REMORSE

The conservatory was on the top floor, a penthouse high above the city. It was like a tropical forest, filled with plants of all sizes. Several huge ones hung from the lofty ceiling, and white doves fluttered in their branches, cooing incessantly.

                Hidden among the plants were pieces of furniture. A brown leather armchair nestled in dark fronds. In front of the room’s vast windows ran a line of low, dusty bookcases - and along their tops, a collection of flints and fossils. Scattered everywhere were empty whisky bottles, cups of half drunk coffee and dirty plates of curled, stale bread. On an old desk sat a telephone and a black answering machine.

                Two large black and white photographs showed different perspectives of the same barren landscape. The only other decoration on the walls was an arrangement of curiously shaped pieces of wood.

                Drops of liquid fell from one of the plants into a pool, making ripples on the water. The way they fell seemed sinister, like blood dripping. Beneath the surface, large goldfish scattered in frenzy.

                Standing on a gallery above, a metal watering can in his hands, was a man in his mid-forties. He was wearing steel-rimmed glasses and a beige cardigan, and there was an air of decay about him. He showed great care for the overflowing plant he was watering.

                The telephone rang and the look on the man’s face became impassive. He listened to his own voice on the answering machine. It was flat and expressionless.

                ‘Hello, I’m unavailable,’ it said. ‘If you’d like to leave a message, please wait for the signal and give your name and telephone number. There’s a delay before the signal.’

                There was a pause before the signal sounded. The man’s eyes turned away from the plant as he waited for a message, but he only heard the click of a receiver being replaced. He continued watering the plant.

***

The London skyline was visible through the huge windows.

                The doves fluttered as the man poured seed into a tray at the top of the spiral staircase leading to the gallery. Soon they enveloped him. The telephone rang and his voice was heard on the answering machine.

                ‘Hello. I’m unavailable. If you’d like to leave a message, please wait...’

                When the signal sounded he looked down at the desk below and listened in stillness to his ex-wife’s voice. His face remained impassive.

                ‘I do wish you’d answer,’ she said. ‘Look, Matthew hasn’t come home from school and it’s four o’clock already. He’s off games and he should have been here by two. He’s not with you, is he? For God’s sake ring me if he is -’

                The signal sounded and her voice was cut off. He turned and continued feeding the doves.

***

The man was carefully pruning a plant with a pair of secateurs. The telephone rang and his concentration was broken as his voice filled the huge conservatory.

                ‘Hello. I’m unavailable...’

                He sat down on one of the steps. While he waited for the signal, he put his elbows on his knees and framed his face in both hands. The secateurs pressed against his right temple. The signal sounded and he listened impassively to his wife’s emotional message.

                ‘It’s five-thirty and Matthew still hasn’t come home. The school says he left just after lunch. He’s not at any of his friends’ houses. Please just ring to confirm that he didn’t come and see you. I know it’s unlikely, but I need to be sure before I call the police. I’m getting worried. He’s never done this before –‘

                The signal sounded, cutting off her voice abruptly. The man continued sitting for a while. Then he picked up a tin of fish food from the step above him, stood up and went down to the pool. Slowly he scattered pellets into the water. The goldfish flicked their tails and stirred the water with the force of their greed.

***

The earth around the plants bulged with water. In the evening shadows the doves were settled on the highest branches. The telephone rang and suddenly they flew about like frightened bats.

                The woman’s voice was desperate with emotion.

                ‘Oh, for God’s sake - why do you always pretend to be out? I’ve rung the police because he still hasn’t come home. Could you just for once show some interest? He’s only eight and he’s your son. Can you remember what he looks like -?’

                The signal sounded and her voice was cut off.

                Seated by a huge plant, the man was carefully fashioning a small piece of wood into a splint with a sharp pen-knife. Tenderly he tied the splint to a broken stem.

                Then he got up, walked downstairs and opened one of the desk drawers. He took out a photograph of a little boy and stared at it without emotion. The child was thin and weak-looking but smiling brightly from behind the untarnished glass. The man placed the photograph on the desk.

***

A tray of seedlings lay on the desk in the morning light. The man was delicately watering them with a miniature can. In front of him was the photograph of his smiling son.

                The telephone rang. After his message and the signal came the woman’s distraught voice. She pleaded with him.

                ‘Why didn’t you ring? He hasn’t come home. I’ve been up all night. The police are going to search the Heath. I think he’s dead. Just ring –‘

                The signal sounded and her voice was cut off. The man, who was still holding the miniature watering can, looked up from the seedlings and stared at the photograph of the smiling little boy. Then he looked at the vast expanse of city beyond the windows. He gazed up at the clear sky and winced at its brightness.

