Crazy Paving Page 16

  Richard was asking for too much. It was one thing wanting Benny to watch the cottage – although Richard still had not explained why. What he was after now was something else altogether. What if it went wrong? What if they got caught? Arthur leant back in his seat, trying to arch his back to ease the stiffness. The effort brought his capacious stomach into contact with his aluminium desk and pushed it forward, making a small screechy-scrapy sound on the wooden floor of the pre-fab.

  The sound of Arthur Robinson’s desk masked another similar sound which occurred simultaneously in the yard outside – but the wind carried it up over the wall and off into the chill, smoky ether of Kennington.

  Arthur heaved himself out of his chair and went over to the heater. Standing over the warmth, his pudgy fingers splayed, he waved at it with both hands. Perhaps it was sex; perhaps that was what was absent from his life. He and his wife hadn’t had it for years but, truth to tell, he didn’t miss it. What was copulation when there were so many different types of pastry in the world? And with pastries, you only had to wash your fingers. Richard still had sex, he could tell. He was that kind of person. The world could be divided into two types, really. Those who had regular intercourse and those who preferred cake. He had infinitely more respect for the latter.

  Then he heard the sound: a twisted wail which ended in a squeak followed by a choking noise, as if the voice making it had reached the limits of its pitch and was protesting. Arthur went over to the portakabin’s grimy window, rubbed it with his sleeve (which made no difference) and peered out into the night. The lantern outside scarcely lit the yard but he could see the vague hulks of machinery, the sheds and – in the corner – Benny’s igloo.

  The cry came again. Arthur shook his head. ‘Poor little sod,’ he muttered to himself. He took his old sheepskin waistcoat from the hook on the back of the door and slipped his arms into it, then went outside.

  It was not possible to knock on Benny’s igloo – knocking on rubber produced no sound – so Arthur knelt at the opening and peered in. The interior of Benny’s home was dark but he could hear squeaking and scuffling.

  ‘Benny . . .’ Arthur called softly, scared of waking him too violently, ‘Benny . . . it’s Senior Robinson. You’re having a dream . . . perhaps you should try waking up.’ There was no Junior Robinson, Arthur had explained, but Benny still preferred this term of address. Polite people, the Venezuelans.

  There was another sharp cry, louder this time, followed by a sudden flurry of movement, then silence. Arthur Robinson waited, crouched by the entrance. He had never dared to venture into the igloo and had told his other operatives that nobody else should either, on pain of being sacked. Even the homeless deserve some privacy, he informed them sternly. What Benny did in there was anybody’s guess: slept; dreamt; cried out. It was no life.

  Eventually, Benny’s small confused face appeared in the opening. He nodded, a little abashed. It was the only time that Benny smiled, when he was embarrassed.

  Arthur felt sympathy for the man, so he did not mention the nightmare. ‘It’s like this Benny,’ he said, pulling his waistcoat round him and holding it across his chest with his arms, although he was a man who never felt the cold. ‘We need you to take a closer look at that cottage. You’ve done really well. We’re very pleased. But we need you to actually get inside, that’s why we asked you to check out the back and so on. He wants you to wait until the old couple go out. It shouldn’t be difficult.’

  Benny had mimed sash windows when Arthur had asked him about the Appletons’ security arrangements.

  ‘The man, I mean, my friend . . .’ Arthur hesitated, ‘he wants you to cause a bit of trouble. Not tonight. When he gives the word.’ Benny frowned. Arthur Robinson frowned too. He found this difficult. ‘You know, mess things up a bit, while they’re out, mind.’ Arthur could not bring himself to repeat what Richard had really said over the phone. Tell him to piss on the carpets if he feels like it, Richard had told him. Crap on the sofa. Wank off into the breadbin. The works. I want a mess. I want it nasty.

  The thought of asking anyone to wank off into a breadbin was more than Arthur Robinson could bear. It was a Tuesday night. Annette was in her house in Catford. She was lying on her bed, naked. It was half past nine at night and William had just left.

