bridge, forced my bike onto the train and headed for Dulwich — specifically for 17 Temple Drive, where my grandfather had lived since long before I was born.

  Pushing my bike up the hill, I turned into his still, suburban street, past the ranks of plane trees and those signs which hysterically insisted that this was an area under the jurisdiction of the neighborhood watch. This was time-travel for me. It was a wormhole into my childhood.

  Granddad lived in a small terraced house running to seed — books pressed up against the windows, dying weeds curled around the grate, a handwritten sign at the door which read in emphatic Biro: NO HAWKERS.

  I let myself in, kicked aside the hillock of mail which had accumulated on the mat and was immediately overwhelmed by an acute sense of sadness. The same smell was everywhere. Fried sausage — fat, greasy and black — the only thing the old man had ever been able to cook. It was what he had invariably fed me when I went to stay at half-term, what was on the table when I got back from those operations at the hospital as a boy, what he’d made for me on the night my father died.

  The smell of the past was in my nostrils and I collapsed as though winded into the big armchair in the lounge. At that moment I would have given anything to be eight years old again, for Granddad to be OK, for my father to be alive, for everything to seem sweeter and more innocent.

  Something small and soft brushed past my legs and I looked down to see a plump gray cat gazing up at me with optimistic eyes. Tentatively, I reached out a hand. The animal didn’t shy away so I stroked it again, at which it started up a contented purr.

  “You must be hungry,” I said.

  There were a couple of tins of cat food in the kitchen cupboard. I opened one and spooned out its contents, which the creature attacked with relish. As soon as it was done, he started to pester me for more.

  The cat was not the only thing that seemed unfamiliar. As usual the lounge was filled with books — but they had changed. I remembered dog-eared scripts (Galton and Simpson, The Goon Show, ITMA, The Navy Lark), yards of comedy stacked halfway to the ceiling, but now it seemed quite different. There were volumes here on the most recondite and esoteric subjects — bulky, valuable-looking hardbacks on divination, telepathy, palmistry, the tarot, Freemasonry, Rasputin, metempsychosis, Madame Blavatsky, astral projection, Nostradamus, Eliphas Levi, the preparation of human sacrifice and the end of the world. Books with terrible, wonderful titles. Strange-smelling books, tingly to the touch.

  All gone now, of course.

  In the past few years I’d not seen Granddad as often as I ought and had barely visited him at home at all. Only twice really — once when I was looking for a job and we’d spent the afternoon trawling the employment sections of the broadsheets, and once again, a few months ago, when we’d done much the same thing searching for flats and he’d pointed out the place in Tooting Bec. After that, once I’d met Abbey, my visits dwindled to nothing.

  Guiltily, I told myself the usual homiletic lies — that I’d been busy at work and settling into a new flat, that it wasn’t the frequency of my visits but their quality — though none of this made me feel any better about my neglect.

  But I still wondered why I hadn’t seen any of those books before. I suppose he could have bought them recently but, with their cracked spines, makeshift bookmarks and frequent marginalia scribbled in a hand that I recognized at once as his, they had to look about them of a cherished library.

&nb
sp; I was distracted by an optimistic yowl and a renewed, determined pressure on my leg. The cat gave me a disapproving look and padded away to the kitchen. I followed, intending to open another can of food, only for the animal to turn, trot upstairs and vanish into the bedroom. Expecting to find a dead mouse or a week’s worth of mess, I followed it inside to discover that here, too, things had changed.

  There was a small bed (unmade, strewn with blankets) a table with a coffee-stained copy of the Mirror and a wind-up alarm clock which had stopped at 12:14. What was new was the large framed photograph which hung on the furthest wall. It was me as a child — an old publicity shot from Worse Things Happen at Sea — buck-toothed and freckly, captured in the midst of summoning on demand another fake grin for the cameras. For a moment, I stood and stared. Seeing stuff from that time is like witnessing the life of a stranger, as though I’m observing events which overtook someone I’ve never met but only read about in magazines.

  I noticed that the picture had been hung slightly askew. The cat craned its sleek head upward as though he too were staring at it and disapproving of its wonkiness. He began to yowl.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll get your food in a minute.”

  I walked over to the picture and tried to readjust it, although it seemed oddly weighted and refused to settle. Irritated, I moved it aside.

  It was then that I first started to feel that something was seriously out of kilter here, sensed the first stirrings of the worm at the center of the apple.

  Behind the photograph was a sheet of smooth gray metal. It had no hinges or openings apart from what looked like a small keyhole, its innards filled with pincers of serrated metal. It resembled a piece of installation art or something from a locksmith’s nightmare. The thing was an aberration — another mystery in my grandfather’s house.

  The doorbell rang.

  The cat gave out a startled meow, ran between my legs and stayed there, quaking. Irrationally, I felt a tremor of fear. There was a second’s peace before the bell rang again. I let the photograph swing back into position, padded downstairs and opened the door.