Surface Tension - Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 

 “You’re in early,” says James incredulously, slurping from the ubiquitous coffee mug.

            I glance up from the desk where gradually I've been adding papers to an ever growing pile.  The clock on the wall shows a few minutes past 8:30.  I’ve been here in the library for what, a good hour or two.

            “What you doin’?”  James drifts round the table, craning his neck to see the PC screen.

            “Stuff.” I quickly click off the search I’ve been doing and bring up a more mundane document.  “Why don’t you make yourself useful and bringing me a coffee.”

            “Nothing more furtive than a quick mouse click,” James gives me a knowing look.  “It's the office equivalent of legging it when you’ve nicked something from a shop.”

“Oh yeah?” And how’d you know? Want to ‘fess up your past as a petty criminal?”

“Nah. Not at the mo anyway,” he grins. “What’s this?”  He picks up one of the sheaves of paper I’ve printed out.  He flicks though, “Financial stuff, playing the markets?  You’re becoming more and more of a capitalist war monger Tony.  Weekend away from me and you’ve descended to this.”

“Well someone’s got to pay for the revolution.”

 “As long as you know we’ll appropriate it all come the glorious day.”James drops the papers back on the desk giving them a flick as he lets go.  They fan out, flowing on to the floor.

            “Thanks!  It’s some research I’ve been asked to do and that’s really helpful.”

“I’m sorry ‘boss’,” he crouches ready to collect them.

“No!” It’s more of a bark than I intended. James looks shocked. “No, it’s OK. I’ll do it. I know the order.” He stands and shrugs. “Go and do something useful, get me a coffee.”

            He sighs, nods and saunters off, vaguely heading towards the kitchen.

“Coffee!” I shout more in hope. His gait implies that he’s looking for something else to distract him to help adjust to the working day.  I don't hold out much hope of getting the drink.

            Bill had left, she wanted the comfort of her own place. But I couldn’t settle and then I couldn’t sleep as things were constantly going back and forth in my mind. In the end sleep had become irrelevant, and apart from noting that I perhaps should spend less time watching old movies of a melodramatic bent, I came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was to do something.  So I came here, letting myself quietly into the sepulchre to search for facts about Mr Sandy McClelland.

In the time here I’ve built up an impressive pile of paper, business reports, information on his companies; his name crops up not just in the business section of the local papers but in the social reports too; all round man, no charity too small.

            I pause to read his obituary.  It's short, basically ‘small town boy done good’ story but there's an undercurrent that implies that he wasn't quite kosher. The conspicuous philanthropy that came when he'd made his money was always welcomed and it was best not to ask to many questions.  The University was listed as one of his beneficiaries, which surprised me.  His actual death was dealt with in an almost perfunctory way: unexpected heart attack, no history of any illness, shocked family who will greatly miss him.

            Inserted in the text is a grainy photograph.  It's a three quarters shot of a man shaking hands; the recipient’s cut off so the focus is purely on the man reaching out.  He's tall.  His face, in part profile is vulpine, a thin nose,   high forehead with sharp pin prick eyes. His hair is looks iron grey, tight and short.  The plain caption boldly states ‘Mr Sandy McClelland.’  He strikes me as someone who’d hold someone to a promise, who'd expect to receive as much as give.  Even though the photo’s poor I can tell he’s dressed well. This is a man to whom money matters.  At the end in smaller print there is a statement that there will be a memorial service, the date and time is given, it's in two days time.

            Strange, it's only now that the money hits me.  There's a lot of cash sitting in a locker in a private club.  Firstly, what kind of guy would keep a, significant amount of cash in the changing room of what really is a glorified squash club?   Secondly: why?  It's not as if it's loose change just in case you need some cash for the bar is it? 

            Suddenly there's this tingling sensation. It rises up through my body. For a moment I can’t move. The first sun rays dawn on my conscious and the possibility that no one else knows about this, after all if they why would they have left that amount of money lying around?  My palms go clammy as the realisation grows that the money could be mine.

            No it could be ours. Bill and Tony’s, ours.

Is this the way Bill and I start?

            “Are you all right Tony?”  It's Liz, oozing motherly concern, “You look a bit pale, you sure you’re feeling OK?”

            I hum and haw a response, which Liz accepts though I note from the curled eyebrow that she's not 100% convinced.

            “I’ve come to fetch you Tony, we’re waiting in the kitchen.”

            “Sorry?”

            “Monday, start the day briefing and all that?”

