I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday
by
Barnaby Wilde
Copyright 1999 by Barnaby Wilde
Barnaby Wilde asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Ostrich cover photo by Petr Kratochvil
Other works by the author.
A Question of Alignment – a Tom Fletcher novel
CHAPTER 1
I remember seeing a cartoon once, years ago, in a magazine, of two hippopotami wallowing in a mud pool. Just the tops of their heads were visible. I think it was Playboy magazine. The caption under the cartoon said, "I keep thinking it's Tuesday". That's all. It made me laugh. I've been thinking about it a lot recently. I don't mean deeply or philosophically, I mean often. I keep thinking it's Tuesday.
Listen. I have to tell you something. Something big. The biggest thing I've ever done. Well, I haven't exactly done it yet. But I shall. I've made the decision. That's the important thing. I've made the decision. I've decided to get rid of my wife.
Listen. I don't want to hurt her, you understand. I don't hate her. I love her. There's no other way though. I've been over it a hundred times. More like a thousand, actually. It would be the kindest thing. For me and for her.
I don't know why I'm telling you this. My plan depends on me not being suspected. This has to be the perfect crime. I haven't decided how to do it yet, you understand, but I have a few ideas. The main thing is that she mustn't suspect anything, and I don't want her to get hurt. That's important.
I think about things a lot. My mind, it's always working. Going over things. Analysing. Trying to understand how things work or why things happen. I analyse things to death. Sometimes I think I think too much. I wonder if everyone thinks as much as me? I doubt it. I think there must be something wrong with me. I don't have the switch. The switch that turns your mind off. I'm sure other people have it. I've seen them, looking vacant. Eyes wide open and bodies functioning, but brains turned off. They go into conservation mode. Saving power. But my switch is broken. I can't turn my brain off.
I tried to empty it once. To think of nothing at all. I thought about black. The colour black, but little lights kept coming on, like stars. So I thought of white instead, but my hair kept getting in my eyes. I used to have hair then.
I dried my tongue off once. To see how it would feel. I stuck it out and let the air dry it right off to see how it would feel.
It felt dry.
Actually I was scared about emptying my mind. I thought I might not be able to restart it. I knew a man once, it was my grandfather, who was told by a doctor to breathe out, breathe out, breathe out. And when the doctor had lost interest, my grandfather had forgotten how to breathe in again. He had to be given artificial respiration to get him going.
I keep thinking it's Tuesday.
Now I stop to think about it, why would a hippopotamus have the same number of days in a week as us? Perhaps hippos have eight days in a week, or ten. Why does a week have seven days anyway? Why haven't I thought about that before?
I keep thinking about my wife, Gail. She hurts me. I love her. She hurts me. I have to escape from her. I'm trapped. I'm too much of a coward to walk away. That's why I have to kill her. Did I tell you that I was going to kill her? I thought I did. I knew you'd understand. If I don't, then I shall wither and die instead.
I shall need an alibi. A perfect alibi. The husband is always the prime suspect, so I'll have to sort out an alibi. The best way would be to make it look like an accident. Then no one will be suspected. The main thing is to plan. Plan meticulously. Plan well ahead. Maybe even a year ahead if I can last that long, or at least a week anyway. And tell no one. No one at all.
You? You don't count. You are a figment of my imagination. You don't really exist. I just need someone to talk to sometimes. Now and again. When I feel lonely.
Most murders are committed by husbands, or wives, or lovers. Did you know that? Husbands kill wives, or lovers. Wives kill husbands. Lovers mostly kill themselves. Usually it's all done in a blaze of passion. Unpremeditated. Wild, frustrated anger. Using the first blunt or sharp instrument that comes to hand. No finesse. This is a messy way to behave. Everyone gets hurt. Nobody wins.
I can't stop thinking about those damned hippopotami. What an easy life. Sitting around in mud all day. Nothing to do except fart occasionally and watch the bubbles come up through the mud. "What shall I do today? I know, I'll fart and watch the bubbles come up through the mud again. That'll pass the time."
I can't imagine hippos hurting one another. Maybe tread on one another's toes sometimes. Maybe steal somebody's leaf that he was just going to eat. Maybe flick faeces in someone's face by accident. Oh, they do that all the time, you know. Flick faeces I mean.
Listen. I'm not making this up. Hippos spray their faeces around by using their stumpy little tails like egg whisks. And they are none too particular about which way they face either.
"Look out Horace. George has got his whisk going again. I'd move if I were you."
"Eh? Oh, I keep thinking it's Tuesday."
It's all about planning. Analysing the situation from every aspect. Thinking about all the possibilities. Covering all the angles.
There mustn't be any slip ups. I don't want to hurt her. I love her too much. I always loved her too much. She doesn't love me though. I think she maybe did once. I don't know if she ever did.
She's watching me now. She's marking books and I'm writing to you. Oh, I forgot to tell you she's a teacher. I think she's beautiful. She has long legs and sometimes blonde hair. She is slim. She smiles at me.
"What are you writing?"
"Oh, nothing. Nothing much. I was just thinking about hippos."
"Really? Why are you writing about hippos?"
"Not writing about them exactly, I was just thinking about them, that's all. One stopped breathing and had to be given artificial respiration you know."
"What, by another hippo?"
"Yes, I suppose so. I mean a man's mouth wouldn't be big enough, would it?"
"It all sounds a bit improbable to me."
I think she suspects something. I smile and try to look nonchalant, but I'm going to have to be more careful in future. I know where suspicion can lead. I was suspicious once. Too little and too late, but I got there in the end. Yes, I got there in the end.
