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To my funny, remarkable mother Marion and her accomplice,
my excellent sister Jocelyn.
Contents
1
I can now safely say that nothing in life is…
2
I must have had expectations because I was disappointed when…
3
I have seen the man in the fuchsia trench coat…
4
The idea of normality was flashing in my mind’s eye…
5
Someone had been busy while I was in the café.
6
Saturday afternoon began in a damp way with light drizzle…
7
‘Nigel!’ I said, turning. ‘I didn’t expect to see you…
8
The scene I had witnessed replayed over in my mind…
9
‘Your future lies in my hands,’ called the woman from…
10
I stopped under the streetlamp at the corner and looked…
11
I awoke with a start, my heart racing. My eyes…
12
‘Old golfers never die. They just lose their drive,’ read…
13
Roger Bottle did not notice me walk up to his…
14
The bus was moving off when a familiar shade of…
15
Jocelyn stopped outside the door of the Mandarin restaurant and…
16
Nigel nudged me as the number two bus approached the…
17
I circled the pole several times and came to the…
18
As the bus reached the centre of town, I pushed…
19
I felt strangely invigorated as I strode away from the…
20
I looked around but saw no sign of the Dutty.
21
I put my ear to the door and heard a…
22
Herb Alpert’s barks were reverberating inside the stairwell as I…
23
Nigel poked his head in the office and looked around…
24
‘So it is true,’ I said. ‘You do have a…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by D.J. Connell
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
I can now safely say that nothing in life is random. Everything that occurs is connected to whatever has gone on before. If I had not visited Industry Drive I would not have seen the sign and taken an interest in the mayoral campaign. The cardboard square had been stapled to a wooden stake: ‘Visit the site of Roger Bottle’s proposed factory. Globcom – providing safe, efficient cleanup solutions.’ I did not follow the arrow because this would have taken me back the way I had come and that was the last thing I wanted to do. The sign had aroused my curiosity and I made a mental note to follow it up.
I did not always understand the non-random principle. I had to learn it the hard way through a process called the Learning Curve. Apparently, the Learning Curve is a normal part of human experience. This is a comforting fact because, at least in this, I am like other people.
When I apply the non-random principle to the events of my life, I see them as a linear series of theatre scenes connected by an orange electrical cable that charges the dramatic incidents with confusion and opportunity. To get to the present day, the current has to run through all the earlier scenes, which means the decisions my mother made for me as a child still affect the way things work now.
It was my mother who chose our family dentist and it was the dentist who put me off power tools for life. The dentist must have been careless because as a young man he lost three fingers to a whirling chainsaw. I do not know how many times I have imagined this accident. I am thinking of it again right now. It happens very fast. The dentist attempts to pick up the power tool by its chain. There is a soft, dirty sound as his fingers fly off. The chainsaw slows and its motor stops. Then there is silence. The dentist looks at what is left of his hand and is very surprised.
The strange thing about the Learning Curve is that negative events seem to have the most impact. A cup of tea makes me smile but a bump on the head will make me think. That is what I have been doing a lot of lately, thinking. I think something big is going to happen soon. Julius Caesar probably felt the same way before he got a knife in the kidneys. Something is going on in the town. People are disgruntled and restless. There are signs and messages.
I found another message this morning on my way to work. I was an hour early and had stopped at the Kenneth Williams Memorial Rose Gardens to pass the time. I often go to the gardens before work because my employer does not arrive at the office until nine sharp and I do not have a key. He is very particular about office security and finances and does not believe in giving employees keys or paying overtime. If he finds me waiting in front of the office before nine, he calls me the ‘early cuckoo bird’. It is his habit to repeat this several times as he unlocks the first door’s three German locks while shaking his head. It is not my place to complain or answer back or even to make suggestions. My place is to do as I am told with maximum efficiency and minimum discussion. I understand the necessity of office efficiency but I find the non-discussion rule quite challenging at times.
