25
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Jack did a check on his dormitory. Nothing had been touched; it hadn’t even been cleaned. They were cutting costs. Outside the flat, he waited a moment. No sound. He retrieved the key from above the door with the shamrock holes. If it took a while to finish the repairs, he would make a copy.
Jack had forgotten he was there to get back his street atlas and get out.
The old man was a hazy figure in the poor light; he hovered godlike over his streets, his breathing stertorous. He gave no sign of knowing Jack was there. Jack manoeuvred along the tight gangway between the model and the wall that had served so well as a hiding place the other night. The man was wiring one of the signals outside Hammersmith Underground station. He gestured at the work table.
‘You’re late.’
‘Yes, sorry. I…’ Jack’s father had hated excuses. He measured out the powder into a bowl, trickled in water from a pint bottle and stirred until the mixture was a thick malleable consistency. He cut squares of gauze with a scalpel, soaked them in the plaster and then laid them out on an artist’s palette. Holding the palette and a flat-bladed knife he worked his way along the stuffy crawl space to emerge in the middle of the Thames.
‘Did you mention I was here the other night? To your daughter?’ He regretted the question instantly. The old man would not have mentioned him, he trusted Jack. His question fractured that trust.
The man was mumbling something.
‘Pardon?’ Jack leaned out over Hammersmith Flyover.
‘She’s not my daughter.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s not my business.’ Jack’s hands trembled as he draped the plastered gauze over the wire frame he had exposed on his last visit, careful not to drop any on to the rails. He did not apply too much or the roof would sag and lower the height of the tunnel. Practised at constructing tunnels, Jack knew how to spread the load and keep the height for the rolling stock.
The old man behaved as if he had not heard Jack speak.
Preoccupied with his mistake, for the second time Jack did not hear his Host return until she opened the door to the flat.
She paused at the second flight to get her breath; once upon a time she had run up and down these stairs, carrying bags, trays of hot drinks, laundered blankets. She sniffed the air; there was an infinitesimal change. She put down her bag and padded along the corridor to the first dormitory.
Everything was as she had left it. Or was it? Colin’s bed was made, yet she didn’t recall smoothing the blanket and he wouldn’t have made it himself. Before term started she would collect up the glasses and give them a wash. Jimmy had dropped his book on the floor – he was a one for reading after lights out; she bustled over. She had to guess his place from the way the book fell open. No bookmark, silly boy.
How often she had stood in the doorway listening to the boys’ breathing, ready to catch the culprit who had been up to mischief and was feigning sleep. She had always hated the holidays when beds were empty.
She heard his voice as soon as she entered the flat, conspiratorial and secretive. It twisted her stomach. She went to the kitchen and decided to find a tasty snack for him. He’d like that.
He was flicking at a rooftop with her pastry brush. She stumbled in and leant on the Chiswick boundary. He eyed her over his glasses. He didn’t like being disturbed at work, but he was always at work, she had no choice.
A District line train left Hammersmith station and rattled along the viaduct down to Barons Court where it stopped to let passengers alight and get on board. She watched it disappear into the tunnel. The plaster was a brilliant white; he had repaired it. Perhaps he would let her paint it.