A Smaller Hell Read online

  Suddenly, the door to Ms. Doyle's office opened. She was a tall woman in her forties with immaculate hair, clothes and make-up who walked like an ageing catwalk model. She wore a grey skirt and jacket and a mane of dark red hair, falling below her shoulders. Around the edges of her handsome bone structure were creases of rage or laughter – I couldn’t tell which.

  ‘Oh, my gosh! Is everyone alright?’ She asked in a soft, but haughty voice.

  I explained what had gone on, to her horror.

  ‘Oh, goodness: that’s terrible. Is your hand badly injured? We must make a note in the accident book.’

  It occurred to me that I could use it to my advantage.

  ‘Well, the last thing I want to do is cause a fuss, but my hand is really quite badly cut. It might need stitches.’

  Ms. Doyle recoiled in double horror at the mention of stitches. She immediately picked up the phone and demanded some first aid assistance. My hand was only throbbing, but I put on a bit of a show, feigning dizziness and slumping in my chair.

  ‘Let's get you into my office where we can sit you by the window to get you some air.’

  I cradled my hand and let the two women help me into the office. At the door, Ms. Doyle told the applicant to return to her seat and helped me in on her own. I shuffled my feet and stared only at the cheap carpet which transformed into rich, polished hardwood as we crossed the threshold of Ms. Doyle's huge office. I couldn't help but look up as the pungency of wealth and taste wafted down upon me. The farthest reaches of the room were almost entirely dark and the woods were old and French-polished. In the near corner of the room was a large wooden chest fastened with battered but shiny brass, such as might have been found on very old sailing ships. Above the chest hung a large portrait of a man dressed in military uniform, possibly naval, wearing many medals. He was grey-haired and bearded and looked like someone with many stories to tell; stories of bravery, romance, camaraderie, high adventure and other ideas that were all but forgotten in this world. In the darkest corner, I was startled to see a tall, darkly-dressed individual guarding a doorway he must have had to enter sideways.

  ‘Don't mind Mr. Graziano. He's here to make sure we're all safe and well.’

  ‘Well, he's not a very good catch.’

  Ms. Doyle laughed too loudly, while Graziano didn't move.

  I eased myself into the desk chair facing Ms. Doyle, still clutching my hand. To her right was a bookcase brimming with ancient volumes and to the left, a cabinet containing several objects. I could have made out what they were by further inspecting, but Graziano was resident in that corner and I didn’t want to stare too long in that direction.

  Ms. Doyle eased open the leaded windows and as she did so, I could see just how high up we were. The whole town was visible in the morning sun, reflecting golden light off the metal boxes of commuters travelling to work. The town looked dirty and dangerous, but scattered about it were relics of a more prosperous age. From here I could observe the beauty of the Georgian buildings and the majesty of the rolling, terraced hills without the scowls of the more unfriendly townies pushing my eyes down to the ground. The blaring sirens and screeching brakes were all but tiny echoes from below. I stood up to get a better look out of the window as Ms. Doyle sat down.

  ‘It's amazing how peaceful it is up here,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, until you arrived, Mr. Black,’ Ms. Doyle said.

  I smiled and sat back down in my chair.

  ‘Well, I suppose we really ought to reschedule for another day.’

  ‘No, I'll be fine. I've had worse.’ I hoped that she wouldn't notice the fading yellow of my black eye.

  ‘My, you are brave. I shall see that we tick that box straight away.’

  ‘Is it important to be brave to work here?’

  ‘You'll find out at the staff Christmas party.’

  I smiled, unsure of what she meant. There was only the distant traffic sound from the streets below and her shallow, impatient breathing.

  ‘You're not a quitter are you, Mr. Black?’

  ‘Well, I don’t …’ I began my denial, catching sight of a cluster of community awards and decorations for her donations to charity.

  ‘The last thing I need is a temp crying off after a couple of days because they haven't the stomach for upmarket retail,’ she said.

  I died inside a little when she asked me the next question: ‘How badly do you want this job?’

  Three days on the run and already a gigolo.

  ‘Mr. Graziano showed tremendous determination in securing his job, didn't you, my dear?’

