They were an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman.
Chapter 3
Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens to me on a Tuesday. It’s reliably the dullest day of the week. Even the Tuesday on which my life began its skydive into horror seemed, at first, to be no exception.
I opened my eyes a few seconds before the alarm intended to jangle me awake, rolled across the bed and smacked the machine into silence. With only a little groan at the prospect of another day, I got up, visited the bathroom, washed my hands, trudged into the kitchen for coffee, rummaged around the fridge to see if there was anything salvageable for breakfast and settle eventually for a bruised and doughy banana. But I was disappointed to see no obvious sign of my landlady, no evidence that she was even awake.
We lived, my landlady and I, in a rickety two-bedroom flat in Tooting Bec, SW17. It formed the ground floor of a careworn Victorian house, a short walk from a main street which had about it that distinctly London bouquet, that eau de Tooting — beer, dope and drains; old fish, exhaust fumes, stale urine. The second floor was empty and, so far as we knew, had been for years — something to do, we thought, with some structural infelicity or other. My landlady had been there several years whilst I was still the new boy — freshly ensconced only a month earlier but already resident for long enough to know exactly how I felt about her.
After I had showered and changed into my suit (fraying at the hem, balding at the knees from its overfamiliarity with the dry cleaner), I confess to dallying as I made my sandwiches in the hope of seeing my landlady emerge, gummy eyed and yawning, on a hunt for cornflakes. But her bedroom door remained resolutely closed.
I grabbed my lunch and cycling helmet and exited the flat, careful to double-lock the front door on my way out. It was a cold, clear morning in December and my breath steamed in the air like smoke. It had rained hard in the night and the world had a smeary, dripping quality to it like I was looking at life through a pane of glass damp with condensation. I stooped to unlock the dilapidated bike which I habitually kept chained to a lamppost despite the fact that it had failed to attract so much as a single, half-hearted robbery attempt and that even dogs declined to relive themselves against its rusty wheels and flaking frame.
Clambering on, I set off, wobbly at first, then gaining in confidence. Down the street, past the corner shop, the video rental store, the King’s Arms and the halal pizza parlor, before, sailing by the tube station, I got giddy, felt a head-rush of excitement, swerved into the torrent of traffic and sprinted out onto the main road. From there, it took me somewhere in the region of three quarters of an hour to get to work, pedaling through Clapham, Brixton, Stockwell and Lambeth, the smoke and grit and filth of London billowing in my face the whole way. Even as I cycled, I became aware that I was part of something bigger than myself, a constituent of the great charge into work, the mindless drone-stream to the center of the city. Underground and overground, in trains, by car, on foot, everybody was elbowing their way in, their eyes on the prize, sparing not a glance for anyone who shared the same quest as them, all of us hurtling forward in the merciless stampede of the morning commute.
It was perilously close to nine o’clock when I finally squealed to a halt outside 125 Fitzgibbon Street — a squat gray building just down from Waterloo station and a few minutes’ walk from the tourist traps on the south bank of the river Thames. The building did nothing to draw attention to itself, although a grimy plastic sign drilled into the wall gave further details for the curious.
CIVIL SERVICE ARCHIVE UNIT
STORAGE AND RECORD RETRIEVAL
Time was when this stretch of the city would have been thriving with rude life but now it seemed either neutered into the sterility of officialdom or else stuffed and mounted for the edification and amusement of visitors like some dead thing in a museum. Wheezy and panting for breath, I shackled my bike in the parking lot beside a bottle bank and a bin for recycling newspapers. In the distance, still garlanded by morning mist, I could make out the turrets of Westminster, the decorous spike of Big Ben, the shining spokes of the London Eye, but I turned my back on the sights of the city and trudged into the building. I waved my pass at Derek in reception, stepped into the lift, took a deep breath and emerged soon after at the sixth floor.
Here was all the comfortable monotony of a day at the office. Gray floors, gray walls, gray desks, gray life. The room was large and open plan and seemed crowded with the usual sounds — the fain hum of the computers, the chuntering whine of the photocopier, the persistent insectoid buzz of ringing phones. I walked to my desk, piled high with stacks of dun-colored folders, nodding at a few of my colleagues as I went, exchanging the usual good mornings and all rights and how was your weekends.
There was a strange girl sitting in my chair.
“You’re sitting in my chair,” I said, feeling like one of the three bears.
“Hi.” She sounded friendly enough. “Are you Henry Lamb?”
I nodded.
“Hi,” she said again. “I’m Barbara.”
She was in her late twenties, plump, bespectacled and dumpy. She gave me a gauche smile and fumbled nervously with the frames of her glasses.
I still had no idea what she was doing in my chair.
“I’m from the agency,” she prompted.
Then I remembered. “You’ve come to help with the filing.”
“I think so.”
“Well then. I’ll show you the ropes.”
Barbara nodded politely as I pointed out the lavatories, the water cooler, the notice board, the fire escapes and the coffee machine. I introduced her to a few colleagues, all of whom looked faintly irritated at the interruption, before, finally, I knocked on the door of my manager. A voice from within: “Come!”
Peter Hickey-Brown slouched at his desk, arms folded behind his head in a clumsy attempt at nonchalance. He had a shock of gray hair which he had grown out too long. He didn’t wear a tie. His shirt was sufficiently unbuttoned to reveal tufts of salt-and-pepper chest hair and, more ill-advisedly still, the glint of cheap jewelry. Poor Peter. He’d worn an earring to work for a week last year until senior management had been forced to have a quiet but firm word.
“Peter? This is Barbara. She’s come to help us with the filing.”
“Barbara! Hi! Welcome aboard.”
They shook hands.
“So you’re working under Henry?” he asked.
“Looks like it.”
Peter winked. “Better watch this one. He knows where all our bodies are buried.”
The three of us managed some feeble laughter.
“So what do you prefer? Barbara? Barb?” He broke off, as though struck by a brilliant idea. “How do you like Babs?” He sounded hopeful. “Less of a mouthful.”
The girl had a trapped look. “Well, some people call me Babs.”
This I doubted. She didn’t look like a Babs to me.
Peter strutted back to his desk. “You like music, Babs?”
“I suppose.”
Now I just felt sorry for her. Peter behaved like this around any woman younger than himself — a demographic which, perhaps not wholly coincidentally, encompassed most of the female percentage of our office.
“I’ve just been on the web booking tickets for a few gigs. You ever heard of a band called Peachy Cheeks?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Boner?”
A shy little shake of her head.