My employer’s name is Mr Chin and he was not born in Great Britain. He came here from Hong Kong after the territory was given back to the Chinese government and he has been very disappointed ever since. He says the chicken chow mein you find in this country is slop and that the so-called Chinese responsible for producing it should have their shirts removed in public and be beaten with green bamboo. ‘No mercy is best policy,’ he says. ‘Must beat on backbone many time or fool never learn.’
That is how he talks. He has strong opinions and is very direct about voicing them. I appreciate this frank manner of speech and respect Mr Chin because he never promises anything he cannot deliver. Neither does he contradict himself. He likes to say that his word is gold and, as I have learned, there is truth to this.
On my first day at work, he told me that I would be employed on a project basis for a limited period of time. I signed no contract but according to my calculations there will be enough work to see me through an Open University degree in Criminology and Psychological Studies. I have chosen this course of study because criminology is a vocation with a future. Crime is on the increase in Britain and job security is high on my agenda. I have already paid the course fees and am looking forward to commencing studies at the end of summer.
This morning I found another person in the rose gardens when I arrived, a grey-haired man in a long fuchsia trench coat. It was the coat that caught my eye. Fuchsia is an unusual colour on a man. I watched him circle the memorial walk with a small yellow dog. He did a lot of shuffling and spent a long time examining the floral clock. Its hands are planted in a white succulent and are impressive against the blue forget-me-nots of the clock face.
I turned to watch him leave and noticed a new message scrawled in pink on the brick wall near the entrance. I did not know who had left the graffiti but it must have been someone with a civic conscience because it had been written in chalk: ‘THE TIME HAS COMETH FOR ALL THE GOOD MEN.’ Each capital letter had been written in a very firm hand and the choice of ‘COMETH’ was unusual. The author was clearly a passionate, even biblically–minded person.
This was the second message I had found in the rose gardens within two days. The first was a piece of paper with a single word, ‘Beefeater’, written in curly handwriting and attached to the mesh fence outside the urinal. The paper had been pleated lengthways and neatly tied to the wire with a single, flattened knot. It is a custom in Japan to leave such paper messages outside Buddhist temples. This is done to invite good fortune or ward off bad luck. The Japanese are a very pragmatic people but they are also highly superstitious. This is called a paradox and cannot be easily explained.
Another person might not have noticed the messages in the rose gardens but the written word has uncommon appeal for me. When I enter a building, I read ‘Push’ on the door handle out loud in my mind. I have seen people idly step over a crisp bag on the pavement while I pause to read ‘Enjoy the tongue-curling pleasure of tangy salt and vinegar.’
I have a file for FOUND WORDS in a subsection of my OBSERVATIONS ring binder. This binder is organised in chronological order and begins with an entry on December sixth of last year: ‘Mr Chin changed the locks today. The newsagent put up a new window display of birthday cards decorated with pressed flowers. No one knew it was my birthday.’
My mother would have described a window display of birthday cards on someone’s birthday as a coincidence. I have stopped using that word because it implies chance events in a random existence and, as I have already noted, life does not follow a random or even logical course.
The author B. Sigmund Pappenheimer believes that the meaning of life is to find the meaning of life, which is one of those ideas like infinity that I find difficult to grasp. If I think about it too long I get an empty feeling behind my sternum, which is the long flat bone located in the centre of the chest. You should avoid being punched on the sternum because the bone can shatter and puncture the lungs. Professional boxers take this risk every time they enter the ring. Boxing is a dangerous activity, like riding a motorcycle without a helmet. It is not something I plan to take up in the future. I think punching does more harm than good.
I am a big fan of B.S. Pappenheimer’s series ‘Nuggets of Life’, and own all eight of his books. These I bought by mail order from a PO box address. The books have a small paragraph inside the back cover, which explains that B.S. Pappenheimer is a Troubadour Philosopher with a PhD in Philosophology from an American university. It also says that he is a recluse and lives at an unknown location. It is unfortunate that B.S. Pappenheimer does not have a real address. I would like to meet him or at least write to him and discuss his theories. His ideas are challenging for someone without training in philosophology but his writing is very compelling.
