“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“P’raps I will. Thanks very much.”
“My pleasure.”
I took a chip.
“How was your day?” Abbey asked, upon which, for the first time in almost a decade, I burst into tears.
After that, we talked. Dabbing surreptitiously at my nose with a Kleenex, I told her about my granddad, the phone call from my mother and the man who’d fallen from the sky. She seemed to sympathize and at one point even made an awkward move toward me as though to offer a hug, although I flinched away and she shifted back.
“Henry?” she said, once the story was told, sounding eager to cheer me up.
“Yes?”
“When’s your birthday? You said it was soon.”
“Oh.” I’d almost forgotten. “Monday. Why?”
“Just wondering.” She raised an eyebrow and seemed to be about to say something else when the telephone rang.
Abbey answered. “I’ll get it,” she said, and looked over at me. “It’s for you.”
Frowning, I took the receiver. “Hello?”
I didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded like it belonged to an elderly woman — crisp and determined, though underscored by a hint of frailty. “Mr. Lamb? Mr. Henry Lamb?”
“Yes.”
“Good evening to you, Mr. Lamb. I’m calling on behalf of a firm called Gadarene Glass. I was wondering if I might interest you in having a new set of windows installed.”
“Actually, I don’t own the house,” I said. “I only rent a room here. But, in any case, I’m sure the answer’s no. And we’d prefer it if you didn’t call so late in the future. Come to think of it, we’d prefer it if you didn’t call at all.” The woman tutted at my impertinence and the line went dead.
“Salesman?” Abbey asked.
“Double glazing, I think. Nothing important.”
“Oh.” She gave me a tentatively hopeful smile. I smiled back and for a moment we stood there just smiling at one another like a couple of idiots, still a little giddy from all this unexpected intimacy, still innocent of the horror which even now was pawing at our door.
Chapter 5
At first, the next day didn’t seem any different. As usual, I woke a few seconds before my alarm whooped its good morning. As usual, I levered myself out of bed, rooted through the fridge for breakfast and hung around hoping for a glimpse of Abbey. As usual, I left the flat disappointed.
I had abandoned my bike in the parking lot at work so I had to trudge down to the underground and strap- hang for eight stops on the Northern line, sucking in stale sweat and halitosis. Consequently, I got into work late and, still half-asleep, retired immediately to the bathroom. I was busy splashing cold water on my face when Peter Hickey-Brown emerged from the stalls, produced one of those combs which look like a flick-knife and began to fastidiously scrape back his graying hair. He didn’t turn to look at me but just gazed adoringly ahead, a paunchy Narcissus in an office lavatory.
“How’s Babs getting along?” he asked, once the posturing was done.
“Fine, I think.”
“You show her round yesterday?”
I said that yes, naturally I had.
“Did you take her down to the mail room?”
The mail room? “No. Why?”
“I think she should see it.”
“I don’t like it down there.”
“So? Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Henry. Just take her.” He flipped on the cold tap, wetted his fingers and teased the hair at his temples back behind his ears. “Phil tells me you had to dash off early yesterday.”
“Family emergency.”
Hickey-Brown frowned, not from any anxiety for me but purely out of concern that the work of his department might be disrupted, that I might get behind with his precious filing — petrified that if I didn’t do my job we’d all be engulfed by an avalanche of ancient appraisal sheets and leprous-colored meeting forms. “Everything OK?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” I said. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
“You’re in for a treat,” I said to Barbara once I’d tracked her down at the photocopier. “Peter wants you to see the mail room.”
The mail room squatted in the lowest floor of the building, stinking, forsaken and unloved. Something was always up with the heating, which meant that down there it was perpetually clammy and warm. A few weeks to go before Christmas and still everyone had a fan on their desk, all of them whirring away bad temperedly, grumbling about being used out of season. The room smelt stale, a pungent blend of perspiration and old socks.
“This is where it starts,” I said. I’d given this tour before, to a group of kids in last year’s Bring Your Child to Work Day. “This is where the files are sorted.”
The room was taken up by four large trestle tables, each stacked high with dun-colored folders, each populated by three or four workers — the only exception being the last table, whose occupant worked alone. A few of these unfortunates, pimple faced and greasy with perspiration, glanced incuriously over at us as we came in. They were sorting through the files, pulling out minutes, memos, action plans, graphs and annual reports, putting everyone in alphabetical order and placing them in a trolley. Later that day, someone would wheel them to the lift and distribute them amongst the floors above. This was the engine room of our department, the business end of the place.
“Big turnover of staff down here,” I said. “People don’t tend to last long.” I pointed across the room to the woman who sat alone and who was busy opening parcel after parcel, filleting the contents with automotive efficiency. “Except for her.”
Sausage-fingered, gelatinous and blubbery, she had greasy, lank hair and face, swollen and pink, had the consistency of Play-Doh. Beside her was a gargantuan bottle of cola from which she took frequent, compulsive swigs, as a baby might reach with blind dependency for the nipple. As usual she was pouring with sweat and her clothes were stained with inky spots of perspiration.
“Hello,” I said, realizing that I couldn’t remember her name. Pam? Pat? Paula? No matter how many times I’d been told it just didn’t seem to stick. The fat woman made a slurred noise in reply.
“This is Barbara,” I said, perhaps pronouncing my words a little too emphatically. “She’s just started upstairs.”
The woman made another incoherent noise (“herrow”) and groped again for her bottle of Coke.
As we headed toward the exit, Barbara whispered: “What’s wrong with her?”
“No one likes to ask,” I said. “It’s very sad, really. The poor thing’s been here longer than anyone can remember. She’s become a bit of an institution.”
“Looks like she belongs in an institution,” Barbara muttered, rather cruelly.
Governed by a strange impulse, I turned back. Coke bottle midway to her lips, the woman was staring at us, fury blazing from her blancmange face. Feeling suddenly guilty and ashamed, blushing scarlet, I hurried Barbara from the room, away from the grouchy hum of the fans, the omnipresent smell of sweat and the woman’s silently accusing eyes. We were both of us relieved to head back upstairs.
