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Twenty-six/Seven
I’ve
worked out the answer,’ Martin explained, in
his usual off-hand way, gazing out through the
café window. ‘I’m switching to a twenty-six
hour day. An extra hour to sleep and an extra
one to work.’
The waitress, Carol, brought over two plates of
egg, bacons, beans and sausage. Manoeuvring
through the close tables filled by regulars
wolfing down greasy food that supermarkets just
can’t recreate. I thanked her as the plates
clunked down on the stained plastic table in
front of us.
‘Okay,’ a pause, ‘Why?’
‘Simple. There’s never enough time in the
day – so add some more.’ He said casually,
tucking in to his lunch.
The Day in the Life café is a small
out-of-the-way place, hidden away at the side of
the Grand hotel on the seafront. Most people
pass by unawares; it was only because I got lost
that I stumbled across it. The owner was a large
man who liked to lean on the counter. It was
clean, fairly quiet (aside from the constant
loop of Beatles’ songs) and angled so that you
had a good view of the seafront, with its
endless crowds of people and traffic flowing
past. On a clear day, the frail remains of the
West Pier were visible. Martin and I had met up
for lunch there for years. It was close to where
I worked, and he could normally make it from
wherever he was that week.
‘I always seem to be scrambling around.’ He
was sat across from me, dishevelled hair,
unironed clothes and that half-here and
half-elsewhere look. Almost unchanged since
school. ‘Trying to get some proper work
done.’ His artwork that had been his life
since school. ‘Any plans you have just get
thrown out, and the day vanishes into
oblivion.’
Our conversations usually revolved around some
injustice – politics, supermarkets, or the
weather. This time I agreed with him. I’d
spent most of my morning in a cramped office,
which claimed to have air-conditioning. The
constant drone of computers and conversation,
flickering fluorescent lights and an
uncomfortable warmth. I was a lucky one: sat
next to a window. Though it didn’t open. In
less than an hour I had to go back to my job
making sure boxes end up roughly where they’re
supposed to. Lunch was the highlight of my day,
a colourful break from the dull-grey people I
worked with.
‘Won’t it get a bit – you know,
confusing?’
‘Not if I keep it structured. I’ll have to
give up all the part-time work but I have some
savings. Besides, if I can get this latest
project I’m working on finished – well I
won’t have to worry about money.’ He smiled,
attention once again back on the food.
The crowds continued to pass oblivious,
business-suits, tourists and locals mixing
together, buffeted by the sea wind that rattled
the windows. My reflection stared back at me. I
tried to think of a logical argument against it,
and failed. Feeling uneasy, I set to work on my
own plate.
***
‘Talk about inconsiderate!’ My girlfriend
had a habit of pacing up and down the room when
we were having an argument. I think it helped
her keep up momentum. ‘He’s always been
crazy!’ It was a little past two in the
morning, we’d been asleep until Martin phoned
– having forgotten the time difference.
‘He apologised for waking us. It was a simple
mistake.’
Rachel glared at me, still pacing at the bottom
of the bed, in-between the window and the new
pine wardrobe. Her dark red hair emphasising
every turn.
‘It’s not that big a deal,’ I tried,
regretting it before I’d even finished the
sentence. The glare, the look of contempt, all
perfected in the boardroom. One of the reasons I
was very glad I didn’t work for her, and
pitied those who did.
I’d met Martin for lunch the day after that
conversation, as usual, the first day of his new
system. For me it was twelve, but for him it was
only ten. One unforeseen side-effect was that he
found himself slipping further and further
behind the rest of us, dropping two hours
everyday. The next day he hadn’t shown up. I
sat in the café on my own, as it was only eight
am for him. For the next week or so I ate alone.
Occasionally I’d see him around, dipping into
art shops in the Laines, emerging with a clutch
of paints and other materials. For the first few
weeks he seemed on the verge of chucking it in,
tired of being out of step with the world,
waking up just as the sun was setting and
sleeping through the day. ‘Like going against
the current,’ as he put it. We still met for
lunch three days out of every twelve. Every
thirteenth day he was back in step, both of us
eating at twelve. The day before he ate at two,
the day after at ten.
‘Why don’t you just come back to bed?’
Rachel ignored me, pausing at the bedroom
window, bathed in the orange light of the
street-lamp. I tried not to think about having
to get up in less than five hours, ignoring the
shirt and tie already picked out and waiting.