Here is a quote from his latest book, Wheels Within Wheels: ‘Seen from above, the world is a swirling ball of dust. Its inhabitants, a wriggling swamp of DNA curls.’ His writing is very poignant and I would not be surprised if he won a Nobel Prize one day. He certainly makes me put on my thinking cap and that has to be a good thing.
The world was a lot more confusing for me before I created my OBSERVATIONS ring binder and began organising my thoughts. At least now I recognise certain patterns in human behaviour. But recognising is not the same as understanding or engaging, as well I know. For as long as I can remember, I have felt suspended over human society in a Perspex pod. This is quite an isolated position, and while my separateness poses no obstacle to observation and information-gathering, I still have a long way to go in terms of understanding human nature.
I have now compiled substantial character profiles of nearly everyone I know and it makes me aware of just how unusual people can be. I have learned that everyone has at least one tic that would be considered unusual if you read about it in an encyclopaedia. For example, Mr Chin likes to clean his ears with a paper clip. He does this at least once a day with his eyes closed and his lips pursed into a point. I have seen the paper clip he uses. It is always the same one and it has been half unbent to allow deeper penetration. This may sound like a strange if not dangerous habit but Mr Chin is a successful businessman and is not the least bit self-conscious about cleaning his ears this way.
One of my mother’s tics was to take on a completely different personality when she visited Mr Da Silva’s butcher’s shop. As she entered, her top lip would stop moving and she would use only the bottom half of her mouth to talk. This made her sound like Marlon Brando’s Don Corleone but she never did anything violent or illegal like the cinematic character. When she was in the butcher’s shop, she would act in a very respectful manner and give the various meats the same attention that a nun would give the Bible.
I have not heard from my mother for over half a year since she left to marry a sheep farmer in New Zealand called Barry Bunker. They met through a dating service for bachelor farmers and enjoyed a whirlwind romance over the telephone. Pastoral life has its advantages but it can be a lonely and isolated existence. Mr Bunker sent photos of his farm to my mother who was impressed with its acreage and sheep population. The farm was located in hill country and a one-hour tractor ride from its closest neighbour.
My life has been a lot simpler since my mother left. She was a fierce woman and believed she knew best about raising a child despite having never received formal training or supervision. When I was five years old, she launched a campaign to stop me biting my nails. Her method involved creeping up behind me and slapping my hand away from my mouth. This approach did not stop my nail biting but it did prompt a twitch to develop on one side of my face. The twitch went away once she lost interest and ceased her campaign.
Nail biting has always given me genuine pleasure but like all good things, you can take it too far. It was Mr Chin who pointed out that the habit had gone on long enough.
‘This chew, chew, chew get on my nerve,’ he said.
‘It’s a nervous habit,’ I said. ‘From childhood.’
‘Rolling of drawer not from childhood. Rolly, rolly, rolly always and constantly get on my nerve.’
He was referring to my habit of opening and shutting my large file drawer at least one hundred times a day. I knew it was one hundred times because I kept a written tally. Again, this was something that gave me pleasure. The metal drawer was heavy but extremely well-designed. Its small plastic wheels made a delightful whir as they moved quickly along their metal guide rails, never catching or jamming.
‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry not enough.’ Mr Chin shook his head and handed me a copy of the town’s free newspaper, the Cockerel. ‘You need a kind of hurdy-gurdy man with pendulum that swing. Best quality gurdy man from Hong Kong. But beggar not chooser.’
On the back page, he had circled an advertisement in the Classifieds: ‘Harrison Tanderhill, Registered Hypnotherapist and Master Chakraologist Imperial Grade A. Put yourself in the hands of an expert. Will cure addictions, perversions and overeating.’
I was interested in the addictions part.