I decide to walk up to the library. We have a good library in our town, and it's only five minutes walk from my house. We live near the centre of the town. It's a big town. We live on a main road. A very main road. Too busy. Too noisy. Too crowded. The library stays open in the evenings until eight o'clock. I'll walk up there and get out a book about murders. Preferably unsolved ones. That will give me some ideas at least. I'll get a book about hippos too. That will put Gail's mind at rest.
They're pink you know. Hippos I mean. You think they are going to be grey, but really they're pink. And they get sunburnt. You'd think that nature would have thought about that. Evolving in a sunny country over millions of years, you'd think they'd be resistant to sunburn. But, no, they go bright red after a few hours in the sun. That's why they sit in mud all day. It's nature's sun oil. They don't have to pay through the nose for factor twenty, and beg their wives to rub it on their backs, and remember to put a bit on the thin patch on top of their head. And then still forget the backs of their knees and lose the lid in the sand. No, they just sit in mud all day, farting from time to time and thinking about Tuesday.
"I'm just going to walk up to the library."
"I'll come with you."
"Actually, I think it might be raining."
"We'll take the car, then. I need to take my books back. Why did you want to go anyway?"
"Oh, no reason. Just thought I'd look for a book about hippos. Interesting animals hippos."
God, I love that woman. Her skirt is pulled right up. Halfway up her thighs. I'm drooling. How can she turn me on like this?
The library doesn't seem like such a good idea now. Perhaps I'll leave it until tomorrow.
"Perhaps it's too late to go to the library tonight. I'll leave it until tomorrow."
"OK. I'll get some coffee then. Would you like one?"
"Yes, please. Just a small one."
Listen. Is this making any kind of sense to you? It's difficult for me too, you know. I've been confused for a long time now. So long that I can't remember when it started.
Listen. I used to be happy once. We both used to be happy. Together. We were happy together. Now we just hurt one another. But I still love her. After twenty five years, I still love her. And she's in love too. Yes, after twenty five years she is in love too. But not with me. Not any more with me.
I wonder if hippos fall in love? I wish I could stop thinking about damned hippos. I don't even know if they have brains. They may be just big, mud wallowing, sunburnt farting machines with egg whisks for all I know. I bet they don't cheat on each other though. I bet they don't lie. I bet they don't have calendars either, so how would they know what day of the week it was? And why would they speak english? Surely a hippo would speak hip or something similar. Tuesday wouldn't be called Tuesday at all. It would be called oogmph or glawch or some other hip word.
I keep thinking it's oogmph.
Somehow that isn't so funny. Maybe that's why the cartoonist translated it into english.
Gail comes back from the kitchen with two cups of coffee.
"There's a terrible smell in here. Is it you?"
"Er, yes. Sorry."
"I've been thinking. It's a good job you didn't go up to the library this evening. It's early closing night."
"Oh, is it? I keep thinking it's Tuesday for some reason."
CHAPTER 2
Geoffrey removed the wood from the top of his Morris Marina Countryman and manhandled it through the front door. There were eight pieces. Tongued and grooved chipboard. Flooring grade. Each piece four feet by two feet. He propped them against the hall radiator until he had fetched all eight pieces inside and locked the car.
He carried them, then, one piece at a time, up the stairs to the landing. He left a small trail of sawdust on the plain hall and stairs carpet as he went.
From the landing, he pushed open the trap door to the loft and pulled down the sliding loft ladder, using a pole that was obviously kept for that very purpose. Straining slightly, he climbed the ladder eight times until the boards were all inside the loft.
"Those will do nicely," he thought to himself, pleased with what he had achieved.
***
I'm late. I scarcely slept last night. Hippos crashed through all my dreams. I couldn't get them out of my mind. If I tried counting sheep, they turned into hippos. And every one of them had it's little egg whisk going nineteen to the dozen.
Gail has already left for work by the time I stumble out to the garage. The car is sitting there, looking smug. It knows it won't be going anywhere today. The driver's door is swinging limply. Open just enough to have triggered the interior light all night. It almost laughs out loud at me as I put my key in the ignition and listen to it wheeze with helpless mirth. I am not a mechanically minded man, but I know a flat battery when I see one.
I put the battery on charge and set off, without enthusiasm, to walk the two miles to work. Oh to be a hippo.
There are some compensations to walking, quite apart from the excercise. There are other people walking, too. Some of them young women. Some of them pretty young women. I give them marks out of ten as they go past. I'm a legs man myself. Always have been. Start at the feet and work upwards. I pass a lot of two's and three's, and the occasional four's and five's. My marking scale is tough. I'm looking for the perfect ten. When I see her I'm going to marry her. I might have to settle for an eight or a nine though, but today I'm still aiming high.
Listen. I haven't forgotten that I'm already married. But I've told you. I intend to deal with that problem. Give me time. Don't crowd me. I'm working on it.
I get to the office almost an hour late. Mr Hudson is obviously not amused. Luckily my phone is ringing and I am saved by the bell.
"Good morning. Hudson, Hudson and Hudson. Estate agents, valuers, insurance and mortgage brokers. We work to serve you. Tom Fletcher speaking. How may I help you?"
I'm supposed to say that every time I answer the phone. I say it today because Mr Hudson is in earshot. Mr Hudson wrote the script. It takes so long to say it that half the callers assume they are talking to an answering machine and ring off. It's pretty demoralising when half the world thinks you are an answering machine.
It's a woman's voice when the response comes. A soft, sultry voice. It could be any age from thirty to fifty. I picture a blonde of about thirty. She sounds as if she could be an eight.
"Good morning," she says. "I'd like a valuation."
Mr Hudson can see that he's lost the initiative and walks away. He disappears into the back office. Julie, our secretary, picks up the coffee and mimes drinking to me. I nod, and she puts on the kettle.
