The hairbrush

Twinned with its French counterpart now a ghost town and a bombed-out German city believed by some to be the birthplace of Nazism, affluent English families have been drawn to Whiffwell for its close proximity to London and wistfully quaint countryside.  Vast lumps of complicated domestic architecture, mothered by local gentry and built by the Irish, was largely born under the reign of Victoria and with it came an unenthused desire for culture that remains reliably dull. It is now the epitome of the dreary phrase ‘stockbroker belt’ and its reputation as the most prudish place on earth stands firm, with equally downtrodden walkers and artists refusing to visit or exhibit.

Not much has changed in Whiffwell apart from in name, now pronounced as Whiffle. Indeed its own blickered rigidity has made sure that nothing would change, and why would it? London, with all its sleaze and drama, was a whisk away on the extremely reliable rail service. By car, even the most priggish driver could putter up and be sat at The Sporting Page drinking a pint of bitter within the hour, there to perform a temporary transformation derived from alcoholic schizophrenia.

No, nothing much at all has changed in Whiffwell, although those who come up to live away from London are a somewhat different breed now. Thoroughly middle-classed families in need of a quieter life and orderly schools make the move - some have made a killing by flipping property and taken over the vast lumps, others made just enough on their pokey little flat in zone 2 to afford a detached house on Whiffwell’s outskirts. Other lonely inhabitants include those destined to be spinsters who have tired of getting drunk with and laid by colleagues from work and those with delicate sociopathic natures. Whiffwell offers acceptable boredom and little temptation for those whose sophistication has worn thin and failed them.

Its two claims of fame are highly appropriate for somewhere devoid of cultural ambition; most pertinently, it was the first town in the UK to install closed circuit television systems throughout its commercial zone and, since the toppling of Kensington by Labour only recently, it now holds the record for the longest uninterrupted Conservative council in the history of British politics. Whiffwell would be damned if it changed and damned if it didn’t.

Paul didn’t like Whiffwell but somehow he’d gravitated back there from a distraught childhood. He couldn’t work out why or how he found himself there but it was most probable that Whiffwell presented a lack of vitality which he perceived may offer him a chance of survival as a newly recovered dyslexic drug addict. By avoiding those with a sparkle to their eye he stood a chance. The NA meetings there (one, twice weekly) were dull and filled with ever duller stories of closeted alienation cushioned by a claustrophobic and eternally fireless desire. Against his own pitifully nihilistic existentialism he was warmed by the sheltered corruption of their disease.

There was no room for pity in Whiffwell, unless for the more crooked disciples of Jesus, and certainly not for those who had fallen into modern traps. But praise always made Paul feel like asking for a soggy dog bone and Whiffwell’s obstinate distaste for compassion aligned well with his stern oath to give up London’s liberally laced crack pipe.

Three years ago Paul hobbled onto a train at Victoria. Ticketless, he locked himself in the toilet to avoid detection and thought of killing himself with a cleaver. That was the last thing he ever stole, and he still covets that cleaver, wiping it down with a dry cloth after cutting his sandwich loaf every morning before heading off to work.

The irregular pattern of his working week was determined not only by the amount of returns made by customers at Homebase but by the resentful whims of his manager, who disliked and distrusted Paul for his quiet, retiring nature. Paul’s weekly rota was given to him as late as possible in an attempt to upset him but it never worked. Nonchalantly goading him with the sack Paul refused to condescend himself and the manager gave up to turn his attention to the misery of others. Still, the rota made do.

Whiffwell’s out-of-town commercial park was a twenty-minute walk from Paul’s dark little flat in town. He enjoyed the walk there and back whether it rained or shone. It gave him time to reflect his predicament, which gave him just enough courage to face the day. He encountered few people at work. Far away in a corner at the end of the warehouse there was no need to listen to customers’ excuses for returned items, mostly made up from bored housewives with nothing better to do and maddened heads of houses wanting to get away from the kids at weekends. There were also the older ladies who couldn’t work out how to open the boxes or had got back home and decided it wasn’t quite the ticket.

For Paul, who had known much more lucrative ways of making a nuisance (namely ‘popping in’, which amounted to waiting outside Homebase or B&Q for someone to discard a receipt, picking it up, looking to see what was purchased and if it was paid for in cash, popping in, finding the item/s, sauntering up to the till for a refund, getting the money and returning to the crackhouse) none of their games mattered. He gained courage by recalling to memory the hateful acquiescence in the nodding face of his manager when confronted by a customer with a returned item.

