He is wearing the lopsided smile that I have come to loathe. Wearing it like a mask.
THREE
The Patter of Tiny Feet
1
I can’t find a decent music station on the radio as I drive through town towards the motorway. The airwaves are filled with plastic pop, monotonous commercial hip-hop, or the empty voices of idiot deejays. All I want is some music — or a proper song to help clear my mind. Johnny Cash, Elvis Costello, John Lennon… Someone who might put a tune to my pain.
But madness is a lone crooner; insanity can only be performed as a solo.
I smile as I turn off the radio, rolling down the window to feel the air on my face. There’s a layer of cling-film between me and the world, and the creases in its surface obscure my view to the point where I recognise nothing. Everything looks the same, but slightly different.
I quell the urge to laugh.
Traffic is sluggish; it’s the rush-hour, and time has slowed to a ridiculous pace while my internal clock is speeding up, pushing me forward into some unknown place.
I see him when I stop at a zebra-crossing opposite the Scarbridge Community Centre. His electric wheelchair is perched at the drop-kerb on the bright yellow tactile paving, the front wheels practically resting in the gutter. He is the smallest man I’ve ever seen: tiny, really. Like a doll. A little living doll. But an ugly one. His pinched face is partially obscured by a dirty black beard and his chin is tucked into his neck. He has one of those weird barrel chests a lot of dwarfs seem to develop, something to do with the lack of growth, bones bunching up in the clavicle region.
I am afraid of him but I don’t know why.
He steers his wheelchair onto the crossing, staring resolutely forward as he moves in a straight line towards the opposite kerb. His stubby hand massages the steering-lever; his fingers are wide, almost flat-looking. An attractive middle-aged woman approaches him as she crosses from the other side. Gives him a wide berth and glances back over her shoulder as she passes his chair. She stumbles; her face flushes bright red and she smiles awkwardly at me through the windscreen.
I return my attention to the small man. The dwarf.
He has stopped in the middle of the road, his wheelchair still pointed in the direction he’s travelling. But he has swivelled around to stare at me. Above the ratty beard, his eyes are familiar. They are green.
The beard splits in two, and the smile peeking out of the hair almost makes me scream. It is lopsided, sarcastic.
Then the dwarf continues on his way, and I can almost believe he didn’t even pause in his journey; didn’t focus his attention on my bloodless expression, and on my wide, fearful eyes.
He trundles off on is way to the Community Centre. Someone behind me leans on their horn; the sound tears into me, splitting the paper-like skin of my cheeks, denting the wafery bone of my skull.
My car lurches forward and I turn off at the next back street, guiding the vehicle along narrow alleys until I come out near the newly built Tesco Metro on Farley Street. I park the car and sit behind the wheel, listening to the music in my head. Shoppers dance in and out of the double doors, falling into the rhythm booming like a disco inside my mind. After a few minutes of this, I imagine they can all hear the music too, and are throwing silent shapes to deliberately unnerve me.
I’m glad when the traffic thins and I am able to resume my journey.
I am unaware of my surroundings as I drive into the city, choosing instead to inhabit a cold grey area at the back of my brain. I cannot shake the image of the dwarf. His messy black beard. Terrible green eyes.
As I drive into the underground car park I imagine my entire life has sunk beneath the surface of the earth. Nothing seems the same; everything has submerged.
My workmates act strange when I enter the office, as if I shouldn’t be there. The secretaries talk about me behind cupped hands and whenever someone passes my cubicle they hurry their pace, eager to be gone before I can speak to them. My boss spends the morning locked in his office on the telephone. I send emails to my team — none of whom are office-based — and arrange an impromptu progress meeting for the following Monday morning.
Immediately after lunch, my boss calls me on the phone.
“Have you got a minute? I need to see you, just a general debriefing after your trip. Nothing much to worry about.”
Why did he say that? I wasn’t worried until he told me not to be. Now I am suspicious regarding his motives in summoning me to his office, where the shades are pulled down over the windows, blocking the view of the open-plan workspace.
“I won’t beat about the bush,” says my boss after the opening pleasantries. “I’ve managed to salvage the deal, but none of the clients was impressed with the way you behaved.”
I am utterly confused. As far as I am concerned the trip went well, the meetings were a breeze, a piece of cake…
“Can I just ask you one thing?”
I nod my head, unable to respond until I know what he’s talking about.
“Where were you? You go missing for three days in New York, and then turn up back here as if nothing has happened.” He is sweating; moisture beads his brow. Why is he so nervous?
“I… I have no idea what you mean. I didn’t go anywhere, just the meetings.” I wonder if he knows about the prostitute.
Shaking his head, my boss sits down in his chair. “I know things have been tough for you recently. I know all that. I thought it was a bad idea for you to return to work so soon after… well, after what happened.”
Return to work? I have not been away, apart from the trip to the States, and am about to say so when he holds up a hand to silence me.
“Just take more time off. Don’t worry about your job — that’s not going anywhere. It’s just that, well, you’re no use to me in this condition. We need you well again, Dan, so you can cope with your workload. The company can no longer carry any passengers.”
I leave without shutting down my computer, and when I’m back behind the wheel of the car I feel like punching my fist through the windscreen. What is he saying? What am I missing? It is Adi who needs to recover; she is the one who was attacked.
I take out my mobile phone. Tap in the number of my boss’s direct-dial. He answers after three rings.
“Hello?”
“I have a question.”
“Listen, Dan. No pressure. Just get well… get back to normal.”
“When did I come back to work?”
“Dan, I…”
“Humour me.”
“The New York trip was your first duty back on board.”
“And how long was I off.”
“The doctor signed you off for three months, but you’ve only been off eight weeks. It isn’t enough, mate. You need longer to readjust.”
“What happened to me?”
