Surface Tension - Chapter 10

Chapter 10

We’re all criminals aren’t we? I’m not saying everyone’s got the potential to be a murderer, major felon. No, it’s not that but we’re all a little elastic with the what’s right.

I’m not talking the ‘little white lies’ that make life work, (you know the desultory “Oh fine” in response to how was last night, when the truth would be a description of how  hellish it had been or the evergreen “Do I look good in this?”, where a truthful answer could lead to World War III. No, all that’s the social glue that holds us together, this is about ‘accidently’ bringing home that pad of paper, secretly running of half a ream of A4 on the work copier for Saturdays barbeque poster, the illegally copy of the download or CD (more likely in my world), watching a pirated DVD; that kind of thing.  These are the things that sit below the consciousness. It’s only when something deliberate happens that you realise that strictly speaking it’s not right;; the documentary that uncovers a web of crime all funded via laundered money from DVD sales, the office temp getting fired because she gets blamed for using all the photocopying paper.

            This is one of those moments.   Here and now, I'm not sure what to feel. 

            I’m kneeling on the tiled floor in front of a row of lockers. There’s a draft blowing through my robe and my feet are cold on the tiles. My hand’s in the towelling pocket fingering two small keys.. One opens the locker I’ve stuffed my clothes in, the other, well, it opens someone else's locker. And that’s the one I’m kneeling in front of. I’ve got cold feet: is it breaking and entering even if I don’t smash it open?

            I take a deep breath and tell myself there’s a greater good here, and after all it’s not as if it isn’t someone I don’t know, I could be doing Jonah a favour. This could be the moment of restoration for him and Bill.

            That doesn’t work. This is not an altruistic act. That  gets me thinking of Bill and what I’d have to say if I came out empty handed because of an attack of conscious. We’ve come so far and I’ve spent good money to be here but it would be a lot easier if right now she was next to me.

            I dig a small bronze key out and insert it in to the locker and turn.  I wait for the click and the door to swing open; nothing happens.  I try again. Nothing. I waggle the key furiously but the locker remains stubbornly closed.

          “Steady on mate, you’ll break it,” The voice is a strong, clear baritone, demanding that I turn round. I resist, thinking look natural but I’ve gone scarlet “You OK?”

          “Yes,” I stare hard at the key.

          “That won’t be your locker.” 

          The voice has moved closer, to my shoulder.  In a moment I see the security guard escorting me from the premises, still clad in this robe.  My clothes will be hurled after me as I'm pushed down the steps. Thomas and the Cyclops will be there standing, jeering, applauding my ejection.

          Carefully I turn to find my assailant.  He's taller than me with black curly hair which he is ferociously drying with a large white towel. Apart from this he's butt naked. I blanche and then realise it’s extremely unlikely that he’s a naked security guard. I’m safe, at least for the time being. He bends and reaches over my shoulder and plucks my key out.

          “See,” he shoves the key at my face, ignoring the fact that I’m dangerously close to his crotch. “The number of your locker is here on the key.”  He points to three numbers at the top of the key.  He stands (and I feel relief) and places the key in another locker to my left, turns and the door pops, revealing my clothes screwed up in a ball. “Wrong locker,” he points, “Right locker” to emphasise this he gives a little flourish as if performing a card trick.

          I smile sheepishly, gather my belongings and retreat to one of the benches.  Digging in the robe’s pockets I find the second key. I press it hard into my hand so there’s a small spasm of pain.

          “Thanks.”

          “Easily done.” My rescuer is busily polishing his athletic body. “You’re new?”

          “Yeah.”

          “There good facilities here, But I knew that one you were trying to get into couldn’t be yours,” he gestures towards the locker, “Belongs to Sandy McClelland.”

          “Belonged,” chimes a portly man, who saunters out of the showers.

          I’m shocked, I’d assumed I was alone and now I was wondering if there was a party going on in the showers

          “Aye, belonged,” says curly acknowledging rotund with a nod. “Sandy was our club president past two years.  Good guy, made a tonnes of money.”

          The portly man plonks himself opposite me and begins to inspect left foot, “Yeah,” he chimes in, “Always jokes about what he kept in the locker.  Not just his clothes.”         

          “So rumour has it.  Didn’t know him socially, just saw him about.  I reckon he did business and stuff here.  There are a couple of private rooms, you know, and they can get food sorted out.   Sandy would always talk to you but we’d rather do our drinking elsewhere, wouldn’t we Tim? Anyway he was regularly down here and then one day just drops dead.”