  The ominous dark statue neither moved nor spoke.

  ‘I could tell you one or two secrets about Mr. Graziano's meteoric rise,’ she said, glancing at his crotch.

  ‘Sounds like he should be in the boxing business with a name like that,’ I said, trying to change the subject.

  ‘Mr. Graziano is an unofficial employee, if you understand me. That's a pseudonym.’

  The granite shadow shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his face still obscured. His huge hands hung by his sides now, dangling like bunches of fruit from thick, broken boughs.

  ‘I … killed a man.’

  Graziano's voice was slow and dangerous, like syrup and broken glass.

  Ms. Doyle guffawed in her far-back, public schoolgirl way and waved her bony hand dismissively. ‘He's quite the clown, too. Always acting the goat; playing the fool.’

  She shuffled the papers on her desk in a gesture of finality. The oil-painted commander looked at me as if he was accusing me of something. He drew his sword and pointed it at me, catching me under the chin with the cold, sharp business end.

  ‘Let's see about this injury of yours. I think we can offer you a position here if you … forget to fill out an accident report. Would you be agreeable?’ she asked, flashing her expensive dental work at me.

  ‘Would it be cash in hand if I forgot to fill out that report?’

  ‘If you would prefer,’ she said, tapping her pen on her porcelain teeth.

  ‘When should I come in?’

  ‘Monday the 28th November will be our induction day for new employees. We'll see you then,’ she said without looking up from her diary.

  ‘May I ask you a question, Ms. Doyle?’

  She took off her glasses and stared at me, waiting for the question.

  ‘Who is that in the painting?’ I asked.

  She craned her neck to look at it as if she’d never seen it, then stood up.

  ‘This is my late husband's great-great-grandfather, Commander Clarence Tanner. In 1825, he built the store to create jobs for veterans and their families,’ she said as if she'd rehearsed it a thousand times. ‘The war left him a bit … strange, if you ask me.’

  ‘He sounds like a kind man.’

  ‘Yes, yes. We're all very proud of him,’ she said, looking at Graziano, who remained still. ‘But my advice to you is to disregard ancient folklore and concentrate on the practical and the now. Your job is on the sales floor and the stock room, right here in the present.’

  The Commander gazed off into the distance at some mysterious prize, some glittering bounty awaiting him across hostile terrain riddled with untold dangers and seas full of angry leviathans.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m being presented with an award downstairs in five minutes,’ she said, looking at the door.

  I thanked her and left, keeping Graziano in my peripheral vision.

  I rewrapped my hand in the staff bathroom before heading to the balcony overlooking the mob of local radio and newspaper journalists, who were swarming the ground floor of the store and devouring tables of canapés like a plague of locusts, leaving little for the charity workers standing on the sidelines. Eventually, Ms. Doyle emerged from the lift, flanked by security guards, but without Graziano. A round of applause went up from the charity workers and a few reporters who weren’t laden with champagne flutes and finger foods. She nodded and smiled for the cameras as the ch
arity’s chairman presented her with the award.

  Next in line was the Lord Mayor, who not only shook her hand, but gave her a hug, as if they were old friends, while shoppers stopped in their tracks and drew closer to the commotion, clapping without knowing what they were clapping for. She gave a speech about the importance of community, before launching into a sermon on morality and how we need the Church more than ever, causing the priest standing next to the chairman to clasp his hands and gush gratitude in her direction. The crowd applauded again as she thanked everyone and retreated back to the lift with her new award, the guards close by either side of her.

  Strawberry

  As I exited the warm building through the back door, I realised how draining the interview had been. I felt as if I'd been lured in by the pretty Christmas lights and the music, chewed up, drained of nutrients and shat out on to the icy pavement. My jacket didn't offer much protection against the wintry blast raging through the alleyway. Although it was only 10 a.m., it seemed much later; the daylight struggling to find its way into this obscure little nook of the townscape. At the end of the alley, I could see the customer car park, glowing with Christmas lights and already bustling with shoppers and natives. I wrapped my hand a bit tighter in the first-aid bandage, pulled my jacket together and made for the car park.