‘Two in the morning!’ It was more an appeal
to the world than to me.
I sometimes wondered if he would cut himself off
from the outside world completely. Food was
always available from some twenty-four hour
supermarket, but he relied on others like me to
remind of him of when stuff like the rent was
due. As the weeks went on though, he started to
get used to his new way of life. He appeared
healthier, once the initial shock had worn off.
I started to get use to the strange lifestyle as
well, to only seeing my friend a few days each
month. It seemed almost normal.
The local paper somehow got hold of the story
and did a piece on him. A journalist went round
to see him, not realising that for Martin it was
four am. It only made page fifteen though, a
novelty piece. They called my house once, but
got Rachel. They didn’t call again.
She turned to look at me, some of the anger
finally having been worn out. To my relief she
started to get back into bed. I reached to
switch off my bedside lamp, ready to settle down
to some much needed sleep.
The phone rang.
***
‘Things have never been better!’ Martin
welcomed me in with an intense enthusiasm I
hadn’t seen in him for a very long time. After
a morning of monotonous paper shuffling, it was
a bit of a jolt. It had been over a month since
that first lunchtime conversation, and he was
still with his twenty-six hour days. We were
meeting at his house for lunch, as he claimed
that leaving would be too much of a disruption.
He wanted his project nearby in case inspiration
struck, so I made my way over to Kensington
Street, just above the North Laines. A little
out of my way, but a part of the city I always
wanted to visit more. He lived a stone throw
from where they were constructing one of the new
housing developments, but his street still had
reminders of the Victorian and Art Deco
movements. Though, much of it crumbling.
One of his neighbours, an elderly woman, had
stopped me as I stood on his doorstep, launching
into a rant about his strange habits. Once
Martin opened the door though she skulked back
into her house. Muttering to herself.
‘I’ve had trouble with her before,’ he
explained. I was sat in his cramped, but
pleasant enough living room. I’d been there
quite a few times before and was used to the
rough sketches of shapes and patterns pinned up
on the walls, the books on all kinds of topics
scattered around, open at apparently random
pages. Books on architecture, philosophy,
aeroplane mechanics and a dozen other subjects.
In one corner was a TV, abandoned among the
clutter and slowly being buried alive. ‘I
don’t interfere in her business, so I don’t
see what mine has to do with her.’ Martin was
shouting from the kitchen, making a cup of tea
while I tried to find some room on the settee
among the crumpled papers, paint-stained
photographs of abandoned buildings and newspaper
clippings. In the corner stood The Project. A
sheet had been flung over it; he didn’t like
people to see something until it was finished.
‘Maybe she read that piece in the paper.’
He emerged from the kitchen, carrying two
steaming cups of tea. ‘Maybe. I never got
round to reading it.’ He handed me a cup and
seated himself on a coffee table I hadn’t
noticed was there; sending scraps of paper and
books crashing onto the floor. ‘I went to the
newsagents but didn’t realise it was after
they’d closed,’ he said with a smile,
‘hard to keep track sometimes.’
A clock chimed somewhere, a custom-built piece
with twenty-six hours. Someone who’d read
about him in the paper had designed and built it
for him. It saved him setting the normal clocks
back two hours each day.
‘So it’s still working out for you?’
‘It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I’m
thinking of extending it – moving from
twenty-six to twenty-eight hours, and then maybe
even thirty. Have to do it slowly of course, bit
jarring otherwise.’
‘Right.’ What else could you say?
‘You should try it.’
‘I think Rachel might have something to say
about that.’
‘This is the start of something. I can feel
it. You have no idea what you’re missing. No
more worrying about tiring responsibilities, the
rest of the human race can rush around and I’m
left to work at my own pace.’ Something
occurred to him. ‘How many days has it been
since I started this?’
‘…Thirty-nine,’ I answered, puzzled.
‘For me it’s only been thirty-six.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘My days are longer, so you’re now three
normal days ahead of me. Every twelve days you
go one more ahead of me. In a year I’ll have
gained about twenty-four days over the rest of
the population. More if I extend it. Time is
relative after all.’ The microwave pinged.
Martin started for the kitchen, pausing in the
doorway. ‘How is Rachel, by the way?’
‘Busy as ever.’
Pause.
‘Sorry for ringing so late.’