To make life as lacklustre as possible Paul was usually given half a Saturday and Mondays off and on the day we begin to watch him, he is about to set off into town. It’s a Monday at about midday and Paul has decided to buy a hairbrush.

The first two years off the crack were the worst. In the evening, nightmares and visions of a happy life puffing on the pipe in exotic places were preceded by flashbacks and observations in the day. He would wake up covered in sweat, go for a shower and then walk the empty streets. In his third year of clean living, the nightmares had fizzled out and were replaced by inconclusive dreams that were difficult to remember.

The reconditioning process of Paul’s mind and body was beginning to show in his character. He started to like himself and when he looked in the mirror he saw someone he might be able to live with. He wanted to better himself as well, and the hairbrush was one more small reward for carving out this new life. Gone were the hollow cheeks, the vacant eyes, the conniving thoughts.

Paul didn’t want a saintly life, though. On Wednesday and Friday nights he’d go to his local pub, drink three pints of lager and play the fruit-machine. By a process of elimination, he’d found that if he refused paltry cash teasers for long enough, the machine would inevitably pay the jackpot. As a result, he hardly ever lost.

Buying things for the new life weren’t easy for Paul. He still begrudged the idea of actually paying for them instead of pocketing them, but these testing thoughts were slowly subsiding with the feelings enjoyed from the rewards.

Of his meagre salary, two-thirds was allotted to rent, utilities and council tax. The rest he spent quite wisely, grabbing offers when presented. The hairbrush would be no different.

First stop was Superdrug on the high street, where he thought an offer might be available. No such luck. Boots was next but again there were no offers. He spotted one with natural bristles and an extortionate price and for a second he wanted to steal it so he quickly walked out of the shop. He thought he’d try his luck at Phyllis Tuckwell but there was no hairbrush.

In TK Maxx he found a good hairbrush that was heavily discounted. It didn’t have natural bristles but it wasn’t priced as a heart-stopper. At the till, Paul was asked if he would like a carrier bag and he elected not to buy one.

Tucking the receipt into his wallet, he placed the hairbrush into the side pocket of his jacket and walked out of the store.

As he walked up the road towards the supermarket, he saw Carl from the pub striding towards him. Carl was a funny chap with a crack problem and one of the very few people he talked to. He had a way with words that made him laugh but that didn’t mean a friendship could blossom. Friendship was a dangerous business. Carl liked to watch Paul play the fruit-machine because it put him in the mood for an afternoon nap. They make jokes about the machine as if it was a living thing and when he won the jackpot they parted company.

‘I can’t decide what to eat,’ said Carl.

‘Ah, the big questions.’

‘Yeah, had some pork belly and mash for breakfast this morning.’

‘Lovely.’

‘Do you want to come round for a cup of tea at my new place. I don’t like you, mind. It’s just I get lonely.’

Paul laughed. ‘No thanks. Got to get on, you know.’

‘Oh well, I’m off to smoke some crack.’

And that was that.

Paul continued his stroll and spotted Sally’s, another shop that sold hairbrushes. Wondering if they had an offer on one with natural bristles he entered, quickly surveyed the hairbrush section, found nothing special and walked out again.

The sales girl there spotted what she thought was a hairbrush sticking out of his jacket pocket as he exited and by the time he’d walked out she was on the phone to the local police.

Next to Sally’s was a new patisserie outside. A woman was at the entrance holding a tray with some free cake slices. She offered Paul one and he took a slice of Black Forest gateau. The sales girl at Sally’s watched him and saw for sure that a hairbrush was indeed sticking out of his jacket pocket.

‘Yes,’ she spoke into the phone. ‘It’s definitely a hairbrush.’

In the time it took for Paul to eat his cake, three cameras had swivelled to focus upon him, two operators were playing back and inspecting his movements prior to entering Sally’s and a police officer was hot on his tail only moments away.

Having finished the slice of cake Paul walked off down a side street towards the supermarket. The police officer was running down an adjoining street to join him with a camera operator’s voice relaying his every step into her earpiece. The other two operators were busy looking through footage but failed to spot the hairbrush sticking out of Paul’s pocket on leaving TK Maxx. What he did see, however, was Paul stopping to talk to Carl, a known pilferer. Perhaps this association had blinded them both but they could not see the hairbrush. What mattered was catching a thief red-handed and the last time this had happened in Whiffwell was three weeks ago, a pregnant, penniless young woman caught squirreling panty pads under her considerable jumper at Poundland.

