32 KiB
Chapter Six: The Second Visit
The reason Gerald went back to 14 Wellington Road was, in the strictest sense, not his choice. It was the choice of the file. The file had, in the three weeks since the first visit, accumulated a new entry. A new return. A new client. A new Mrs. Something, of New Something Street, Croydon, who had filed a return for the 1983/84 year that was, in the language of the Inland Revenue, irregular.
The client was a man named Terence Pugh, of 27 Ashburton Road, Croydon. Terence Pugh was a self-employed carpet cleaner. Terence Pugh had, in the 1983/84 tax year, declared a taxable income of £2,340, from which he had deducted an expense of £8,200 for "specialist equipment and vehicle maintenance", leaving a net loss of £5,860, which he had carried forward to the following year, in which he intended to offset the loss against projected income of £12,000, thereby reducing his taxable income for 1984/85 to £6,140, which was, at the current rate, significantly below the threshold at which he would have been assessable on the full £12,000.
Gerald read the file. He read it twice. He read it a third time. The deduction for specialist equipment was, on its face, plausible. A carpet cleaner did need equipment. A carpet cleaner did need a vehicle. The maintenance of the vehicle was a legitimate business expense. But the amount. £8,200. For a carpet cleaner in Croydon. In 1984. Gerald did the maths, in his head, in the small, precise, irritatingly specific way that Gerald did maths, which was the way of a man who did not trust a calculator but trusted his fingers, and the fingers said: this is not a carpet cleaner's expense. This is a car expense. Specifically, this is the expense of a second car. A new car. A car that costs £8,200 and is not a carpet cleaner's car but a lifestyle car, a status car, a car that sits in a driveway and is not used for carpet cleaning but for driving to the pub on a Friday evening and looking very good while doing so.
And the return was filed by Ashworth & Dale.
Gerald looked at the name. Ashworth & Dale. He looked at the method. The interlocking. The precision. The signature. It was the same signature as the Underwood return. The same structure. The same reclassification. The same small, almost invisible adjustment that moved the number from one column to another and changed the shape of the income without changing the amount. The signature was there. The signature was repeated. The repetition was the pattern, and the pattern was the thing that did not fit in the drawer.
Gerald went to Mr. Pemberton. The green office. The green desk. The green teacup. The telex clicking in the next room. The metallic teeth.
"Pemberton," Gerald said. "The Pugh file. Ashworth & Dale. Same method. Same structure. Same signature."
Mr. Pemberton looked at him. The look was structural. The look was architectural. The look was the column at the beam.
"Firth. The Underwood file is closed."
"The Underwood file is closed, sir. The Pugh file is open. The Pugh file is a different file. The Pugh file has a different client. The Pugh file has a different return. The Pugh file is not the Underwood file."
Mr. Pemberton was quiet. The telex clicked. The metallic teeth chattered. The green room was green. The green was the point.
"The Pugh file," Mr. Pemberton said, eventually. "The deduction is excessive. The £8,200 is not a carpet cleaner's deduction. You think it's a car."
"I think it's a car, sir. I think it's a new car. I think it's a lifestyle car. I think Terence Pugh has bought a car that costs £8,200 and has classified it as specialist equipment and has deducted it from his income and has created a loss that he will carry forward to offset next year's income, and the net effect is that he will pay significantly less tax than he should pay, and the mechanism is not illegal, it is aggressive, and the aggressiveness is the question, and the question is the point."
Mr. Pemberton nodded. He picked up his teacup. He drank. He set the cup down. The sound was definite. The sound was the point.
"Go see the accountant, Firth. Go see Vivienne Ashworth. Look at the Pugh records. Look at the receipts. Look at the invoice for the specialist equipment. And make your note. And close the file. And do not open the Underwood file. And do not look at the other returns. And do not make a pattern. The pattern is not your file, Firth. The pattern is not your drawer. The pattern is not your point."
"All right, sir."
"And Firth. Wash your hands."
Gerald walked out of the green office. He walked down the stairs. He walked out into the March air. The air was colder now. April was coming, and the coming was the medium, and the medium was the becoming, and the becoming was the point.
He walked to 14 Wellington Road. He walked at his pace, the pace of a man who is advancing with great caution, as though he suspects the ground may be a metaphor. The ground was not a metaphor. The ground was paving slabs. The paving slabs were the point.