"Certainly madam. Perhaps you could give me a few particulars. What name is it, please?"
It takes me about five minutes to establish all the details and arrange an appointment. She sounds in a hurry. She is very anxious for me to call around today, and foolishly I agree, forgetting that I haven't got my car. I shall have to go by bus.
While I am talking, Julie brings over the coffee and sits on the edge of my desk drinking hers and waiting for me to finish. Julie is definitely a nine. Maybe she is the one. I try not to look at her as I talk but no matter where I look my gaze seems unfailingly to return to her chest. I find myself talking to the woman on the phone and staring at Julie's breasts. They are hypnotic. Like the eyes on a painting which seem to follow you round the room, Julie’s breasts are always about six inches in front of my eyes. I shut them as I talk, so that I can concentrate, but I can't resist peeping. And there they are. Hovering just in front of my nose. Every time she takes a mouthful of coffee her breasts strain against the thin fabric of her blouse. She seems unaware of the effect she is having on me.
Listen. Perhaps you think it's because of Julie that I need to kill my wife. You're wrong. I promise I'll tell you more later, but now isn't the time.
I think I might be falling in love with Julie. She doesn't know it yet. I wouldn't even have considered that if Gail still loved me. I pull my stomach in and turn on all my charm as I finalise the arrangements on the phone. Julie crosses her legs as she shifts her weight from one buttock to the other. I think my pulse rate just doubled. My hand is shaking as I pick up the coffee cup and take a nonchalant swig.
Somehow my mouth isn't where it used to be and half the coffee drains down my chin. Julie is almost hysterical with laughter. God, what I'd give to be suave. Why is it that some men are suave and others aren't? Why is it that my brain thinks suave and my body thinks plonker? Do other people have this problem? Sometimes I think there was a mixup. I got the wrong body. My brain knows it should have been in a body that was five inches taller and coordinated. I don't mean colour coordinated you understand. I'm not complaining that I've got one brown limb and three white ones. Just that my muscles and limbs are about two miliseconds out of sync with my brain. Two miliseconds may not sound a lot, but when your coffee is draining off your chin, it's a lot.
When I get off the phone Julie wipes me down with a paper hanky. She smells of something exotic. It's almost worth spilling the coffee to have her this close. I could cup her right breast in my left hand without hardly moving. I can feel the muscles in my shoulder tensing. They're crying out to me "do it, do it." But the muscles in my chin, dripping with coffee, are saying "who are you kidding?" The chin wins. The chin always wins. Where's your stiff upper lip man? Just above my flabby lower jaw. Just where it's always been.
Reality sets in hard. Why is a sex kitten like Julie going to fall for a bald, middle aged man like me? Sometimes I think it would have been a whole lot easier being a hippo.
I settle down to the rest of my work. Opening the mail. Chasing up reluctant clients. I proof read a couple of house particulars that Julie typed up yesterday. And there are a sprinkling of customers who wander in from the street from time to time. None of them serious. Window shoppers, voyeurs and time wasters. You can spot them a mile off.
At lunchtime, it's my turn to man the office. Usually when it's my turn to be in at lunch time I bring some sandwiches to eat. Today I forgot. Today I'm going to be hungry. There isn't even time to call out to the pub. As soon as the others get back I have to run for the bus to get to my afternoon appointment. On my way to the bus stop I notice two dogs copulating on the pavement. There are two others waiting their turn. Their tails are going almost as a wild as the hippos eggwhisks. The street is crowded with people. They are all trying not to notice. I try not to notice too. But my eyes keep turning that way. I can't help it. It's just like Julie's blouse all over again. Perhaps I've got a rare disease. Perhaps the link between my eyes and my brain doesn't function like everyone else. All these other people say to their brains "those dogs aren't there”. And their eyes switch off. The dogs disappear. But my brain says "look, two dogs, copulating. In broad daylight. In the middle of the street. Don't stare." But I keep staring, like a kid. When I turn my head, my eyes just keep looking in the same direction.
I begin to worry that I might be a pervert. Oh God. Please don't let me be a pervert. Is this why Gail stopped loving me? Could she see that she'd married a pervert?
Listen. I'm not turned on by dogs. I don't like dogs. I don't know why I'm going on like this. You have to understand that I'm under a lot of strain. Normal people don't go round shooting their wives.
Oh, I forgot to tell you. I think I've decided to shoot her. It would be quick. And I think she wouldn't feel any pain. As long as I shoot straight. My only problem is that I don't have a gun. But I'm working on it.
The bus takes an age to come. The dogs come more quickly. The two who are waiting get their go. Their tails never stop wagging for a moment. The bitch stands cooperatively still while they take their turns. Funnily enough she is the only one whose tail isn't wagging.
I stand waiting for the bus. I wonder what it would be like to have a tail. I drift off into a semi daydream and imagine swishing my tail about. I suppose they must have some sort of function. Cows use them for flicking flies away. Hippos have their own perversions. But why do dogs have tails? I've never seen a dog flick away flies. I suppose they might help you to balance when you run round corners. I imagine myself running around a corner with my tail flying behind me.
Suddenly I become aware that the other people at the bus stop are looking at me. I have become more interesting than a pack of copulating dogs. I realise that I have been swaying about shaking my rear end as I wondered about dog's tails. I feel a little foolish. I feel the need to explain.
"I was just imagining," I say. "What it would be like to have one. A tail I mean."
This doesn't seem to be helping. I can hear their brains whirring. The messages are going out to their eyes. "Don't look. The poor man is obviously demented." Their eyes all go out of focus and I can tell that for them I'm no longer there. I've become invisible just like the dogs.
"I can't do that," I say. " My switch is broken. My eyes don't turn off like yours." But I can tell that I'm talking to myself. Their ears have switched off too.