The pursuing police officer caught up with Paul just as he was about to enter Waitrose. Rather than stop him she walked directly towards him to gauge his reaction. Paul looked towards her nonchalantly and carried on his way.

By this time one of the camera operators had notified Waitrose that a suspected thief was about to enter the building. All their own cameras were tracking Paul and an in-store security guard was being screamed at through his earpiece to follow him.

With a day to wile away Paul had elected to saunter around the aisles looking for offers. At the egg section, where he found that the Burford Browns had been discounted by twenty-five percent, he placed a dozen in his trolley.

The security guard took up position at crisps, where he spotted the hairbrush sticking out of the side pocket of Paul’s windcheater.  Walking away, he whispered into his microphone to confirm that the hairbrush was still on him.

Paul wondered why he was attracting so much attention, then he remembered walking out of Sally’s and recalled the funny look on the sales girl’s face. So unused to keeping a watchful eye out for plod, his senses had failed him until that time.

Something snapped in Paul at this time. Rather than diffuse the situation, he decided to play along with their caper and when the security guard joined him at toothpaste, he wolf-whistled and watched him scurry off with the neck bent into his microphone.

Paul traversed the aisles with anxiety rising. Part of him wanted to resolve the situation but the security guard didn’t reappear. At checkout he noticed him loitering by the exit and he decided that he would talk to him as he left but as he waited in the queue he saw through the window to the street, where the police officer could also be seen looking directly at him. For some unknown reason, Paul couldn’t resist pulling his tongue out at her, after which he saw her talking into her microphone to the three male officers sat in the police van strategically positioned around the corner, CS spray, cuffs and tazers at the ready. Also in the van was a cameraman for a production company that the police had commissioned to film criminals caught in the act for purposes of televisual entertainment. Most of the TV gold was found at the homeless hostel and beaten women’s home, where small infractions and delicate liberties were teased and cajoled into custody to placate licence payers.

Exiting with his trolley, Paul grabbed the five-pence carrier bag he’d bought from the supermarket and nonchalantly, slowly, took out the hairbrush from his side pocket and placed it in the carrier bag in open sight of the policewoman and the security guard, who gasped in horror. A small crowd of Waitrose staff and their manager stood still at different parts of the store with visual access to Paul, hoping he’d kick off and give them something to talk about.

But nothing happened. Even Paul was surprised that he could walk away a free man. He wondered what had stopped the policewoman and assumed that the camera operators must have cottoned on by then, liaising with TK Maxx’s surveillance staff and confirming that he’d purchased the hairbrush there.

Back at his flat Paul mulled over the situation and became worried. What if he was now labelled a thief by the Whiffwell constabulary? What if they hadn’t known he’d purchased the hairbrush at TK Maxx? And what if they wanted to make his life a misery?

By that evening his anxiety had risen to a dangerous level and thoughts of crack were developing so he decided that the only course of action would be to go to the police station to explain his quandary. That way, he could show them the receipt for the hairbrush and make known his innocence. Even if his fear of being incriminated was completely misguided, he would have done all he could to quieten his own anxiety and cancel the crack thoughts.

So he went to the police station and explained the whole situation. He exhibited the receipt for the hairbrush to an officer, who advised Paul that all was well. But all was not well.

That same evening, as the policewoman drank her daily bottle of chardonnay, she couldn’t get Paul’s tongue out of her mind. Yes, she and her crack team of investigators had been mistaken in their estimations of him but, to her mind, that didn’t excuse Paul’s offensive behaviour.

The next day, Paul returned home from work to find that his flat had been broken into and ransacked. His laptop, passport and some old phones were missing. After reporting the burglary to the police, the policewoman and a male officer came to visit and took notes. Asked if he had home insurance, the policewoman couldn’t help smiling when he said he hadn’t.

Paul knew what had happened when he couldn’t find his hairbrush. After a few seconds, anger dissipated and all thoughts of crack had evaporated. The passport was out-of-date, old phones were worth nothing and laptop was on the blink.

By the time he’d tidied the flat up and got ready for bed, the policewoman had finished her shift and returned home with the hairbrush, which would stay with her.