  She lay for a long time, imprisoned by the texture of her skin. She felt too heavy to move. She could still feel the imprint of William’s hands either side of her head, the feel of his fingers in her hair. Her skull felt fragile. Inside its brittle carapace, her mind turned. I am in love, her mind said. I love. At the same time, her body resented William’s absence. The feel of the sheet beneath her naked back was insubstantial. The pillow did not move. She struggled to feel resentment but could only conjure warmth. I am lost.

  She began to shiver, so she rose and pulled on her towelling robe. Then she padded lightly to the bathroom and leant her elbows on the sink, staring into the mirror. The robe was white, with a pale green trim and green belt, loosely tied. Beneath her throat, her fine skin plunged in a dark V-shape, an arrow between her engorged breasts, pointing downwards to the glowing regions of her thighs. She gazed at her face. Her skin was clear. Her eyes were bright. Her hair was ruffled into a light, fluffy mess. She was beautiful.

  She did not bathe. She pulled the robe around herself and went downstairs. It seemed a shame to draw the curtains and turn on the lights. She hesitated, unwilling to make the room look as it always did. She put the television on but turned it off almost immediately – watching it seemed unbearably normal. Instead, she turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial until she found some classical music, then made herself a sandwich to the reassuringly unfamiliar tinkle of a harp. Afterwards, she left her plate and knife next to the sink and went to lie on the sofa with her arms folded behind her head and her legs dangling over the side. She gazed at the ceiling.

  When she sat up to look at the clock on top of the television, it said eleven thirty.

  She was running water over her sandwich plate when she heard the knock at the door. She froze.

  She stood still for a moment, her mind computing possibilities. There were a lot of Jehovah’s Witnesses in Catford but they wouldn’t call this late. The only probability was William. No, that wasn’t at all probable. Even so, she ruffled her hair and ran her tongue over her teeth as she crossed the kitchenette.

  She went to the curtain which she kept across the alcove to the doorway and peered round. Through the wavering glass panels she could only see a dark figure, too tall to be William. She paused, then leant forward and slid the chain on. Then she opened the door.

  The man standing on the step was in his fifties, tall, with grey-brown hair receding at the temples and a heavily lined face. He gave a half-ironic smile and the skin around his brown eyes crinkled. He pressed his lips together, shrugging slightly. Ah well, his shrug said.

  He looked at her for a moment, then said, ‘I know it’s late. I was meeting a friend in Lewisham. I was going down Rushey Green. You can always tell me to get lost.’

  She closed the door, unslid the chain, then opened it again. He stepped inside.

  ‘Hello Girlie,’ he said, and held out his arms.

  William was home by ten o’clock. All the way home, he could feel Annette. As he parked his car outside the house he wanted to turn to her, as if she was sitting next to him in the passenger seat. As he put his key in his own front door he wanted to step back, and usher her in first.

  Alison was in the sitting room, watching the news. He went and stood in the doorway. The top of her head was just visible above the sofa. He wanted to say hello but was worried that his voice would not sound normal.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Alright?’ he asked as he turned and went into the kitchen.

  The kettle had boiled recently and steam was curling from its spout. He turned it on. If I smoked, he thought, now is the moment I would want a cigarette. He went back to the door of the sitting room. ‘Tea?’ he
asked.

  ‘No thanks,’ the top of her head replied.

  The kettle was already boiling as he returned to the kitchen. It clicked itself off as he pulled a mug from the pile of crockery sitting in the drainer, which collapsed with a small clatter. He tossed a teabag into the mug and poured on the water. While he waited for it to brew, he stared at the black square of uncurtained window above the sink. His face seemed distant and pale, the face of a man he had never met.

  While Annette filled the kettle, the man sat on the sofa. ‘So I finally got a decent price,’ he was saying. ‘Two years on the market. What a nightmare. I thought it would never go.’

  ‘Will you go down to Southampton?’ Annette asked.

  ‘Oh I don’t know Girlie,’ he replied.

  She plugged the kettle in and turned back to the sink, to finish cleaning her plate and knife from earlier. There was a moment or two of silence.

  Then, she became aware that he was standing close behind her. He had removed his heavy coat. He lifted his hand and, with the backs of his fingers, brushed the soft towelling of her robe. ‘Been a long time Girlie,’ he said.