2
I must have had expectations because I was disappointed when I arrived at the address. Mr Tanderhill lived on a service road running parallel to Industry Drive. This was not a very attractive setting for a professional therapist. His brick bungalow looked rundown and lonely beside all the warehouses, car-sales yards and showrooms.
In the days when Britain used to produce things, Industry Drive was the pride of the town and was called the ‘Golden Mile’. You can see how it once looked at the photo display in the council annexe building. The photos show smoke pumping out of chimneys and busy conveyor belts inside battery and bottle factories, men in overalls inspecting labels and working levers connected to cogs. One photo dated 1949 is entitled ‘A Hive of Industry’, and shows the mayor handing a large wooden key to the town planner, the Right Hon. Eric Rogerson. It was the town planner’s idea to consolidate industry along the road and start the Blue Line bus service to and from the area. This period in the town’s history is known as the Reconstruction Years. The mayor is wearing a large ceremonial chain in the photo and has his hand resting on the Right Hon. Rogerson’s shoulder. His fingers are small and look like miniature party sausages.
Many of the factories had already closed by the time I was born. As a child I would sit at the window and watch the last of the workers as they headed to the bus stop each morning. They wore rough woollen clothes and walked with their heads down, carrying lunch boxes and thermos flasks. As I grew up, I saw fewer and fewer of them. Some bought popular cars like Honda Civics and did not use the bus service any more but most were eventually laid off as the factories closed down. People like my mother blamed the recession on the European Union, particularly on the French. Others said it was Margaret Thatcher’s fault. These days, people blame bankers and many say the Chinese are the cause of Britain’s problems. They argue that if Chinese labour was not so cheap, industry would not have relocated. I think we should not blame the Chinese. It cannot be pleasant to sew handbags for a few pence a day. Here in Britain you cannot even buy a sandwich for less than a pound.
Most of the former factories along Industry Drive have now been converted into warehouses for imported products, which is something I do not understand. Britain is rich by world standards but does not produce or export much of anything any more except weapons, of which it produces quite a lot. It is a surprising fact that the United Kingdom is one of the world’s top arms exporters. How can Britain buy so many products from other countries when it does not have much to sell except armaments? This goes against the supply and demand principle of capitalism, a popular socioeconomic system based upon the ruthless control of the means of production.
Mr Tanderhill’s house was wedged between two former factories. One had been converted into a carpet showroom while the other appeared to be a storage facility. Many of this warehouse’s windows had been broken and wooden pallets were strewn over the pavement outside its large double doors. On the side of the building someone had used green chalk to write ‘TRUST’ in large capital letters. This was an unusual message to leave on a wall and I paused to consider its meaning. I was still considering when a loud noise sent a shiver up my legs to my sacrum, which is the triangular-shaped bone at the base of the spine. Somewhere inside the warehouse, a chainsaw had been started.
I quickly entered the gate of the bungalow. To get to the front door, I had to walk around a yellow Ford Escort without wheels. The car was sitting on blocks with its windows open. Someone had painted ‘FOR SALE’ on the windscreen from inside so it read back to front. The lawn had not been mown for a long time and was littered with things like old shoes and food wrappers. There were several wine bottles on the front steps.
The doorbell had a small chrome arm. I pulled it but did not hear a ding. I tried knocking but my knuckles produced only a dull sound on the door’s wooden panel. I picked up an empty bottle of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon and used it to pound the door several times. The sound was loud and had an immediate effect. I heard running from inside. The door was yanked open.
A tall man appeared in the doorway. He looked at me, blinking. ‘What?’ he said. His manner was unfriendly.
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Mr Tanderhill?’