            “Oh yes,” I reply apologetically.  The sudden implications of Mr McClelland’s death have set me somewhat off kilter.

            I gather my papers up and we make our way through the library. I dump my cargo on a table. I look up. At the main doors we've a small gaggle of library groupies waiting for us to open the doors.  They're the usual mixture of over zealous students and those at the opposite end of the spectrum, who have just realised that they have a couple of hours to get an essay in plus some ‘normal’ people seeking shelter and warmth. A wave to them and put my hands – 10 minutes or so and  we’ll let them in.

            Everyone’s gathered in the kitchen/staff room. James and Mary perch on the worktop surface so that they are imperceptible touching each other, clearly a good weekend.  Liz, is Liz an oasis of refinement that makes me suddenly aware of the stubble on my face.   Normally this would have been commented on disparagingly, but her concern for my physical well being outweighs her disdain for my appearance. And then there’s Bill.   As I walk into the room we exchange looks but no words.  Unlike me she looks fresh and bright.  I can't tell whether she's slept well or if she's spent time ensuring that she appears that way.  She's wrapped in a black shawl, which she's pulled tight round her, much like my dressing gown yesterday.  The thought’s pleasing and a warm smile spreads through me.

            We bolt through the meeting. Through it all, there at the back of mind now is this thought: now there's the money. Has Bill thought about it? Has she thought about claiming it, using it, spending it?  With whom?  Me?  It’s too tantalising. I steal a glance at her several times. Nothing, no indication, no inclination of what she's thinking, she's staring out the window watching the clouds rip by, then she’s laughing at something James has said.  I force the thoughts down, back inside replacing them with the mundanities of a Monday morning; rotas, cover arrangements, priorities and the like, she drifts watching the world outside.   I'm disappointed to find that Bill is off site this morning working with a couple of groups.  This explains her careful appearance; she’d obviously had the foresight to look at her diary for today.  We'll not be able to talk until this afternoon.

            We finish. James slips out to open the doors and Bill disappears, collecting the requirements for this morning’s work as she goes.   Liz and Mary link up and I drift back across the ground floor where I'm surprised to see two Chinese students already working away.  They sit opposite each other, heads bowed in obeisance to the books that surround them.  I'm puzzled. They look set, as if they've been there for some time.  I turn towards the doors, they're open now and James is flitting round the reception desk.  It seems impossible that the two students could've settled down to work so quickly and yet, what else is there? I decide it is a mystery and leave it at that.  Liz appears.

            “You know it sometimes amazes me how some of them take their studies so seriously,” I nod towards the Chinese, “We’re so blithe about it, take it for granted but they really do treat it as something special.  Their ability to get stuck in is frightening at times.”

            “They take it very seriously indeed.  They see it as an honour.  Those at home have had to make sacrifices for them to be here.  Big sacrifices.”  She pauses mulling this.  “We don’t understand. Then we treat them abysmally when they get here.  At times I think us, the University, just sees them as fodder, walking pots of money, which, as long as the money transfers they don’t really care what happens to them.” 

            “That's a bit political for you Liz, first thing on a Monday morning.”

            Liz lowers her head and gives me one of those steely glares that only women of a certain age seem capable of giving.   

            “Because it is you Mr Dafoe,” she says in her best 'Prime of Miss Jean Brodie', “I will ignore that last remark, which seemed to infer that as a woman I am wound up over a trivial issue.  Do it again and I will not be so charitable.” She prods me in the chest to make the point. “I am concerned with our foreign students and how they are treated.  They are being abused; the accommodation they get is second rate at best.  It seems to be a situation where they’re felt not to matter, they won't complain because they don’t want to lose what they’ve got.”  Her stentorian tone softens.  “I’ve just been trying to help, that’s all.” She pauses, purses her lips in a way that means troubles coming. “Speaking of help, what about Bill?” She fixes me with a hard stare, which makes my jaw go rubbery.  “Don’t hurt her Tony, don’t hurt her.”  She faces me and takes a step forward, pauses, looks down at her feet and then back up at me.  Her cheeks are flushed.  She leans into me and I can taste her perfume on my tongue.  “Tony,” it's a gentle whisper this time, “Tony don’t you get hurt either.”  She clasps my hand and squeezes it hard; the way a mother would to impart confidence to a shy, nervous child. 

            I flinch, a tremor shaking my body. I don't like this.