I knew today was going to be a bad one. As soon as I found the car with the battery flat, I knew.
I can feel the colour rising. My neck is getting redder. I decide to walk on and get the bus at the next stop. "I think I'll walk," I say, to no one in particular. And no one answers.
As I walk away, the dogs decide to follow me. We walk in procession along the street. I try to look inconspicuous, but other dogs join the procession until there are ten or more. Large and small. Tails waving and silly grins on their faces. I start to move faster, but the dogs keep trotting along behind me. I start to run, but the dogs see it as a new game. In fact they seem to prefer this to sex. I see a bus in the distance, and eventually draw level as it waits at a red light. Luckily it waits long enough for me to jump on. I have no idea where it is going. Frankly I don't care.
By the time I get to my appointment I am over an hour late. The house is prewar, semi detached, and set back from the road. I check that I have my recorder and ring the bell.
I was right. She is an eight. When I guessed I mean. When I answered the phone this morning I guessed she would be an eight. She is blonde, too. I was right about that as well.
A slim, elegant woman of about forty answers the door.
"Good afternoon," I say. "Tom Fletcher, from Hudson, Hudson and Hudson."
She is dressed in a short skirt and a skinny red top.
"Carole," she says. "Please come in."
"Thankyou Mrs Carroll," I reply.
"No," she says. "Just Carole. No Mrs."
I explain to her the details I shall need, and she tells me to feel free. She stands and watches me as I dictate into the recorder.
She follows me into the kitchen and eyes me up and down as I measure and record the vital statistics of her home. It's mildly unnerving to be studied like this. I feel as though I'm being marked off against some mental score card that she has.
I walk back into the hallway, dictating as I go. She keeps just one pace behind me, never taking her eyes off me for a moment.
"You've got a nice bum, Tom," she says quietly, as I tell my recorder all about her hallway.
I almost fall over in surprise. Did I hear what I thought I did? I try not to react. I carry on speaking into the machine.
"Open hallway with doors off to lounge and separate dining room."
"I said `You've got a nice bum, Tom`."
"Radiator and telephone point. Yes, I thought you did. Thankyou."
What would a suave man do now?
"Stairs to first floor with hardwood bannister and window overlooking the side garden."
She's still looking at me. I can tell. She's still looking at my backside. No woman has ever admired it before that I know of. Funny, it's the same one I've always had. I pull in my stomach. My buttocks tighten at the same time. God, she'll think I did it on purpose. Keep cool. Keep cool. This has never happened before.
"Radiator and telephone point."
"You've already done that."
"Done what?"
"The telephone point. You've already done it once. On your little thingy." God, yes. She's right. She's making me nervous.
"Do you mind me watching you work?"
"N.No. Not at all," I stammer. "Not at all, Mrs ....."
"Carole," she says.
"Mrs Caroll"
"Just Carole."
Her voice is low and sultry. I have to let my stomach out again in order to breathe. It's getting warm in here.
"I'll need to measure," I say.
"Would you like me to help you? Or would you prefer me to fix you a drink, Tom? You don't mind me calling you Tom, do you?"
"No. Yes. No thankyou. I mean yes, please."
God, why can't I be suave. Please god, for once in my life make me suave.
I get my sonic tape measure out and start to take measurements. I continue to read them into the recorder. As we move from room to room I suddenly find I'm holding a glass of whisky. I didn't ask for whisky. I don't drink whisky. I don't like whisky. "Thankyou," I say, and take a sip. No water! I fight to suppress a cough. I see that she is holding a glass too.
"Bottoms up," she says. She somehow manages to infuse the toast with a meaning that I'm sure is not usually intended.
"And you," I respond. "Your's too. I mean up, up, bottoms." The switch has gone again. The two milisecond delay circuit has cut in. Brain and mouth belong in two different time zones. I know that I am going to spill whisky down my chin.
I try to move very deliberately. Raise arm slowly. Move towards mouth. Tilt glass. Sip gently. Yep. There it goes. A finger of whisky crawls out of the glass, hovers tantalizingly near my open mouth, and then settles near my right cheek to begin the journey down my chin and on and on.
It all happens in slow motion. I see Carole move towards me with a handkerchief in her hand. And before the whisky has a chance to reach the floor she is dabbing my chin. I feel her breasts pressed against my arm as she works at my chin with her left hand. Her right hand reaches down and feels between my legs. I am rooted to the spot. My buttocks tighten so hard with the surprise I feel sure they have bitten a huge chunk out of my underpants.
It's over in seconds. I can scarcely believe what has just happened. I down the rest of the whisky in one. Carole is standing back about eighteen inches watching me. Smiling.
"My, you were thirsty Tom," she breathes. "I can see I'll have my hands full with you."
Somehow I manage to get around the rest of the house without further incident. I'm going to have trouble explaining some of the noises on the tape to Julie though when I get back to the office. Carole follows me around as I complete the inspection. In the main bedroom she sits on the bed with one leg stretched out in front of her and one on the floor. I stay between her and the door the whole time. I can feel the whisky taking it's effect. It was only one glass, but I'm sure my speech is sounding slurred already.
She offers me another drink as I finish dictating. "Bathroom with low level suite. N.. No thankyou. Not today. I don't usually drink anything in the daytime. Well, tea and coffee of course. And water, sometimes. But not with alcohol. Oh, except xmas. I do have a glass of wine at xmas. And birthdays. Yes, sometimes on birthdays we go to the pub for lunch. But not while I'm on duty. House rule you see." I'm burbling. I know I'm burbling, but my mouth just keeps on running. And so does the tape. I'll have to rewind and edit that bit out.