The door was dark green. The lion's head knocker was brass. The plaque said PLEASE RING AND WAIT TO BE ADMITTED. He rang. He waited. He did not ring again.
The door opened. It was Vivienne. She was wearing a different purple. A darker purple. A purple that was, Gerald thought, the purple of a bruise that had fully healed, which was not the same purple as his tie, but was, in a sense, the same purple as the tie, and the same purple was the point.
"Mr. Firth," she said. "Again."
"Mrs. Ashworth. I'm afraid I have a new query. A new client. Terence Pugh, 27 Ashburton Road. Carpet cleaner. The deduction for specialist equipment is £8,200. I need to look at the underlying records."
Vivienne looked at him. She looked at him for a long time. The looking was not measuring this time. The looking was something else. The looking was the looking of a woman who has seen a man before and recognises the man and is trying to work out whether the recognition is a threat or a relief, and has not yet decided, and the not deciding is the point.
"Come in," she said.
She led him through the hall. The smell was the same. The paper. The toner. The faintly sweet chemical coffee. The cold church. The television was on in the sitting room, and the newsreader was talking about the miners' strike, and the sound filtered through the wall in a low, muffled murmur.
The office was the same. The cream walls. The grey filing cabinets. The small desk in the centre. The wobbly chair. Gerald sat in the wobbly chair. The wobble was the same. The wobble was the point.
"Tea?" Vivienne asked.
"No, thank you. You're quite right."
"Right about what?"
"The chair. The wobble. I'm managing."
Vivienne smiled. It was not a big smile. It was not a warm smile. It was the smile of a woman who has been cornered by a small, persistent, irritatingly specific man in a brown coat and has decided that the cornering is not unpleasant, and the not unpleasant is the point.
"The Pugh file," she said. "Terence Pugh. A very nice man. A very anxious man. He comes in every month, usually on a Thursday, usually at three o'clock, and he brings a briefcase that is the colour of a very old leather boot, and he sits in the chair opposite me, and he sweats, and he sweats a lot, and he asks me if he's going to go to jail, and I say, No, Terence, you're not going to go to jail, you're a carpet cleaner, you've got a van, you've got a carpet extractor, you've got a very good business in Croydon, and the taxman is not going to take you to jail, and you're going to have a cup of tea, and you're going to calm down, and we're going to look at the numbers, and the numbers are going to be all right, and they are all right, and I know they're all right, because I've made them all right, and the making is the point."
Gerald nodded. "The £8,200. The specialist equipment."
Vivienne went to the filing cabinet. She pulled out a file. She brought it to the desk. She sat down. She opened the file. She looked at Gerald.
"Terence Pugh bought a car," she said. "A Ford Escort 1.6 GL. New. March 1984. £8,200 including VAT and delivery and the dealer's margin and the colour option, which was Pewter Metallic, and Terence insisted on Pewter Metallic, and the dealer said, Terence, it's £40 extra for Pewter Metallic, and Terence said, I'm having Pewter Metallic, and the dealer said, Right, love, and Terence had Pewter Metallic."
Gerald blinked. "You're telling me that the £8,200 deduction is for a Ford Escort."
"I'm telling you that the £8,200 deduction is for a Ford Escort 1.6 GL in Pewter Metallic, bought new in March 1984, from Harcourt Motors on Worple Road, and the invoice is in the file, and the invoice is legitimate, and the invoice is real, and the car is real, and Terence Pugh drives the car to clean carpets, and the car is his vehicle, and the vehicle is his equipment, and the equipment is his business, and the business is his income, and the income is his life, and the life is the point."
Gerald looked at her. He looked at the file. He looked at the invoice, which was tucked into the file in a small, clear plastic pocket, and the invoice was real, and the invoice was legitimate, and the invoice said HARCOURT MOTORS, WORPLE ROAD, CROYDON, CR9 4QT, and the date was 3rd March 1984, and the amount was £8,200.00, and the description was FORD ESCORT 1.6 GL, PEWTER METALLIC, NEW, INCL. VAT & DELIVERY, and the signature at the bottom was T. PUGH, and the signature was shaky, and the shakiness was the anxiety, and the anxiety was the point.
"The car is legitimate," Gerald said. "The invoice is legitimate. But the deduction is not legitimate. A car is not specialist equipment. A car is a vehicle. A vehicle is deductible on fuel and maintenance and insurance, not on purchase price. The purchase price of a car is a capital expenditure, and a capital expenditure is not deductible from income."