‘No problem.’ I tried to get more
comfortable as he disappeared into the kitchen.
‘How is the project going?’ I called out.
‘You’ll see it when it’s finished,’ he
replied, mischievously. ‘Soon.’
***
The funeral was a simple affair. Most of
Martin’s family came: parents, two sisters and
an uncle. Rachel couldn’t make it, couldn’t
get the time off work. After the service we
gathered at his house. I’d met most of his
friends briefly before, and talked with them.
Only his two sisters came along, keeping to
themselves. Martin had never spoken about them
much. They didn’t keep in touch; he was
regarded as the black sheep of a very
respectable family from London. I offered them
my condolences. They spoke very little to
anyone, and I got the impression they were only
there as they were responsible for sorting out
his possessions, waiting for everyone else to
leave. ‘Could’ve kept the place tidy at
least,’ and ‘Probably couldn’t afford
anything better,’ were two of the more polite
comments about the place I overheard from them.
They’d tidied up, removing all the pictures
and putting the books in neat piles. It made the
house feel empty, lifeless. Hanging over us as
we talked though, was Martin’s project; the
huge painting dominated the room. His
masterwork. Most of the conversations revolved
around it, a kaleidoscope of colour and
patterns. They seemed random, but with some
concentration they started to flow into one
another, a complex order arising out of chaos.
At first, it had an unsettling effect, but it
was impossible to ignore it, suggestions of
images that drew you in and then twisted into
something completely different. The normal and
bizarre somehow merging. Just when it seemed to
be on the verge of making sense, it would
collapse back into chaos.
His body had been found by a road one morning.
Statements by his neighbours and people in the
area showed he’d left his flat in the early
hours of the morning and gone walking along the
seafront, managing to wander quite far from the
city centre. He needed fresh air occasionally in
order to work. He’d been mugged and murdered.
I didn’t learn about it until a week later.
We stayed for about an hour, talking about
Martin and his work. I got to know his friends a
bit better. Most were artists, or people Rachel
would disapprove of. I promised to stay in
touch. Afterwards I felt like having some time
alone and found myself drifting towards the
seafront, passing through the town centre in my
own little world. Oblivious. Leaning on the
rails, I stared out at the vast sea, stretching
off forever. He’d wanted his ashes scattered
from the end of the West Pier, but it hadn’t
been allowed. His parents got them instead.
We’d been due to meet for lunch at the café,
but it’s been closed – replaced by a
Starbucks. They’ve torn out all the old
fittings and placed large signs on the seafront
to draw the public in. I don’t go there
anymore.
Shattered
Trying
to avoid the sharp edges, he picked up the
pieces of broken glass that lay on the
living-room carpet and threw them into the
plastic bag with enough force to shatter them
even further.
He tried to avoid the sight of the window above
him, but the wind rattled the remaining glass,
blowing in the cold night air and light drizzle.
He’d have to deal with it eventually, board it
up, but for now he simply left it. The sound of
the glass smashing in the bag helped to block it
out of his mind. He listened for any sound of
his wife. But there was only the sound of the
wind and passing traffic.
They’d smashed the window to get at the catch
inside, furthering the damage when they climbed
in. Muddy footprints led out into the hallway. A
chair had been knocked over. It was a fairly old
one, placed by the wall and used to hold clothes
while they were being ironed. They’d have to
throw it away now; one of the back legs cracked
beyond repair. The TV in the corner had been
ignored; it was antique anyway and looked it.
The police had said it was too bulky, and they
wouldn’t have got much for it. The rest of the
room had been left virtually untouched. In truth
there wasn’t much to disturb, nothing
valuable, just a few personal items placed
around in an attempt to make the place look more
homely: a vase, some ornaments and pictures. His
wife’s idea.
The police had come and gone. Not much had been
taken, only some of his wife’s jewellery from
the bedroom, so they couldn’t have had long.
The chances of catching them were slim. The
police had tried to sound helpful but you could
tell from the way they treated it that they
didn’t really care. Just routine. At this time
of night no-one would have seen anything and
there was nothing left behind to identify them.
Kids probably. He’d told the police officer
what he’d thought, they wouldn’t think it
was such a laugh if he caught them. She’d told
him to calm down. Then Alice had started as
well, so he’d stormed off, left her to deal
with everything.