***

Water cascaded down the leaves of a plant. The man was at the far end of the gallery, watering the plant’s highest branches. Drops scattered against the dark fronds and bounced in all directions. The doves shook their feathers as the water splashed them. In the pool below the goldfish gazed up at the disturbed surface, then flicked their tails and scattered.

                The telephone rang and the man put down the watering can on the metal floor of the gallery. The sound echoed through the huge conservatory. He walked along the gallery while his message played on the answering machine, and the signal sounded as he descended the spiral stairs. When he reached the lower floor, the woman’s voice spoke. It was tired, flat and drugged.

                ‘They found him. In the pond on the Heath. Drowned. He fell in...Matthew...your son. He went there to play and no one saw him. Your son’s dead –‘

                The signal sounded.

                Next to the man, at the foot of the stairs, a white parrot stood on a perch in a hanging cage. He pulled a cuttlebone from between the bars and held it for the parrot. The bird slowly moved along the perch towards him. Expressionlessly they stared at one another, shadows from the cage bars reflecting onto the man’s face. Then the parrot began to peck at the cuttlebone.

                The man looked at the black answering machine and the photograph of his dead son. He poured himself a glass of whisky and drank it. Then he walked over to the desk and placed the empty glass beside the photograph.

***

The doves were gently cooing as the man sat in the leather armchair, a glass of whisky in his hand. He was bathed in the orange light of evening. For a long time he was perfectly still.

                Suddenly he stood up and went into his bedroom. He opened the wardrobe and took out a suit, shirt and tie. He laid them on the bed. Then he entered the bathroom and started to shave at the basin. In the mirror he could see the photograph's reflection on his desk, framed by the open door.

                The moon had come up.

***

 A finch was singing near the rafters. The doves cooed and fluttered about their tropical forest. The hanging plants were still.

                There was a faint sound of liquid dripping rhythmically.

                 The telephone rang and the man’s voice was heard all around the huge conservatory. He spoke slowly.

                ‘I’m not available,’ he said. After a pause his voice continued. ‘I’ll be dead by the time you hear this. Call the police – don’t come.’ Another pause, then: ‘It did nothing to me. No pity, nothing. No remorse... I couldn’t feel anything. Only for my own loss – not him. Goodbye.’

                The signal sounded. It was followed by the woman’s shocked breathing at the other end of the line. She gasped and tried to speak. Finally came the sound of the receiver being replaced clumsily.

                The liquid continued to drip rhythmically.

                It was urine. Hanging from the ceiling among his plants was the man, dressed in his suit and tie. The drops of urine fell from the bottoms of his trousers and ran over his polished shoes. They landed on the floor near the desk. The doves fluttered about his body, making the rope twist slightly. A few drops of urine fell into the empty watering can, causing dark notes to sound deeply in its void.

                Beside the silent answering machine, the little boy’s delicate face smiled enthusiastically.

***

ARCHIMEDES’ BATHTIME

With a sharp knife Archimedes skilfully shaped the prow of the little wooden boat. It was soon finished and he was delighted to add the Argo to his collection.

                Good, he thought, bending down to place the boat on the water in his wood and metal bathtub. It bobbed about in the steam. Ploughing bravely through the mist, he told himself, in search of Colchis...

                Across the steamy room he saw his wife approaching, her features drawn and hard. He tried to be chirpy.

                ‘Have you seen my towel?’

                ‘Eureka,’ she said sourly, handing it to him.

                ‘Look at my new boat,’ he said excitedly.

                ‘Mmm.’

                Archimedes slipped off his clothes and lowered his portly body into the water. Gripping the sides as usual, he let himself fall the last few inches. His chubby buttocks banged against the bottom of the bath and the water surged upwards. The boat bobbed fiercely and crashed about on the surface before a great wave carried it over the rim. Mast first, it was hurled onto the soaking floor.

                An intelligent look came into Archimedes’ eye. He sat there for a moment with the water lapping about his floppy breasts.

                ‘Eureka, he muttered, eureka...’

                ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake – what is it now?’ asked Mrs Archimedes. She had watched his descent into the water with distaste.

                ‘In the bath, my body loses the weight of the water it expels,’ he answered quietly.

                Mrs Archimedes was unimpressed.

                ‘Eureka,’ he said again. Then he yelled it. ‘Eureka! Eureka!’

                He leapt out of the bath and ran out of the house into the street, naked and wet.

                ‘Eureka! Eureka!’ he screamed at anyone in Syracuse who cared to listen – and many who did not.

***

Mrs Archimedes stared at the pool of water on the floor. Glistening in it, upturned, was the shipwrecked Argo.

                ‘Fool,’ she said out loud to herself. ‘Do you think I haven’t known that every day for the last thirty years?’