Vivienne nodded. She pulled the pencil from her pocket. She turned it over in her fingers. She did not write anything.
"You're right," she said. "The purchase price is not deductible. The fuel is deductible. The maintenance is deductible. The insurance is deductible. The purchase price is not. I know this. I know this. But Terence Pugh brought me the invoice and said, Viv, I've bought the car, I've bought the car, Viv, I've bought the car, and I need to put it in, and I need to put it in, and if you don't put it in, I'm going to jail, and I don't want to go to jail, Viv, I don't want to go to jail, and I sweated, Gerald, I sweated so much, and I looked at the invoice, and I put the invoice in the file, and I made the deduction, and the deduction was wrong, and I know the deduction was wrong, and I made the deduction anyway, because Terence Pugh sweated, and the sweating was the point, and the point is that I made a mistake, and the mistake is in the file, and the file is in the cabinet, and the cabinet is in the office, and the office is in the house, and the house is on Wellington Road, and Wellington Road is in Croydon, and Croydon is in Surrey, and Surrey is in England, and England is in the world, and the world is the point."
Gerald sat in the wobbly chair. The wobble was the same. He looked at Vivienne. He looked at the file. He looked at the invoice. He looked at the shaky signature.
"You know it's wrong," he said.
"I know it's wrong."
"You made the deduction anyway."
"I made the deduction anyway."
Gerald was quiet. He was quiet in the way that Gerald was quiet, which was not the quiet of absence but the quiet of presence, the quiet of a man who is holding a thought in his mouth and chewing it and trying to decide whether to swallow it or spit it out, and the deciding was the point.
"This changes the file," he said, eventually. "The Pugh file is not a query. The Pugh file is a discrepancy. The deduction is not aggressive. The deduction is incorrect. The car is not specialist equipment. The purchase price is not deductible. The return is wrong."
"Yes," Vivienne said. "It's wrong."
"Then I can't close it."
"No," Vivienne said. "You can't."
Gerald stood up. The wobbly chair wobbled. He looked at Vivienne. She looked at him. The television in the next room was still on. The newsreader was talking about the miners' strike, and the sound filtered through the wall, and the sound was low, and the sound was muffled, and the sound was the point.
"I'll need to look at the other returns," Gerald said. "The Pugh return is wrong. But the Underwood return was correct. The Underwood return was clean. The Pugh return is not clean. The difference is the question. The difference is the pattern. And the pattern is the thing I need to see."
Vivienne was quiet. She held the pencil between her fingers. She did not write anything. She did not argue. She did not say, The pattern is not your file. She did not say, The drawer is closed. She did not say, The beige is the colour of the state. She said, very quietly, very specifically, very precisely:
"Gerald."
He stopped. He looked at her.
"You're not Mrs. Underwood," he said. "You know that."
"I know that."
"Then why did you call me Gerald?"
Vivienne looked at him. The look was not measuring. The look was not curious. The look was the look of a woman who has just admitted something small and specific and irritatingly true, and the admission is in the air, and the air is the medium, and the medium is the becoming, and the becoming is the point.
"I don't know," she said. "I don't know why I called you Gerald. I don't know why I called you Gerald last time. I don't know why I called you Gerald this time. I don't know why Mrs. Underwood calls me Gerald. I don't know why the cabbage curls. I don't know why the teacup makes a sound when it hits the desk. I don't know why the telex clicks like metallic teeth. I don't know why the roses are not roses but are in the genus. I don't know why the beige is the colour of the office and the green is the colour of the office and the pink is the colour of the form and the purple is the colour of the skirt suit and the Pewter Metallic is the colour of the car and the colour is the point and the point is the colour and the colour is the point and I don't know why I called you Gerald."
Gerald sat back down in the wobbly chair. The wobble was the same. The wobble was the point.
"All right," he said. "I'll take the Pugh file. I'll look at the other returns. I'll make my note. And I'll come back. And you don't have to call me Gerald."
Vivienne smiled. The smile was not big. The smile was not warm. The smile was the smile of a woman who has been cornered by a small, persistent, irritatingly specific man in a brown coat, and the cornering is not unpleasant, and the not unpleasant is the point, and the point is the smile, and the smile is the point.
"I'll think about it," she said.
Gerald walked to the door. He put his hand on the handle. He turned back.