She pouts gently at my refusal. "I shall have another one, Tom. Are you sure you won't join me? We'll need to get to know one another better if you are going to sell my house for me."
I somehow get to the door and through it, promising to ring her the next day with the valuation.
"I'll look forward to that, Tom," she says. "It's been lovely to meet you."
As I back away down the path she blows me a kiss. I turn and run. Only later do I realise that I haven't got my sonic tape measure with me any more.
CHAPTER 3
Geoffrey fitted the last wall panel into position. He was well pleased with his handiwork. He was a good craftsman, if he had to say so himself. With the last wall panel in place he had created a cosy little den. He sat down on the chipboard floor and admired his achievement. He plotted in his mind's eye how he would complete the decor. He needed more lights and mirrors. He would need a good thick carpet, too, and a cupboard or some drawers, but as the room was small he imagined that he would find a carpet offcut somewhere that would be ideal. Yes, it was all going well. Life was good sometimes.
****
Someone, somewhere, sometime, it was back in the sixties I think, carried out some research on people's attention span. Whoever it was, and I think it must have been a university professor, would pause at random points in his lecture and ask his audience to write down what they were thinking about at that instant. The results were illuminating. At any time only twenty percent of the audience were listening to what was being said. A further twenty percent were thinking about something related to what was being said, but the remaining sixty percent were thinking about sex.
A lesser man might have been distressed that his words were having so little effect on his audience, but this professor consoled himself with the thought that no matter what he said, at least sixty percent of his listeners were enjoying themselves.
I think about sex all the time. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Why is it that everyone else is getting more than me? And better!
Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.
Gail likes sex too.
I finally get home on the bus from my valuation trip. Already I am wondering if I imagined the whole episode. But I can still taste the whisky, and I don't have my sonic tape measure.
Gail is home before me.
"Didn't you take the car today?" she asks.
"Uh. No. No, I decided to walk." Now why did I say that? Why didn't I tell her about the battery?
"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asks.
"Yes. Yes please." Go on, admit to her that you let the battery go flat. No, she'll only think I'm a plonker. She already knows you're a plonker. Why don't you admit it? Why don't you shut up? Coward! Not. Yes you are. Alright, alright I am. I will.
Gail is disappearing out of the door while I fight with my alter ego. "The battery," I say. Just as she disappears finally.
"Sorry?" she calls back. "Didn't catch that."
"The battery," I say. "I left the car door open and it went flat."
Her voice drifts back down the hall, "Oh that's nice."
She wasn't even listening! I needn't have said anything. God, she's thinking about sex. I know she is.
A gun. Yes, I'm sure that's the thing. But where do I get a gun from? I frown for a second, thinking. Then it comes to me. Exchange and Mart of course. You can find anything in Exchange and Mart. I saw an elephant advertised in Exchange and Mart once. It was in the Pets and Livestock section. Along with the incubators for hatching chicken eggs and devices for doing unspeakable things to young male cattle.
Listen. I'm not making this up. There really was an advert. It said 'For Sale, Elephant, surplus to requirements.' And then there was a box no.
My Dad wouldn't even let me find out how much it was. It's puzzled me ever since. Not how much it was, but how anyone could have an elephant surplus to requirements. Unless you normally buy them in sets, perhaps.
"I'd like some elephants please, my man."
"Certainly, sir. Would that be African or Indian?"
"Some of each, I think. Yes, a mixed herd would look nice."
"How many were you thinking of sir?"
"About ten I would think. Say five of each."
"I'm sorry, sir. They only come in dozens."
"Is that dozens of one kind only, or can one have a mixed dozen?"
"We do mixed dozens or single species."
"Couldn't you split a set for me? You see I don't have room for more than ten."
"More than my job's worth to do that, sir. You see there's no call for single elephants. People only ever want full dozens."
"No they don't. I don't want a full dozen."
"Are you trying to be funny with me, sir? You could always buy a dozen and sell the odd ones through Exchange and Mart you know."
"Yes. I hadn't thought of that. Thankyou. You've been most helpful. I'll take the mixed dozen then."
Gail comes back into the room while I am searching through the old newspapers. "What are you looking for?" she says.
"I thought there was an old copy of the Exchange and Mart here somewhere."
"Oh, that got thrown out weeks ago. What are you wanting to buy anyway?"
"Oh nothing. Nothing really. I was just thinking about elephants. Wondering. You know, how much do they cost. That's all. Quite expensive I would have thought. Even if you could buy just one. Probably they come in sets anyway."
"Why do you want an elephant, Tom?"
"Didn't really want one. Just curiosity you know."
"Yesterday it was hippos and today it's elephants. You've never been interested in big game before. What's brought this on all of a sudden?"
"Oh. Nothing. Nothing at all. Always been interested, actually. Just haven't talked about it a lot, that's all."
She's giving me a very odd look. I've got to change the subject somehow. Got to talk about something else. Not guns. Not elephants. Not sex.
"I saw some dogs earlier today."
"Dogs, Tom? What sort of dogs? What were they doing?"
"Oh, just dogs. Ordinary sorts of dogs. Big ones, and little ones. Doing? Uh, they weren't doing anything. Nothing. Just dogs that's all. Isn't that tea ready yet?"
I think she's suspicious. I watch her pour the tea. She turns me on. Whatever she does. Wherever we are. She turns me on.
Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.
She puts the tea on the small table beside my chair and sits down with her own. She is still not sure what I've been talking about. She picks up the newspaper and begins to read.
No Exchange and Mart. Now where do I go? I could buy one tomorrow I suppose. I sip my tea. A small drop somehow finds it's way around the rim and slides gently down my chin.
I sit and watch Gail reading the paper. I enjoy watching her. I look at her legs. She's wearing dark tights today. Sleek and shiny. She has nice legs. Slim and long.