                And, as usual, she got out the bucket and mop. Once more it was time to start cleaning up after her celebrated husband’s bath-time feat.

***

THE OFFICIAL MIND

Just as the taxi pulled up, heavy rain started to fall. Michael opened the door and stepped into a puddle left over from the last downpour. He felt even angrier.

             Rain and South London in the Eighties. Elephant and Castle. And wind. It was eleven-thirty at night.

             He paid the driver the cost of his fare from the West End – a fortune – then ran towards the single-storey building with its harsh, cold lights. The wind splashed more rainwater onto his feet.

             Inside, cups of cold tea sat on top of untidy stacks of forms. He scrutinized the two police officers behind the counter. A choice of Nazis, he thought, slightly drunkenly. Male and female. They wore woollen cardigans over their blue uniforms. To give the illusion of cosiness, he told himself.

             Dinner with Susannah had gone badly earlier. They’d rowed at the restaurant. Other diners had complained. He’d left before the panna cotta. God never created anything on this earth more brutal than an Englishwoman, he thought. In victim mode, he addressed the policewoman.

             ‘Good evening.’

             She glared at him, proving his point. He turned to the male.

             ‘Good evening.’

             The policeman stared back at him without replying.

            ‘Good evening. I believe my car has been brought here by mistake...’

             The policeman stared at a form. Michael persevered.

             ‘It broke down earlier today, so I left a note on the windscreen and told a traffic warden all about it...’

             The policeman looked up at him. Undaunted, Michael kept going.

             ‘...and she was very helpful. She said she’d put an official note on the windscreen too, to make it all kosher...’ He paused for a reaction, but none came. ‘...then I went to Bow Street police sta-‘

             ‘Registration number?’

             ‘What?’

             The policeman stared at him without repeating the question.

              ‘Well, that’s a rather important part of the whole thing, really, you see, because I’m always having trouble remembering it, and I couldn’t remember it when I was explaining everything to the warden who was so helpful before I went to Bow Stree-‘

             ‘What’s the registration number?’

             ‘That’s what I don’t know. It’s PBF something. I just can’t remember the rest.’

             The policeman looked at the form again.

             ‘Please listen to me,’ said Michael. ‘So I went to Bow Street police station to tell them it had broken down, and they telephoned Holborn police station to pass on the news to them, but it was still towed away.’

             ‘According to this, it was driven in.’

             ‘What?’

             ‘It was driven in.’

             ‘I don’t understand that. It had broken down.’

             ‘Well, that’s as maybe, but it was driven here. What time did you report it?’

             ‘About eleven this morning.’

             ‘And what time did it break down?’

             ‘Ten minutes earlier.’

             ‘What time did you discover it gone?’

             ‘Three-thirty.’

             ‘You discovered it gone at three-thirty?’

             ‘Yes. Despite my having told a very helpful warden and Bow Street who told Holborn, whose jurisdiction it came under though it broke down near Bow Street. Holborn said it shouldn’t have been towed away –‘

             ‘It was driven in.’

             ‘They said it was taken by mistake,’

             ‘It was parked on a yellow line.’

             ‘Because it had broken down.’

             ‘Well, they brought it in so you’ll have to pay forty-two pounds.’

             ‘What!?’

             ‘Forty-two quid. Thirty-six for bringing it in, and a six pound parking fine.’

             ‘I will not. This is outrageous! Have you listened to anything I’ve said?’

             ‘Yes. You said you wouldn’t pay.’

             ‘This is criminal! I did everything by your rules, and you stole my car. I’m not paying!’

             ‘Then you can’t have your car.’

             Michael banged his fist on the counter.

             ‘Who’s in charge here?’

             ‘Just a moment,’ said the policeman, and he was gone in an instant.

             ‘How fucking outrageous,’ muttered Michael as he tapped his fingers in irritation on the counter. He turned to his right. A Gujurati man was battling with the policewoman.

             ‘I don’t mind paying the fine,’ said the Gujurati, ‘but who pays for the petrol?’

              ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked the policewoman in disbelief.

             ‘The petrol in my car. Who pays for the petrol it used when it was driven here?’

             ‘You do,’ said the policewoman. ‘You shouldn’t have parked there.’

             ‘Here’s forty-one pounds,’ said the Gujurati. ‘I’m deducting the cost of the petrol.’

               ‘Then you can’t have your car.’

***

‘Good evening, sir. Can I help you?’ A second policeman had appeared at the counter.

             ‘How do you do,’ said Michael. ‘I was just explaining that my car broke down earlier today and –‘

             ‘Where was this, sir?’ The second policeman was looking at the form in front of him.

             ‘In Endell Street. So I went and –‘

             ‘At what time, sir?’

