At lunchtime, I met Mum for a sandwich in Cafe Nero.
“How long did you stay last night?” she asked, slurping at her latte.
I thought about telling her what had happened with the window cleaner, but then, guessing how she might react, decided against it. “Not long. There’s nothing I could do.”
“He’d always had it coming,” she said. “We all know he used to like a drink.”
“Will he be OK?” I asked in a small voice.
Mum just shrugged. “Who knows?” She yawned. “Keep an eye on him, won’t you? Your Dad would have wanted you to.”
“I’m going again tonight,” I said.
She seemed surprised. “Really?”
“I want to be with him. It’s not like he’s got anyone else.”
“But who does he have to blame for that? Actually, darling, I was hoping to ask you a favor.”
Her motive for lunch had suddenly become clear. “And what’s that?”
“The old bastard’s house. Lord knows why but I’ve got a spare set of keys. Be a dear and pop round in the next couple of days, will you? Just make sure no one’s trashed the place or turned it over.” She deposited a bunch of keys on the table with a resolute
“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