"I see that bloke got life then," she says suddenly. "Better than he deserves."
"What bloke?" I ask.
"The one that killed his wife with a machete."
I feel my collar tighten. Does she suspect something? A machete? I haven't even got a machete.
"I haven't got a machete."
"Pardon?"
"I said, I haven't got a machete."
"I know you haven't got a machete. You haven't got a gun either. What has that got to do with anything?"
"A gun? Why are you talking about guns? I haven't got a gun. I wouldn't even know where to buy a gun. Except Exchange and Mart perhaps. No I shouldn't think even they have guns. Elephants is more the sort of thing you find in Exchange and Mart, I expect."
She lowers her paper and looks at me over the top. "What are you talking about, Tom? I was telling you about this bloke in the paper, and suddenly you start burbling. Are you alright?"
"Yes. I'm fine. I must have misheard you. I thought you were talking about guns that's all."
"Drink your tea, Tom. And stop dribbling. You're worse than a baby."
I finish the rest of my tea in silence. It seems safer that way. My mind begins to wander back over the events of the afternoon. An eight I thought when I first saw that Carole. Maybe she's only a six.
Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.
She was obviously thinking about sex, not about house valuations at all. I've never known having their house valued turn anyone on before. Unless it was me? Perhaps she just couldn't resist me. Perhaps she's now regretting what she did. Probably embarrassed about the whole thing. Probably never happen again. Just a momentary thing. Probably the whisky. Probably she'd been drinking before I even arrived. Best not to mention it to anyone. Save the poor woman the embarrasment. Yes, that's best. Pretend it didn't happen. Actually it was nothing much. Just an accidental brush really. Yes, I probably imagined most of it. Pity about leaving the measure behind, though.
Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.
Yellow pages. That's a possibility. I expect they have guns in there. Only I can never find things in Yellow Pages. Never listed where you expect it. You look up guns and it tells you in very small print to try Spray Guns, Military Suppliers or Antique Dealers.
None of them seem very likely, but you take a chance on the Military Suppliers. M..M... Market Traders, Marriage Bureaux, Meat Wholesalers, Miliners, Milinery, Milinery Suppliers, Milinery Trimmings, Milinery Yarns, Milk Products, Mills, Millers. No entry under Military Suppliers. You go back to guns and check again. Yep. There it is. Spray Guns, Military Suppliers, Antique Dealers.
M...M... Marquetry, Medical, Metalwork, Miliners, Milinery, Milinery Suppliers, Milinery Trimmings, Milinery Yarns, Milk Products! And then you see it, in tiny print just after the Milinary Yarns, it says for Military Suppliers see Government Agencies, Arms Manufacturers, Aircraft Manufacturers, and Uniforms.
A...A....A.. Animal Products, Ambulance Services, Architects, Arms Manufacturers see Aircraft, Explosive Manufacturers or Guns.
No. Maybe not Yellow Pages. Not tonight anyway.
"Ha, that's strange, Tom. You were just talking about elephants, and it says here in the paper that one died today at a private zoo. Apparently someone gave it a couple of table tennis balls and it sucked them up it's trunk and suffocated."
I'm stunned. "You'd think they'd have more sense," I say.
"Yes, people do some thoughtless things at times."
"I meant the elephant. I wonder why they didn't give it artificial respiration?"
CHAPTER 4
I lie in bed thinking about the elephant. The one who suffocated on ping pong balls. Why didn't it breathe through it's mouth? Elephants must be able to breathe through their mouths. They must get colds sometimes. Somehow it all seems very unsatisfactory. The newspaper must have got it wrong. Can no one be trusted?
Gail lies beside me in the bed. She is asleep. She is lying on her front, and I can just see the hump of her backside in the dim light. I lie on my back and peer up at the ceiling. I used to trust her once, but she let me down.
As she breathes the duvet rises and falls gently. The light from the display on the bedside radio alarm casts a soft shadow of her breathing onto the bedroom wall. It looks like the sea. I hold out my arm and it, too, casts a shadow on the wall.
When I was a small boy I used to make shadows on the wall with my hands. I could make animals and birds, and faces of dwarves and deformed men. I haven't done it for years. I make a face with my right hand. The light is not bright, but I can just make out the shape on the wall. My thumb makes the chin, and my second finger makes the nose. The sea continues to heave gently in time with Gail's breathing. I try to make a ship sailing on the sea, but with one hand it doesn't really work. I try to make a man drowning in the sea, and this is quite promising.
I prop myself up on one elbow and bring the other hand into play. Now my drowning man has two arms which wave as he goes under. I'd forgotten I could do this. "Help! Help!" the drowning man calls in a reedy little voice. Gail turns over and suddenly the sea is a heaving tempest. The little man goes under. "Help," he calls for the last time.
"What are you doing?" asks Gail. "What time is it? ..... Good grief it's two o'clock. Can't you lie still?"
"Sorry. I couldn't sleep."
As the sea settles down again. I can't resist making a one handed bird flying up towards the heavens.
"Tom! Go to sleep."
I must remember to buy an Exchange and Mart on the way in to work tomorrow.
****
I arrive at the office before everybody else in the morning, and turn on the lights and disable the alarm. I have already made the first coffee of the day when Julie arrives.
She really is quite a cracker. I think I'll move her up to a nine point five. She smiles and blows me a kiss as she walks past my desk. She smells of something divine. I wonder if she put it on for me? Perhaps she fancies me. Yes, I reckon she could. She didn't have to walk that close to my desk, and she's always making coffee for me, and then there's the kiss she blew me. Yes, it must be that.