  She stopped with her hands in the water. ‘No Keith,’ she said. ‘No. It isn’t what I want.’

  ‘Eighteen months?’ he asked. ‘Maybe longer. We had that drink in Leicester Square.’

  He lifted his other hand and, very gently, pulled her loose hair away from her neck.

  Annette closed her eyes. Then she felt his lips soft and full against the back of her neck. For a moment she felt irritation with his persistence, then nothing, then – to her surprise – a sense of heat. Her breasts were still full and heavy from William’s attentions, her vagina still damp. Sated, warm, relaxed, her body was responding to the familiarity of Keith’s touch.

  He moved his hand up to the back of her neck and began to massage it, strongly and slowly. Almost instinctively, her head fell forward. His other arm came over her shoulder and grasped her firmly across her chest. He pressed her forward against the sink unit. She could feel his erection through his thin trousers, pushing at her buttocks. Her hands were still in the washing up water. I don’t believe this is happening to me, she thought. I don’t believe it. Tonight, of all nights. He turns up tonight.

  All at once, she felt a rush of anger, not against Keith but William. Where was he? Why wasn’t he here, preventing this? They had made love and then he had got up and dressed and gone home to his wife: burning, sweet love, the sort of love that leaves you clinging to another’s body through the night, even in sleep. And he had gone home to his wife. He was probably in bed with her now, puking excuses. She owed him nothing.

  Keith’s arm withdrew slightly and his hand slipped into her robe, cupping the weight of her left breast. His thumb and forefinger moved to circle the nipple and then began to work it, gently.

  He turned her round and she lifted her face, her damp hands resting on his shoulders. ‘Still my Girlie . . .’ he murmured as their lips brushed. I taste of William, she thought. Can he tell?

  I taste of William, she thought, ten minutes later as he parted her thighs and lowered his head to her clitoris. He must be able to tell. She was lying on her back on the bed. Perhaps he doesn’t mind, likes it even. He had carried her upstairs and laid her down, pushing the crumpled bulk of the duvet to one side. She and William had used a condom. Surely there would be the taste of that? There had never been any need for that with Keith – he had had a vasectomy when he was thirty. No accidents for Keith. He knew the purpose of sex. She reached out and tugged softly at his hair, lifting him up. As he rose, she searched his face for signs of distaste. She saw only the same, familiar, sleepy lust. He reached out one hand and picked up a pillow from behind her head. Then, lifting her slightly, tucked it underneath her buttocks, so that she was raised to him. As she continued to wonder at the unlikeliness of what was happening, he pushed into her.

  Afterwards he lay on her for a long time, while she stroked his hair.

  ‘Keith . . .’ she said gently.

  ‘I know,’ he groaned. ‘I’m sorry Girlie. It wasn’t planned, I promise. I was passing, really. It was an impulse – I couldn’t help it. Then you opened the door. I’ve never stopped feeling for you, you know that.’

  ‘Keith. That is the last time. I mean it.’

  He raised his head from her chest and looked at her. He pulled a face. She met his gaze. ‘I mean it Keith. Don’t turn up like that again. I don’t care if you’re passing or not. It’s the last time.’

  He lowered his head again. ‘Oh well . . .’ he sighed. She could sense that he didn’t really mind, quite liked it in fact; same old Keith – pretending she was the one in charge while nudging her the way he wanted. It would always be like that.

  He rolled off her and lay at her side. He groaned. ‘I’m getting old . . .’ he said. ‘Look.’ He prodded his heavy belly, the crumpled paunch against her smooth flesh. She smiled lightly. There were advantages to Keith. However worried she might get about the fine crows’ feet around her eyes, she would always be twenty-four years younger than him. She knew he wanted reassurance but resisted the temptation to give it. He had seduced her, after all. She should feel some anger, or mild reproach at least. Instead, she felt a kind of gratitude. She had been unfaithful to William, the man she loved. The knowledge of this would protect her from loving him even more.

  ‘I would die for a coffee . . .’ Keith said cautiously, not wanting to push his luck.