          “Here?” I ask.

          “Yeah that’s right,” portly’s now onto his right foot, “He’d been working out in the gym, hit the steam room and never came out”. 

          “His heart went phut, well that’s what the doctor said.”

          “Fit guy, excellent shape for someone, what in his late 50s.”

          “Yeah that will be right.  Class bloke, real shame.”

          The two fall silent.

            I’m going as slowly as possible.  I’m intrigued and slightly appalled, I was about to raid a dead man’s locker. What’s more it wasn’t Jonah’s locker. That begged a question: so why’d he have the key? Bill had said that Jonah had sworn blind that he didn’t know where the key came from, maybe that was true?  Was it an accident he’d got it? Or something more sinister? I don’t know why but I now wanted to find what was in the locker more than anything, no qualms or questions.

            “When’d he er, die?”

          The two exchange glances.  They’re both sitting, completing the final part of the routines; shoes being tied, shirt’s done up.  

            “What, a week?” says curly.

            “Yeah, about that.  Last Monday?

            “That’d be right. Thought they were going to close up but it was all above board, no suspicious circumstances”.

             “Yeah,” the portly man is now standing and preening himself in front of the mirror.

          “ You finished Phil, 'cos we better get a move on if we’re to make it to the Crown and believe me there’s nothing you can do until you shift that belly”  Curly laughs and they swoop on their sports bags and leave with a ‘See ya’ hanging in the air as door swings shut.

          I sit waiting to see if anyone will enter.  No one does.  I stand, find the key, making sure it is the right key this time and move toward the locker.  I’m not quite dressed, my shirt is hanging out of my trousers, and my bare feet slap on the floor.  Cautiously I check each corner of the room, I'm definitely the only one here. I kneel and raise the key to the locker. I'm surprised at how nervous I am, my hand trembles. Twice I miss the key hole, “This is stupid,” the key slides in. My heart picks up pace, it's rattling my rib cage.  It's the only noise in the room, other than my breathing.

          Crash! 

          The noise is loud, sudden and explosive.  As I'm coming down to earth I spin on my heels to find Bill sheepishly standing by the door, which has gently swung closed.

          “What the…?” I exclaim.

          “Sorry.  You’d been taking an age in here and I thought I’d come and see what you were up to.”

          “You were certainly little Miss Discrete!”

          “Yeah, well, I leant on the door harder than I thought.”

          “I’ll say.”  Despite that shock I’m pleased that she’s here.  It seems more legitimate.  She looks bright eyed and refreshed.

          “So, what's taking you so long?”

          “There were two guys in here, so I couldn’t open it.  Anyway it was useful.  I’ve got things to tell you.  I don’t think this is straight forward, for a start this isn’t…”

          “Hey, come on.   They’ll be round in a moment to lock things up.”  I check my watch, we've less than five minutes before the facilities will be closed.  Bill reaches down and turns the key.  “I don’t care Tony, I want to see what’s inside.” The door gives way with a quiet click.   We pause, look at each other.

           “…our hopes and fears are met in thee tonight,” I mutter

          “What?”

          “Nothing, just came to mind.”  I open the door. Inside is exactly what you’d expect to find in a locker.  Some wash stuff, deodorant, a towel and behind the towel is a black duffel bag. I empty the locker until the duffel bag is all that's left.

          “Well?”

          “Take it out will you Tony?”  Her voice has a tremor to it.

          “You sure?” My hand is resting on the heavy cotton bag. It is stiff and feels new,  unused. “What's in here could be something or northing. Something, at it might change everything with you and Jonah. Good or bad. You ready for that, Bill?”

          She looks at me. Uncertainty casts a shadow. She's chewing her lip. She blinks acquiescence.

          “Of course it could be a dead man’s sweaty gym socks.”

          “So?”

          “OK.” I reach in to the locker and pull.  It's hard to get it out.  It only just fits in the space.  Whoever put it in must have fought to get it into the locker.  With a wrench it pops free and I stumble back dropping it to the floor. It makes a dull thud.  I know it's not some guy’s gym kit.  It's too heavy for that. 

          It sits at our feet, its top slowly unfurling now that it has been released from its prison.  It has a pale leather trim round the top.  The trim is interspersed with silver eyelets through which a white, woven cord runs.  This cord is then looped to the bottom, where it is attached to the base of the bag by a steel ring.  The cord has been pulled tight so the mouth of the bag is scrunched closed.  The excess cord lies flaccidly on the floor.  I kneel down and place my hands tenderly on the top of the bag.