I watch her remove her coat. She has a gorgeous figure. Her long dark hair drops over her shoulders. Today she is wearing a skirt below the knee, but slit almost up to mid thigh. As she looks at her reflection in the mirror she catches sight of me watching her and smiles back. Yes, I'm almost certain.
How do I make sure? I mustn't make a fool of myself. Perhaps I should just walk boldly over and kiss her. What would Bond do?
Bond wouldn't have to do anything. She'd have her clothes off by now if I were Bond. He wouldn't have to do more than flick an eyebrow.
I sit, rooted to my desk, my right eyebrow going up and down like a yo yo. It isn't as easy as it looks. When I try to move just the right brow the left one moves too. I obviously need to practice.
I become aware that Julie is standing just in front of the desk looking at me with concern. "Is there something in your eye, Mr F?"
"Uh, No. No thanks Julie. Just trying out my eyebrows."
"You are funny Mr F. I do like you. You aren't like the others."
She likes me! She probably means 'loves'. Just too embarrassed to say it.
"I like you, too," I say. "And by the way, you can call me Bond."
"Bond? Mr F. I thought your name was Tom."
"Bond? Did I say Bond? I must have been thinking of someone else. I meant Tom." Go on, kiss her. While the office is empty. Be bold. Just stand up and sweep her off her feet. She's asking for it. Look at her, lips pouting. Breasts thrust forward. She can't wait.
I start to climb out of my chair as the door opens and Mr Hudson strides in. "Good morning all," he booms. "Good to see you in on time today Fletcher."
"And you," I reply.
He turns to regard me over his spectacles.
"Good to see you, I mean. Yes. Good morning Mr Hudson. Would you like some coffee?"
****
The carpet offcut was only just big enough to cover the floor of Geoffrey's den, but it's thick pile was exactly right. It added just the degree of luxury he was looking for. It would also muffle any sound. He had also fitted three lights and fixed two large mirrors to the end wall. He would have preferred a single floor to ceiling mirror, but, quite apart from the expense, he would not have been able to get it through the trap door. He made a short mental inventory of the things he still required before climbing down and closing the loft away behind him.
****
Julie is typing across the other side of the office. Each time she catches sight of me watching her she gives me a smile. I can just see the top of her legs around the end of her desk. As she moves, the slit in her skirt opens and closes tantalisingly.
I remember the Exchange and Mart in my briefcase and slide it out surreptitiously. I slip it into a folder so that no one will see what I'm reading. I start to whistle nonchalently. Everyone looks up simultaneously at the sound of the whistling. I fall silent again and they go back to their own work.
I'm not sure where guns would be. Not in the motoring section for sure, but would they be under domestic, leisure, craft, industrial, hobbies or what?
I decide to look under miscellaneous. While I am looking for the page I get distracted by items in other sections. Who invents all these things?
On one page is a device for squeezing teabags. Someone, somewhere sat down one day and invented a tea bag squeezer. Can you believe that?
"I know I'll invent the teabag squeezer. Just what the world has been waiting for. Everyone will want one. It'll make my fortune."
And having invented it, he's actually found someone to manufacture it and now he's advertising it in a full display advert. How much demand can there be for a tea bag squeezer? I don't know anyone who has one. Or perhaps lots of people have them, but they don't bring them out when they have guests in case it looks too mean.
"I bet you all use tea bag squeezers," I say to no one in particular. They all look up at me briefly. "Just thinking out loud," I say. "Didn't mean to disturb you."
There are some knowing looks before they get back down to whatever it is they are doing. Julie smiles at me.
I flick on through the magazine. Giant slippers that you can put both feet in together. I have a vision of people hopping to open the front door when they have visitors, wearing their giant slipper. Or maybe buying two and having to walk with legs astride. There is an inflatable coat hanger for taking on holiday with you. A thing for the car that enables you to pee while you are driving. So that you don't have to stop. 'Invaluable' it says. 'Fits either sex'. How? Do you have to have it permanently attached? Do you fit it before you get into the car? What happens if you have passengers? Do you have one each or just a lot of pipes? Or do you pass it around? What happens if you forget to take it off when you get out of the car?
Why are there no answers to these questions?
It says 'thousands sold'. To whom? Is that why all those people driving the big fast cars on the motorway look so smug? Are they all driving along at one hundred miles an hour peeing as they go? While the rest of us try to drive with our legs crossed. Or does everybody have one apart from me? Is it the kind of thing that everyone else knows instinctively except me, because I'm not suave?
I always find that reading Exchange and Mart makes me depressed. I feel so inadequate.
Listen. Perhaps you think I'm paranoid. I'm not paranoid. Things have not gone well for me recently, that's all. I just need to strike out in a new direction. Explore new opportunities. Make some decisions. Kill my wife. Things like that.
I thumb on through the Exchange and Mart. Not a gun to be seen, but I come across a double page spread of ads featuring drawings of scantily clad women. 'Free suspender set' it says under one, 'if you send for our exotic glamourwear catalogue. Send one pound ninety five postage and packing. Glamour set comprises suspender belt, stockings and see through crotchless panties trimmed in black lace simulation. One size fits all'.
Another ad says 'Parlour maid outfit, skirt, pinny, stockings, suspenders. This is a quality item. No rubbish. Sent under plain wrapper. Four pound ninety nine plus one ninety nine postage'. There is a picture of a parlour maid wearing such a short skirt that it doesn't cover her knickers.
There are dozens of adverts along the same lines. I read on, fascinated by the variety and ingenuity of the advertisers.
'Ladies, turn on the man in your life. Surprise him with this peephole bra and microbrief set.' I wonder if Gail would like to surprise me? Perhaps if I ordered it in her name?
Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.
Everything comes down to sex in the end. Even Exchange and Mart.
"I'll have a Radio Times and a copy of Exchange and Mart, please."