"Mrs. Ashworth. The Pugh file. The deduction is wrong. You know it's wrong. You made it anyway. Why?"
Vivienne was quiet. She held the pencil. She turned it over in her fingers. She did not write anything.
"Because Terence Pugh sweated," she said. "And the sweating was the point. And I didn't want him to go to jail. And I didn't want him to sweat. And I made the deduction. And the deduction was wrong. And I know it was wrong. And I will correct it. I will correct it this week. I will file an amended return. I will remove the £8,200. I will replace it with the fuel and the maintenance and the insurance, which is £2,340, and the return will be correct, and Terence Pugh will pay the right amount of tax, and he will not go to jail, and he will not sweat, and the not sweating will be the point."
Gerald nodded. He opened the door. The March air came in, cold and thin and grey. The cold was the medium. The medium was the becoming. The becoming was the point.
"Thank you, Mrs. Ashworth," he said.
"Gerald," she said.
He stopped.
"I told you not to call me Gerald."
"You told me not to call you Gerald. I called you Gerald anyway. The anyway is the point."
Gerald walked out. The door closed. The lion's head knocker caught the light. The golden shadow was on the step. The shadow was the point.
Vivienne stood in the office. She looked at the empty chair. She looked at the wobbly leg. She looked at the Pugh file on the desk. She looked at the invoice in the plastic pocket. She looked at the shaky signature. She looked at the word PEWTER METALLIC, and the word was grey, and the grey was the colour of the March sky, and the March sky was the colour of the becoming, and the becoming was the point.
She pulled the pencil from her pocket. She opened the file. She found the page with the deduction. She looked at the number. £8,200. She looked at the number for a long time. She did not cross it out. She did not write a new number. She put the pencil down. She closed the file. She put the file in the cabinet. She closed the cabinet. She walked to the kitchen. She took the Savoy cabbage out of the fridge. She set it on the counter. She looked at it.
The outer leaves were pale. The inner leaves were tight. The heart was white. The white was not the absence of colour. The white was the presence of the becoming. The cabbage was becoming in the white. The white was the medium. The medium was the point.
She picked up the telephone. She dialled Reginald Dale at home.
"Reg. I need to amend the Pugh return. The car deduction is wrong. I made a mistake."
A pause. The sound of a teacup being set down. The sound was definite. The sound was the point.
"Viv. What car?"
"The Ford Escort. Pewter Metallic. £8,200. I put the purchase price in as specialist equipment. It's not specialist equipment. It's a car. The purchase price is not deductible."
Another pause. Longer. The sound of Reginald Dale breathing, in the particular, slightly whistling way that Reginald Dale breathed, like a man trying to blow out a candle that was very far away.
"Viv," Reginald said. "Why did you do that?"
"I don't know."
"Viv. Why did you do that?"
"Because Terence Pugh sweated."
A long silence. The telex machine in the next room was clicking. The metallic teeth were chattering. The sound was low. The sound was muffled. The sound was the point.
"Right," Reginald said, eventually. "Right. I'll do the amendment. I'll remove the £8,200. I'll put in the fuel and the maintenance and the insurance. I'll file the amended return by Friday. And Viv."
"Yes, Reg?"
"Don't do that again."
"I won't."
"You will."
"I won't."
"You will, Viv. You will, and you will sweat, and you will make the deduction, and you will know it's wrong, and you will make it anyway, and the anyway will be the point, and I will have to amend the return, and I will have to file the amendment, and I will have to sit at my desk at nine o'clock in the morning and do the numbers, and the numbers will be the same numbers, and the same numbers will be the point, and the point will be the numbers, and the numbers will be the point, and I will drink my coffee, and the coffee will be faintly sweet, and the faintly sweet will be the point, and I will catch my bus at five o'clock five, and the bus will be the bus, and the bus will be the point."
Vivienne hung up. She sat down at the kitchen table. She looked at the Savoy cabbage. She looked at the white heart. She looked at the tight inner leaves. She looked at the pale outer leaves. She looked at the curl at the edge of the outermost leaf, and the curl was genetic, and the genetic was the medium, and the medium was the becoming, and the becoming was the point, and she laughed, the small, strange laugh, the laugh that bounced off the tiles and the counter and the fridge and disappeared, and the disappearance was the point.