          “Well?”  I look up at Bill enquiringly.  Her face is blank. She motions that I should go ahead. I tug the bag open.  I peer inside.  I can’t see much and so drop my hand in and feel around.  What I come across is papery, small loose sheets, some in bundles.

 

          “You sure about this? Last moment?” Bill’s standing over me. I’ve got my hands in a black duffel bag that doesn't belong to me in the men’s changing room of a posh fitness club neither of us could afford or would have willing chosen to be part of, 'cept for all Jonah and the wretched key.

          “What’s the matter?”

          I’m rooting around in the bag, trying to find something other than the paper, which has a familiar grain to it. “It seems as if the only thing in here is…” I dig deep and grab one of the bundles; “… is....” 

          I take out a bundle of notes, £50 notes. 

          I’ve never seen a £50 note, let alone a bundle. If it's possible Bill goes a whiter shade of pale and her mouth forms a perfect 'o' and then:

          “Is that it?”

          “I think so.” I tip the bag. From its mouth spews more money some loose others in bundles, £10s £20s and £50s.

          We freeze.

          The cold from the outside has leaked into the building, insinuating itself through the cracks, working its way along the vents. It reaches us and burns deep.  I swallow hard; it's about all I can do. I’ve never seen so much money. 

          From outside there’s a noise, voices along the corridor, laughter and then a pause:  “Are you going to check?  I’ll do this one once I’ve done this.”

          We look at each other.  I steal a look at my watch.  We've lost track of time. It's chucking out time.  We're about to be discovered.  Automatically we begin stuffing the money back into the bag, scooping and pouring as fast as we can go.  I hurl it back into the locker but the door resists closing.  We both push.

          “Quick!” hisses Bill.

          “You've got to hide Bill!”

          The door clicks closed.  As I am turning the key the changing room door swings open and a track suited attendant wanders in. I look up. Bill's ducked behind a door, out of his line of sight.

          “Oh, thought it was empty. You finished?  We close the changing rooms now, but you are free to get a drink in the bar.”

          “Thank you, I was just coming, having a few problems with my locker.”

          “Can I help?”

          “Oh, no, no I’m done now.”  I stand and wander over to the peg where my coat’s hanging. I feel a bead of sweat form and trickle down the back of my neck. 

          “OK.” He moves to the entrance door and holds it open.  As he turns he catches sight of Bill.  He stops.   As he does, I see a £50 note lying on the floor, by the heel of his left trainer.

          “What? You shouldn’t be in here,” he scolds Bill.

          “Sorry,” says Bill, “Please don't get the wrong idea. He was taking his time so I popped my head round to see what he was up to.”  As she speaks Bill wanders over and takes my arm possessively.  “Come on you, time to go.”  Back to the attendant, “It’s the steam room, he gets so relaxed.” 

          “Well, you know we just need to make sure.  We get some..types, try anything.”

          “Really?” Bill arches her eyebrows.

          “Really!”  He holds the door open for us.  I don't want to move. The notes there but Bill hasn’t noticed, she's pulling hard on my arm, she silently mouths “move”.  I try to nod innocently in the direction of the money.  She takes no notices and tugs me again.  I give in.

          We are almost through the door, when the attendant stops us. 

          “Hang on,” We pause. “Is this yours?”  He reaches down and picks up the note.  Another bead of sweat rolls down by spine.

          Without missing a beat Bill says, “Yes, sorry,”adopting her best girly-ish voice, “Silly, you most have dropped this.”  She hits me lightly on the upper arm as I reach out and take the note, muttering thanks.  We're gone.

 

It was too much to take in.  We hardly spoke on the journey back. At my flat, I poured a couple of stiff drinks and suddenly the words began to fall. I explained whose the locker was; we tossed ideas around about the key.  We tried to estimate the amount of money.  We were elated, excited, thrilled.    We pushed aside all thoughts of doubt, that this was wrong.  This was something between the two of us. 

          I don’t know whether it was the tiredness or the exhilaration but it was just a whirl.  Until I realised that though I was talking, rambling and reminiscing Bill was not with my any more, she'd given up and given in to sleep.

          Dawn's greying light fingers the trees and the birds have begun their chorus. Bill and I now have something that no-one else has. 

          From this point on things are different.