             ‘Eleven this morning. Look, may I go on...?’

 ‘Just trying to establish the facts, sir.’

 ‘Good. Right... Now, my car broke down so I placed a sign on the windscreen. Then I met a traffic warden who kindly offered to put one of her official notices there too...’

 The second policeman was still staring at the form. Michael went on.

 ‘I described the car to her, the make and the colour, but couldn’t remember the whole registration number...’

 The second policeman looked up and stared at Michael.

 ‘I could remember the letters,’ said Michael, ‘but not the numbers. PBF...’

 The second policeman studied the paperwork again.

 ‘PBF. Police Benevolent Fund...’

 The second policeman studied Michael.

 ‘Police Benevolent Fund. That’s how I remember the letters... Anyway, after that Bow Street said they’d talk to Holborn, and Holborn said it shouldn’t have been towed away –‘

 ‘It was driven in, sir.’

 ‘All right – taken away.’

 ‘It was on a yellow line, sir.’

 ‘Well, it was a mistake!’

 ‘What time did you discover it gone, sir?’

 ‘Three-thirty.’

 ‘You left it for four and a half hours?’

 ‘It had broken down.’

 ‘Did you attempt to get it mended?’

 ‘Yes,’ said Michael firmly. ‘First I tried to call a friend, but he wasn’t in. Then I went to a garage around the corner. They were no help. After that I went to one in Euston Road. No good either. Then I had an appointment which I couldn’t miss under any circumstances...’

The second policeman looked as though he might seize on this, so Michael hurried on.

‘I did absolutely everything I possibly could, and still they towed – drove – it way!’

 ‘Four and a half hours is long enough to have your car mended, sir.’

 ‘Not if you can’t get anyone to do it.’

 ‘Hello ‘ello ‘ello,’ said a familiar voice behind Michael. ‘You’ve got my Merc again!’

Michael turned around. Beaming all over his famous face under a deerstalker hat was a soap opera star. The two policemen and the policewoman all beamed back at him.

 ‘Hello, sir,’ they said in unison.

 Fawning bastards, thought Michael.

 ‘Still forty-two quid?’ asked the soap star.

 I’ll never watch your show again, vowed Michael, though he’d never actually seen it. The Gujurati asked the soap star for his autograph, who happily signed the Gujurati’s parking ticket.

 ‘I’ll give you forty-one pounds fifty,’ the Gujurati told the policewoman.

 The soap star chatted to the first policeman about his show.

 ‘Look,’ said Michael to the second policeman, ‘even if this wasn’t criminal and grossly unfair, which it is, I couldn’t pay forty-two pounds because I haven’t got any money.’

 ‘Then you can’t have your car, sir.’

 ‘But I can’t go anywhere because I used up my last three pounds getting here.’

 ‘You can’t have your car without paying for it, sir.’

 ‘How the hell can I pay for it without money?’

 ‘I don’t know, sir.’

 ‘It’ll cost the police a lot more than forty-two quid storing it here forever.’

 ‘We don’t keep them forever, sir.’

 ‘Holborn said it shouldn’t be here at all! How am I going to get home?’

 ‘I don’t know, sir.’

 ‘Are you telling me that everyone who comes in here has forty-two pounds on them?’

 ‘No, sir.’

 ‘Then how do they get home?’

 ‘Some of them pay by cheque or credit card, sir.’

 The soap star was gaily handing over his credit card to the first policeman. Michael’s credit rating was zero, according to this morning’s post, and he didn’t dare use a cheque. Susannah had paid for dinner. Life was crap.

 ‘And what if they don’t have a cheque book or credit card with them?’ he asked.

 ‘They sign a form to say they’ll pay later, sir.’

 ‘What?’

 ‘They sign a form that says they’ll pay later.’

 ‘Are you serious?’

 ‘Yes, sir.’

 ‘And you never thought of telling me that earlier?’

 ‘You never asked, sir.’

 ‘Give me the form.’

 The second policeman pulled a sheet of paper from underneath the one he had been reading and pushed it across the counter. Michael signed it. The second policeman handed him his car keys.

 ‘Goodnight,’ said Michael to the Gujurati.

 ‘I’ll give you forty-one pounds and ninety-nine pence,’ the Gujurati told the policewoman.

***

Outside, the rain was bucketing down. Michael was drenched as he searched for his car. This is the last time I try the broken down routine when I haven’t got any money for the meter, he thought.

            The soap star’s Mercedes splashed him as it roared by. He got into his own tattered car. Lying on the passenger seat was a bunch of flowers he’d forgotten to give Susannah. Definitely the last time, he vowed. In future I’ll spend the flower money on it.

And, hurling the flowers into one of the puddles, he drove out of the car pound at speed.

***