  Annette rose with good humour. She had given him a fuck for no good reason. Why not a coffee? Anyway, she was bursting for the loo. Her arms were still in her robe. She stood and pulled it round her, tying the belt. ‘While you’re down there,’ Keith added, ‘could you bring up my ciggies? They’re in my coat pocket.’

  As she reached the door he sat up and said suddenly, ‘No come back here a minute.’ She was a few feet away. He reached out and caught her hand, pulling her back. He knelt up on the bed and embraced her. ‘You’re a fine girl. Always were.’

  She waited patiently while he kissed her, feeling nothing. She realised she was exhausted. He feels nothing either, she thought, but he wants to reassure himself this wasn’t just sex.

  He buried his head in her hair, then sat back, reaching out a hand to brush her fringe back off her face. ‘Can I stay the night?’ he asked.

  She sighed. ‘Keith I’ve got work in the morning.’

  ‘I know, so have I. We’ll just go to sleep now. I’ll run you to the station in the morning. I’m over the limit. It’s a long drive.’

  She turned away, her silence acquiescent. She went into the bathroom, lifted her robe and sat down on the toilet. She knew that he would be lying down on his back, his hands behind his head, as he always had done.

  ‘You’ve got this place spick and span I see,’ he called out to her, chirpily. Now he was confident. ‘I like to see you’re still a good little housewife.’

  ‘Piss off,’ Annette called back.

  ‘Ah, Annette. Is that any way to speak to your husband?’

  William and Alison sat next to each other on the sofa, in silence, watching the advertisements which followed the news and preceded the weather report. Then, Alison rose and left the room. William picked up his mug of tea and looked into it. It was still half-full, and stone cold.

  Alison returned ten minutes later. In her arms was a bundle of bedding almost as big as herself: the spare duvet, a folded sheet, a blanket, a pillow. She dropped the bedding down beside the sofa and said, ‘Goodnight.’

  She closed the door behind her as she left.

  Annette woke to the solid unfamiliarity of another human being in her bed. She was hot. The duvet cover felt clammy. Keith had rolled over with his back to her and was snoring softly. She looked at the thinning hair against the back of his neck, his speckled back. He was a large man but loose, with a layer of soft flesh over his solid torso. It was strange to observe the ageing process in him with such detachment. When they had married she had bee
n eighteen and he forty-two. Now, he was something more than older. He was old. Poor Keith, she thought sleepily, listening to his harsh breath. Poor Keith – he was bad for me, but only by accident. He had, in all honesty, believed that their marriage could last. When she had left him, he had wept. That was six years ago and he still turned up once in a while, all broad-shouldered and big-hearted. They were man and wife, he would murmur, in his heart, although he had not contested the divorce. Untangling her life from his had been a good deal less traumatic than moving in with him had been. She frowned to herself, remembering her mother’s rage: the shrieking, tears in the supermarket – the strangled voice crying out down an aisle of tinned vegetables, ‘Your father is turning in his grave!’ – the other shoppers staring, grinning at the unexpected entertainment. No, she would not think of that. It was behind her now. She and her mother had not referred to it for years.

  She lay curled up, trying to pull her mind towards the day ahead. Then she remembered William. She closed her eyes. William would never believe that she could be capable of having sex with another man immediately after him. The thought would be unimaginable to him, much as it had been unimaginable to her. She would never be able to explain.

  She rolled out of bed and crossed the room swiftly. Closing the bathroom door gently behind her, she began to run her bath.

  She was still in the bath, rinsing her hair, when there was a tap at the door and Keith came in. He had pulled on his trousers and shirt and was holding two mugs of tea in one hand. He put hers down on the edge of the bath. It was black, exactly the right strength. He perched precariously on the edge of her wicker laundry basket and raised his mug to his lips.

  ‘Close the door,’ she said. ‘You’re letting the steam out.’

  As she took the tea and lay back in the bath he said, ‘You want to be careful overfilling that you know. I can see from here. It’s coming away from the edge on the window side. You should put some sealer in otherwise you’ll get damp downstairs eventually.’