  When reached the end of the alley, an old VW Golf pulled up next to me. It was the pretty applicant who had come to my aid earlier in the waiting room. The window whirred downwards and she smiled at me.

  ‘How's the hand?’

  ‘Oh, I'm fine,’ I said, even though blood was still seeping through the bandages.

  ‘Come on, let me see.’

  I held out my hand, which she unwrapped and inspected gently. ‘That needs stitches.’

  ‘Oh, come on. It's just a scratch.’

  ‘My mother's a nurse. She's off today. She'll take a look at it for you,’ she said, smiling at me and patting the passenger seat. ‘Come on, get in.’

  I was not looking forward to the journey home through the frozen wilderness of the docks. ‘I don't want to put you out,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all.’

  I rounded the car and got in. Inside it smelled of expensive shampoo and strawberries, a welcome break from the exhaust fumes, cheap pasties and the tang of stale booze wafting from the cellar vents of the pubs. We pulled away from the store's car park and into the city traffic, which was like a stampeding herd of steel livestock, honking, screeching and growling at each other.

  ‘Thank you for this,’ I said, drained.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘What's your name?’

  ‘Rachel.’

  I was hypnotised by the motion of the car and the sweet smells therein. My eyes were heavy and for a moment I began to drift into sleep.

  ‘Aren't you going to tell me yours?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Tony. I haven't slept much this past week. My bed is perched on the edge of a wharf.’

  ‘Oh, I know what you mean. Tractors and sheep can be just as bad though.’

  ‘Steel sheep.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bad sheep,’ I murmured, returning to sleep.

  Another silence passed and blackness washed over me as I was swept along on a magic carpet equipped with strawberries and air conditioning.

  A cold breeze brought me round rudely and I looked up to see Rachel's outline above me. She was undoing my seatbelt and as my eyes adjusted, I realised something was amiss. She had developed laughter lines during the journey.

  ‘Errr … how long was I asleep?’

  She laughed gently and helped me out of the Golf. ‘I'm Rachel's mum, Liz.’

  ‘Did I say anything … in my sleep?’ I asked, squinting against the low winter sun.

  ‘You were dreaming,’ Rachel said.

  The place we'd arrived at might as well have been a thousand miles away. There were rolling green hills, ancient stone walls separating the fields, the salt from the estuary carried on the fresh breeze and before us stood a tiny sandstone cottage, which looked warm and welcoming.

  ‘Now let's get you inside and have a look at this hand of yours.’

  The house was only lightly decorated. A lot of sandstone was still showing in the rooms, next to the millstones and antique farming stuff about the place. Rachel led me into the kitchen and I was overwhelmed by the view across the fields, down to the wide river along which a small mountain range had been whittled to perfection.

  ‘Ok then, let's have a look.’

  Liz had already started unwrapping my hand.

  ‘I love it here. It's so peaceful,’ I said, wincing as Liz poked and prodded at the wound.

  ‘It's up to you: either I fix you with butterfly sutures and you put up with a bit of scarring, or we go and sit in casualty for two hours, by which time it will be too old to stitch anyway.’

  I thought on this for a minute.

  ‘The first one, please.’

  ‘Are you sure you trust me?’ Liz asked.

  Rachel and I walked over to the old wooden love swing halfway down the large garden. There was an apple tree beside it, stripped of its fruits and leaves by the salty winter wind.

  ‘How close are we to the sea?’ I asked.

  ‘The river runs right into the estuary just over there,’ she said, pointing beyond the trees in the distance.

  ‘If you go to the promenade on the other side on a windy day, you can see the waves crashing over the sea wall.’

  Rachel sat down on the love swing. I hesitated, put off by its rickety appearance and the uncomfortable truth that since I'd stopped boxing, my backside had doubled in size. ‘Is it safe?’

  Rachel smiled and patted the spot next to her. I sat down and inhaled all the glorious scents around me: the wet grass, the sea salt, the bark of the apple tree, Rachel's shampoo and the faint tang of manure from the fields.

  ‘Thank you for today,’ I said, looking down at my neatly sutured and bandaged hand. ‘Your mum's nice as well.’