            James materialises, “The bloke’s here to do the check.” He looks at as both quizzically, “Not interrupting something am I?” Liz and I to take a step back from each other. “The bloke, the inspection. He wants you Tony.” James looks askance at us. “You two OK? Not up to something are you?”

            “Sorry, what?” I'm not on the same planet, let alone page.

            “You know the bloke to do the thingy.” James helpful explains.

            “The ‘thingy’ James, the ‘thingy’?”

            “You know Tony, he comes each year, you hate it but you show him round.  You always say it's a waste of time.  He’s over there.”  James indicates a man in a suit, carrying a clipboard standing by the reception desk.

            “Nope, no idea James, no idea whatsoever.”    

            “Do you mean the University building inspector?”  Liz’s divined what James is on about.

            There’s a moment of awful dawning realisation.

“What!  Oh don’t tell me please.” I've got this leaden feeling growing, feet up. “Where's the letter, they usually send a letter week in advance.” 

I don’t have a happy relationship with the Health and Safety bloke.  Once a year he does a formal check. He always find some reason to criticise which means me attending some pointless meeting full of dry, paper clip administrators, having to write meaningless action plans and then spend our tight, limited budget on stuff that's totally irrelevant. 

            “Didn’t we get the letter last week?” asks James helpfully.  “I’m sure you made some comment about it as you promptly buried it somewhere.”

            “Oh thanks James, thanks.  I do wonder if I will miss you.”

            “Can’t you put him off?”  I’d feared another telling off from Liz, she always thinks I’m under prepared at best, so her question seems strange.        

            “Put him off?”

            “Yes, tell him to come back, say we’re not ready or something.” She’s agitated.

            “Liz, you know that’s not going to wash.  It's now or never.”

            “Tony, for once in your life, just for once, could please be organised.” This is more like it. “It would’ve helped to know he was coming.  It would've helped.”  She wheels away disappearing with an urgency that is both surprising and odd.  I sigh.

            “Do you know what that is about?”

            “Have not got the foggiest idea,” shrugs James.

            “Ho hum, nothing but to get on and sort it out. I suppose” Looking across at the Inspector he’s plainly irritated. “I wonder what infraction he’ll be able to punish us for this year, the wrong paper in the rubbish perhaps?”

“We’ll be using paper clips with dangerously sharp ends.”

“Bound to be James. Well, in to the valley of death.” I smile across the room at the Inspector.  He's tapping his pen on his clip board and makes a big show of s examining his watch.“Look, we'll start on the third floor and work down. You do me favour James, do a once over and see if there's anything obvious that we can sort.”

            “OK “boss”!” James whirls away.

            “And James,” he pauses. “And fix it James, fix it.”

            “Yeah, sure thing “boss”, sure thing,” he says with a wide grin that doesn't give me any confidence at all.

            I stride over to the inspector extending my arm to greet him. He dismissively ignores it.

            “Mr….

            “Healy,” he says tersely.

            “Mr Healy. Is it really a year since you were last with us.”

            “Yes Mr Dafoe it is.  I can see that you are as well prepared as last year.  I have here your action plan which summarises the health and safety issues we came across last year.  I trust that all the issues have been addressed and maintained.” His thin lips curl in disapproval. “We can begin, when you tidy that up.”  He points over my shoulder and hear the sound of books and papers sliding off a table.  I know it has been the stuff I’ve been working on.”

            He angrily flicks though the papers on his clip board whilst I tidy my mess up.  There's a brown envelope that wasn’t there before.  Curiously I finger the envelope; I can feel the hard edge of something else in side.  I look up at Mr Healy.  He makes a show of looking at his watch.

            “I'll be with you in a moment Mr Healy.  Just need to check this.” I wave the envelope. “Important.” It makes no difference to his stern look.

            I flip the envelope over and smile.  The writing on the front is Bill’s.  It says: ‘Thanks Tony for everything.  I never did give you this did I?  Fancy going, I want to but only if you will come.  Do you want to get something to eat together tonight?  See you later, Bill.’  I tear the envelope open and out plops the card that had so nearly been lost out of the car window on Saturday.  It's an invite for the coming weekend.  An overnight party with Josie and Richard Rodgers, two people I've not seen or heard of since Uni.  The address is some farm in the middle of nowhere, north of here, in the wilds.  It's not the kind of thing that thrills me.  Bill has scribbled underneath the details: ‘Tony, you’ve had this for over a month!  Please come.”

            I slide the card back into the envelope. I've already decided what I am going to do.

            I'm going with Bill.