"Say no more, Guv. Say no more. Know what I mean."
"You don't understand. I'm looking for some plumbing fittings."
"I'll put it in a plain wrapper for you, Guv. Alright?"
"Yes. Yes that'll be fine. Thankyou."
"Plumbing fittings? First time I've heard it called that. Mind how you go, Guv. Know what I mean? Nudge, Nudge."
I become conscious of the telephone on my desk ringing. I am dimly aware that it may have been ringing for some time. All eyes in the office are on me. Wondering why I'm not answering.
"Plumbing fittings," I say to the room as I pick up the receiver. "Not underwear. I didn't even know the underwear was in there. I don't even know what a peephole bra is."
A voice in my ear says "I can show you if you'd like that Mr Fletcher."
It's a woman's voice. A soft, sultry voice. I know that voice.
"H..Hudson, H..Hudson, and Hudson," I reply. "Show me what? To whom am I speaking?"
"Why Tom, surely you can't have forgotten me already?"
"Mrs Carrol!"
"Just Carole, Tom. You must call me Carole. After all, we are friends."
"What do you want?"
"Why, Tom, surely that's no way to talk to a client. This is a business call after all."
The other members of the office are still looking at me. Even Julie has stopped typing.
"A client," I say. "She just wants a valuation. Just calling to tell me about my tape measure I expect. Not about sex at all."
"Tom, you aren't paying attention to me are you? I can hear you talking to someone else. Is it another woman? Are you trying to make me jealous? I think you are."
"N..No. There isn't another woman. I'm not talking to anyone. Just myself. Yes, just talking to myself that's all. Dictating. Yes, dictating."
"I've got your measure, Tom. Did you leave it here on purpose? Is it just an excuse to come back? You don't need an excuse, Tom. You can come anytime."
The other office members are still watching me.
"Ha. I left my tape at her house. That's what it's about," I say to them. "Didn't even know I'd lost it. There's a funny thing. Never lost my tape before. It must have been the drink. Not that I was drinking you understand. Well tea. Yes tea. I must have put it down when I spilt my tea. Not sex at all really, you see."
"Tom, when are you coming with my valuation?"
"I..I'm going to post it. Normal practice is to post it. Be there tomorrow."
"But Tom. I have things to show you. You left so quickly yesterday that you didn't get time to see everything. And your measure, surely you'll need it. Why don't you call around again this afternoon? We can have another little talk."
"Too busy I'm afraid. Lots of appointments. Gosh, yes, I don't know how I'll fit them all in. Better if I write. That's the usual method. Writing."
"But, your measure, Tom. How will you manage?"
"Oh. Ten a penny those measures. Yes, they look expensive but really they're very cheap. We give them away. All the time. In fact I usually leave one at most of my clients. Yes, keep it. Plenty more where that came from."
"Tom. I think you're trying to avoid me."
"N..No. Gosh, no. Avoid you? Why would I do that? Be pleased to see you again any time. Yes. No problem. What about next week?"
"Tom, I shall expect you this afternoon. About three. I'll prepare a little treat for you. OK? I won't take no for an answer now."
"Yes, of course. I mean No. I mean I'll see whether it's possible to rearrange the schedule. It probably won't be. All computerised you know. Set up weeks in advance. Takes days to reprogram. Mr Hudson was only saying this morning how much he regretted buying the computer. Taken all the flexibilty out of the system."
"Three o'clock, Tom. I'll be waiting."
I see that my colleagues are still watching me. They have been avidly following the entire conversation. Or at least my end of it. The phone goes dead. I smile vacuously and start waving my free hand in the air as though I am still talking to someone at the other end.
"I would recommend putting it on the market at around one sixty five, and be prepared to accept an offer around one sixty."
They aren't fooled, and immediately get back to their own jobs.
"Thank you for giving your business to Hudson, Hudson and Hudson," I say to the dead phone. "Our aim is to serve you."
I replace the phone. Why do I always feel inadequate? Why is life so intimidating? All I want is a quiet life and someone to love. Someone to love me. I look over towards Julie. She smiles back. Yes, I think she could be the one. I definitely think she's interested. But how do I go about it? That's all.
At lunch time I walk into the town. I'm beginning to think that a gun may not be the right thing after all. Difficult to make it look like an accident. And I might miss. Just end up wounding her. Might even wound myself. Maybe that's the answer? Shoot myself first. Just a bit, not too seriously, you understand and then shoot her afterwards. Pretend that I arrived too late to save her when she was attacked by a crazed gunman. Would need to wipe off the finger prints though.
I wonder where would be the best place to do it. So it wouldn't hurt. When I shoot myself I mean. In the leg maybe, or the arm? I start to imagine being shot in the leg. I reel violently and clutch my left thigh, knocking against a woman carrying her shopping.
"Aaah!" I cry out. "My leg. My leg. I've been shot."
She drops her shopping and grabs my arm. "I didn't hear nothing," she says. "Are you alright? Can you walk? Who done it?"
I come to with a woman trying to undo my trousers. "What are you doing?" I ask.
"Which leg?" she says. "Which leg? I used to be a nurse."
I pull myself away and move off briskly down the street, remembering to limp until I get clear enough to run.
Maybe a gun isn't the best idea.
CHAPTER 5
On my way home I stop to buy flowers for Gail. I like to buy her flowers. I get chrysanthemums. A sort of russet colour. I think she'll like them.
Listen. Maybe you're confused. Maybe you wonder why I'm buying flowers for her and guns. Maybe you think this is all part of some elaborate alibi. No. It's much more simple than that. I love her. That's why I have to kill her.
Listen. You can't expect to understand everything straight away. It took me a long time too. But I got there in the end.
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