  Rachel looked at me out of the corner of her eye and grimaced. ‘Don't say it.’

  ‘Well ... she is a bit, isn't she?’

  ‘Just because she's a nurse,’ she said, hitting me on the shoulder.

  ‘She looks like you,’ I said, waving to Liz who was at the kitchen window, preparing our lunch.

  ‘Is that supposed to be smooth or something?’

  ‘I'm not the one who suggested we sit on the love swing.’

  ‘Everyone calls it that. That's just what it's called,’ she said, hitting me again.

  ‘All this touching business as well. What am I supposed to think?’

  ‘I was just trying to help out someone who had an unfortunate episode right in front of me. Very unfortunate,’ she said.

  ‘You saw I was injured and you pounced.’

  ‘Do you know that you drooled on yourself while you were passed out?’

  ‘Fine. How deep is that river down there?’

  I got up to walk off and she pulled me back down by my injured hand. I pretended that she'd hurt me more than she did.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, touching her hands to her mouth. I clutched my hand between my knees, doubled over in fake agony.

  ‘Oh God, it’s started bleeding again,’ I gasped.

  ‘I'm sorry. Let me see.’

  All that was waiting in my clutched, bandaged hand was a V-sign. She gave me another slap before chasing me back up the garden towards the cottage. As I reached the door, I realised that she had the key, so I conceded defeat. She gave me a long kiss, making my head spin.

  ‘You're not going to pass out again, are you?’

  We resumed our kiss, oblivious to her mum's voice calling us in for lunch.

  As we sat over our clean plates at the ancient wooden dining table, we talked and laughed of everyday things, until the subject of where I was from came up.

  ‘Well, all over the place, really. Wherever there's work, I suppose,’ I said. ‘Before I work
ed in the call centre, I used to coach boxing down south.’

  Something was crawling on my leg. I jolted the table and all the plates and cutlery as I stood up to brush it off. Nothing there. Rachel was blushing.

  ‘What is it?’ Liz asked.

  I looked at Rachel.

  ‘I thought it was an insect. It's gone now.’

  ‘So are you still boxing now?’ Liz asked.

  ‘No, haven't boxed for years. Shoulder injury. I just do a bit of training here and there. Not enough though,’ I said, patting my belly.

  ‘Then where did you get the broken ribs?’

  ‘I must have happened when I passed out in the waiting room,’ I lied.

  ‘When you had your panic attack, you mean?’

  ‘Mum,’ Rachel interrupted.

  ‘It wasn't a panic attack. I just haven't had much sleep recently.’

  ‘Well, I think you should come back for dinner one night this week so that I can take a look.’

  ‘How did you know?’ I asked, standing up from the table.

  ‘You hold them every time you sit down or stand up, and don't breathe for about ten seconds afterwards.’

  I looked down and sure enough, I was clutching my left side out of habit now.

  ‘Oh,’ I smiled, embarrassed at my transparency.

  ‘Will you come again for dinner?’ Liz asked.

  Rachel and I talked in the car for hours while we looked out across the river. Fast food wrappers and empty booze bottles rattled up and down the promenade, while the stinking river churned a sinister hue of froth. Everything here was violated, even the skyline by the looming tower blocks, though it seemed as if it was violated for us. The sea breeze carried salt and the promise of colder weather to come. Elderly couples wrapped up in their warmest scarves, coats and gloves hobbled along the promenade hand in hand, taking time every now and then to observe the dubious beauty of the scenery before them. I wondered what sounds and smells returned to them in their attempts to recapture the glory of their courtship days. I had read of a large outdoor pool, a fairground, a race track and a tower here before the war. I imagined the jingle-jangle of carousel music in the distance, people laughing and splashing in the pool, the smell of the cockle stalls and for the fine diners, fish and chips, the roar of the race car engines and the brew of motor oil and sea spray mingling in the air with their now ancient lovesick promises that things would always be this good. How many ghosts might return to the promenade, haunted by the echoes of those promises, perhaps eager to catch a glimpse of what could have been? Would they laugh at the survivors shuffling about in this briny detritus? Or would they cry?