He nodded and then seemed to think better of it and shook his head. His eyes were large and bulbous, which made me wonder about the condition of his thyroid gland. I might have become preoccupied with this gland if I had not noticed another unusual facial feature. The area between his top lip and nose was expansive and made me think of Robert Mugabe. I took a step back and realised the man was dressed in a blue towelling bathrobe open in a V at the chest. My mother would have described the hair on his chest as a ‘thatch’. She believed that hair on a man was a sign of virility and was partial to Portuguese men for this very reason. It was her opinion that hairy men have classic good looks. I am not sure that I agree but body hair must be a comfort in winter.
‘I don’t live here,’ he finally said.
‘I’ve come for my treatment.’
‘Treatment?’ His expression changed. He glanced at a large gold watch on his wrist. ‘But you’re an hour early.’
‘Correct.’
‘I’m in the middle of a business meeting.’ He hesitated, noticing me glance at his bathrobe. ‘It’s a conference call. I’m an internationally busy man. You’ll have to wait in the vestibule until I’ve finished my affairs.’
I was led into the entrance hall and told to sit on a guest stool, which was a wooden box with several newspapers on top. Mr Tanderhill went out another door at the far end, leaving me alone in the dark. The hall was narrow and in the gloom I vaguely made out several other boxes and belongings stacked along the opposite wall. From the far end, I heard a door shut and then silence, and then the flush of a toilet. This was followed by footsteps, which moved in an arc to the room behind my back. I heard movement, a click and then a bang. It sounded as if furniture was being rearranged.
Five minutes later, a door opened to my right. Mr Tanderhill appeared with his hands in prayer and said, ‘Namaste’, which is a word derived from Sanskrit and a popular salutation among practitioners of yoga. He was dressed in a wrinkled grey Indian caftan with matching trousers. The grey did nothing to flatter his complexion, which had the puckers and dull veneer of a smoker. I averted my gaze and found myself looking at his feet. These were clad in sandals and on each of his toes was a bristling tuft of hair. Noting my interest in his appearance, he patted his chest.
‘I’m an Indian and a Hindu. This is my garb.’
I am no expert on the people and religions of the Indian subcontinent but Mr Tanderhill did not look like someone from that part of the world. His skin was pink and his eyes were murky blue. What was left of the hair on his head was sandy with grey around his ears. He did not speak with an Indian accent.
He tightened his lips in a determined, businesslike way. ‘Kindly follow me to the therapy room.’
I was waved into what must have originally been the house’s living room. It was furnished with a brown couch, a wooden chair and a battered vinyl massage table. There was nothing on the walls and no curtains. The room smelled of human beings and mentholated cigarettes. All the windows were closed. Outside I could see the Ford Escort and the warehouse wall with the graffiti. The car was not an attractive sight but it did block the view from the street, which was of some comfort to me. The couch rolled back and clicked as I sat down. Something blue was sticking out from under its base. It looked like towelling.
Mr Tanderhill remained standing with his hands behind his back. He bent in my direction and opened his eyes wide, revealing his irises in their murky entirety. I took this to be the look of a professional hypnotherapist and reminded myself that I had come to him with a purpose. My bad habits were interfering with my work. Something had to be done about them.
‘Tell me about yourself.’ He moved his hands forwards and up the sides of his legs as if drawing pistols from holsters. He pointed his index fingers at me. ‘Clear the air. Purge your chakras.’
‘I did already on the phone.’
‘It’s natural to feel embarrassed.’
‘I’m not embarrassed. I’ve come here because of Mr Chin.’
‘I bet you have.’ Mr Tanderhill smiled and closed his eyes, rubbing his hands together several times. He said, ‘Hmm, hmm, hmm,’ and then fell silent. He remained standing with his eyes closed, swaying on the balls of his feet for a full minute.
I coughed and his eyes flicked open.
‘Climb on to the massage table. We’ll get to the bottom of this Chin business.’
‘I don’t want a massage. I’ve come for hypnotherapy.’
‘I know that! I’m a certified professional. Royal Academy.’ He rolled his eyes impatiently and pointed to the table. ‘If you would feel more comfortable in less clothing, go ahead and remove it. I’m not averse.’