From the kitchen came the sound of the kettle
boiling. He threw the last remaining pieces of
glass into the bag, the rest too small for him
to pick up. Calling the police in the first
place had been pointless. At least they were out
of the house now. They’d poked around for a
while and made a few notes before leaving.
He straightened up as Alice entered the room,
carrying two cups of tea. ‘I made us something
to drink.’ Her voice was subdued. He could see
how tired she was. He felt just as weary.
‘I’m not thirsty,’ Thomas said, setting
the bag down on the table.
‘It might help calm you down.’ She put the
cup down and stood there, as if unsure what to
do next. She still wore the dress from that
evening - dinner with friends she used to work
with. ‘The kitchen’s all sorted out,’ she
said finally. ‘They didn’t do much, just
quickly went through the cupboards I think.’
He found himself annoyed at how well she was
coping with the situation. She stood there
calmly sipping her tea. ‘Why don’t you drink
some of your tea?’
‘I told you I’m not thirsty!’ He shouted
without meaning to. ‘When I’m thirsty then
I’ll have something to drink,’ he said,
trying to keep his voice level. Alice looked
away, glancing at the room properly. A bunch of
photographs lay scattered by the fireplace. For
a moment they stood in silence. ‘I’m going
to need something to block up the window with. A
piece of card or something.’
Alice nodded. ‘Right. I’ll see what we have.
Better to get it sorted out tonight.’ She left
the room, appearing grateful to go. Thomas
remained where he was. A gust of wind blew
through the hole, tugging at the curtains and
catching the steam rising from the tea on the
table.
The window was worse than he’d thought. But
perhaps it could still be patched up. A piece of
thick card provided a temporary solution, the
edges taped up to keep it secure. By the time
they had seen to the worst of the damage it was
after midnight. He didn’t trust himself to
talk much; it wasn't Alice he was angry at but
there was no-one around to take it out on. They
undressed in silence and as he climbed into bed
all wanted was to fall asleep and forget about
it.
He found himself just lying there. The house was
cold. He pulled the covers up over himself more,
trying to keep in the warmth. Outside, the
weather now beat furiously at the house. Before
going to bed he’d had a little to drink, to
try to calm him down and keep away the chill.
Staring at the ceiling he listened to the sound
of the rain on the roof and windows.
Alice’s jewellery box was open on the chest of
drawer; he could just make it out in the gloom.
The box itself was probably worth more than what
had been inside, a hand-made antique. What
they’d taken had no real value, a few pieces
passed down from her grandmother, worth nothing.
He knew they meant a lot to her though, a last
real link with a family she had little to do
with now. He knew that she still blamed him for
that, even if she didn’t say anything. She’d
said she just wanted to forget everything that
had happened, put the past behind them. But he
knew that she was still troubled by it. In the
darkness he wondered what she really thought.
Did she regret the choices she’d made? In the
morning he’d say something.
The bedside clock told him it was past three.
Beside him, Alice was sound asleep. The day had
taken its toll on her as well, so she’d taken
a couple of pills. He had tried to talk to her
once they were in bed, but she’d fallen asleep
almost instantly.
Things would be okay. She was just put out by
the break-in. Once they fixed up the damage
they’d be fine.
***
As he hurriedly dressed, he could hear the sound
of his wife in the shower. His clothes had been
placed over the bedroom chair the night before
as usual, the one part of his morning that was
going right. He’d slept through the alarm,
throwing out the entire morning. It didn’t
help that his head still felt blurred, an effect
of the whisky and lack of sleep.
He crossed the hall to the living room. Even
after tidying up it still wasn’t right. He
could still make out pieces of glass caught up
in the carpet fibre. The broken chair was
propped up in the corner, ready to be taken to
the tip. Thoughts of a quick breakfast passed
through his mind; if he was lucky he could grab
a snack at work. The piece of card over the
window kept out the wind and rain, but the house
was still cold. On the table the photos had been
picked up and placed in a pile. He picked up a
few holiday snaps from a few years ago. The top
one showed him and Alice standing in front of
hotel, snow-capped mountains looming behind
them. They’d seemed happy then, only recently
married, it had felt like a fresh start.
He heard the sound of the bathroom door and
headed out into the hallway in time to see his
wife disappearing into the bedroom. ‘You
should have woken me!’ he called after here,
making his way into the bathroom.
‘I tried,’ came her muffled reply, ‘but
you refused to wake up.’
He wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror. It
started to mist up again immediately but he was
still able to use it to sort out his tie. He
wouldn’t have time for a shave either. He
stepped back, to get a better look at himself.
His appearance was neat, though his hair could
do with a cut. There was a possibility of
promotion at work and he’d been considering
buying himself a new suit, but now he had the
cost of the window to deal with. There was
always something.
Alice emerged from the bedroom, still in her
bathrobe and her hair hanging wet. She started
to cross to the kitchen but paused when she saw
him. ‘I phoned my sister today,’ she said
quietly. The words hung in the air, her tone
almost apologetic. Thomas didn’t reply, unsure
what to say. ‘She’s coming over later.’
‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Is it a problem?’
‘No. No. I’m just a bit surprised. To
suddenly call her up...’
When she spoke, it was obvious it was something
she’d prepared. ‘I just thought it’d be
nice to talk with her, try and go back to how it
used to be. That’s all. I don’t like the
idea of being in the house alone today.’ She
looked at him expectantly.
He tried to neaten up his hair a little. Alice
remained where she was, looking at him. ‘What
do you want me to say?’ He asked eventually.
‘You don’t mind?’
He tried to think of something to say, tried to
get his thoughts in order, but it was still too
muddled. ‘Why would I mind?’ It seemed all
he could manage. He turned to look at her. ‘I
have to get going or else I’ll be late.’
He picked up his briefcase, which had been
placed against the small dresser near the door.
Alice followed him. He kissed her goodbye, as
though it had suddenly occurred to him. She
didn’t respond. Stepping out through the front
door, he stopped on the doorstep. Alice watched
him for a second, then pushed the door shut.
He pulled his coat tighter around him. Some kids
were playing a little further down the street
now, kicking a ball against a garden wall and
shouting at each other. For a moment he
considered going over, demanding to know if they
knew anything. But what would be the point?
He headed for the car, searching his pockets for
his keys and hoping that he hadn’t left them
in the house. The gravel crunched underfoot as
he stepped out onto the driveway. He considered
what had just happened, running the brief
conversation through his head. He should have
said something; that had been his chance. For a
moment he considered going back in, but it would
just look stupid now.
Maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe it
didn’t mean anything. It was childish for him
to feel threatened by her family. He was reading
too much into it.
‘Not much of a morning is it?’ He looked up
to find their elderly neighbour Jim leaning on
the fence, looking over into their garden. The
voice had its usual cheerful edge to it.
‘Still it’s calmed down since last night I
suppose.’
‘Thomas unlocked the car door. ‘I
suppose.’ He just wanted to get out of the
cold.
‘I heard about the break-in. Alice and I had a
talk earlier. Really shook her up I think. I
wouldn’t have expected it in this area, but
you never can tell.’ He paused, as though
waiting for a reply. Thomas opened the car door
and threw his briefcase onto the backseat. A cry
went up from along the street. ‘Alice said it
was kids. Doesn’t surprise me much. You had
some trouble with them before didn’t you, had
to call the police about them trampling all over
your garden? Can’t let them run riot. Shame to
see it happen to such a nice young couple. But
what doesn’t kill you I suppose’
Thomas got into the car and slammed the door. He
started up the engine and sat back, giving it
time to warm up. The radio came into life along
with the heater. He watched in the rear-view
mirror as Jim headed towards his gate and out
into the street. From the car he looked directly
up at the house. It wasn’t how he’d imagined
it would be. He’d always thought they’d move
eventually, when they had the money. Weathering
had taken its toll, causing the paint to fade in
places, and the guttering needed repairing. The
house wasn’t ugly; it just wasn’t how he’d
wanted it to be. The garden was its only
redeeming feature with its meticulous
flowerbeds, simple but effective. He didn’t
know how Alice found the time though. He’d
always admired her for it. Dead leaves from
next-doors oak tree littered the lawn.
He glanced down the street. As though he
expected Alice’s sister to arrive already.
Looking back at the house, seeing the window
now, he realised that it would have to be
completely replaced; the damage to the frame was
too extensive. It couldn’t be fixed. He
suddenly felt ashamed of the house. It should be
better, it should all be better. For a moment he
considered leaving it all, driving away and
starting afresh somewhere else. But it was
impossible.
Putting the car into reverse, he backed out of
the driveway onto the road. |