She put the cabbage back in the fridge. She went back to the office. She sat at her desk. She picked up the telephone. She dialled a number. A number she did not recognise. A number that was not Reginald's number. A number that was not Terence Pugh's number. A number that was not Mrs. Underwood's number. A number that was not the Inland Revenue's number. A number that was not the greengrocer's number. A number that was not Harcourt Motors' number. A number that was not the bus company's number. A number that was not the BBC's number. A number that was not the council's number. A number that was not the church's number. A number that was not the cabbage's number.
The phone rang. It rang four times. A voice answered. The voice was male. The voice was low. The voice was not whistling. The voice was not structural. The voice was not architectural. The voice was the voice of a man who was not in a green office and not in a beige office and not in a pink office and not in a purple skirt suit and not in a brown coat and not in Pewter Metallic and not in the genus and not in the becoming and not in the point.
"Vivienne," the voice said. "It's Martin."
Vivienne held the receiver. She held it very still. She held it very quietly. She held it very precisely, in the way that Vivienne Ashworth held a pencil, in the way that Vivienne Ashworth held a number, in the way that Vivienne Ashworth held a deduction that was wrong and made anyway and known to be wrong and filed anyway and amended anyway and the amendment was the point and the point was the amendment and the amendment was the point.
"Martin," she said. "What do you want."
It was not a question. It was not a request. It was not a query. It was a statement, in the form of a question, in the shape of a deduction, in the structure of a return, in the method of a system, in the signature of a school, in the genus of a rose, in the heart of a cabbage, in the white of the becoming, in the medium of the dark, in the cold of the March air, in the thin of the March light, in the grey of the March sky, in the beige of the office, in the green of the room, in the pink of the form, in the purple of the skirt suit, in the Pewter Metallic of the car, in the wobble of the chair, in the curl of the leaf, in the sound of the teacup, in the click of the telex, in the sweat of Terence Pugh, in the anxiety of Mrs. Underwood, in the measuring of the look, in the not writing of the pencil, in the not knowing of the name, in the anyway of the deduction, in the point of the point, in the point of the point of the point.
"I need you to do something," Martin said. "I need you to do something, Vivienne, and I need you to do it this week, and I need you to do it quietly, and I need you to do it cleanly, and I need you to do it the way you do things, the way you read the forms, the way you relocate the numbers, the way you put them in the dark and let them become something else, and the something else is not a lie, and the something else is a transformation, and the transformation is true, and the true is the point."
Vivienne held the receiver. The Savoy cabbage was in the fridge. The fridge was humming. The hum was low. The hum was muffled. The hum was the point.
"What do you want me to do?" she said.
And Martin said something. And the something was not about cabbages. And the something was not about roses. And the something was not about cars. And the something was not about carpets. And the something was not about pensions or interest or property or deductions or reclassifications or exemptions or thresholds or liabilities or returns or files or drawers or cabinets or offices or buildings or colours or sounds or smells or wobbles or curls or sweats or anxieties or measurements or not writings or not knowings or anyways or points.
The something was about a man. A man named Colin Whitfield. A man who lived in Surrey. A man who owned a company. A company named Whitfield Holdings Limited. A company that traded in something that was not carpets and not pensions and not interest and not property and not cabbages and not roses and not cars and not colours and not sounds and not smells and not wobbles.
A company that traded in something that was not legal.
And Martin wanted Vivienne Ashworth to make the numbers work. To relocate them. To put them in the dark. To let them become something else. To make the something else look like the something that it was not. To make the transformation look like the identity. To make the point look like the not point.
And Vivienne held the receiver, and Vivienne did not hang up, and Vivienne did not say yes, and Vivienne did not say no, and Vivienne said, very quietly, very precisely, very specifically:
"I need to think about it."
"You have until Friday," Martin said. "And Vivienne. Don't tell Reginald."
The phone went dead. The dial tone hummed in the receiver, a low, steady, endless hum, and the hum was the medium, and the medium was the becoming, and the becoming was the point, and Vivienne held the dead phone in her hand, and Vivienne looked at the Savoy cabbage through the fridge door, and the cabbage sat in the dark, in the cold, in the hum, and the cabbage was becoming, and the becoming was the point, and the point was the cabbage, and the cabbage was the point.
She put the phone down. She sat down. She sat down very still. She sat down very quietly. She sat down very precisely. She sat down in the way that Vivienne Ashworth sat down, which was not the way of a woman who sits down, but the way of a woman who arranges herself in the shape of sitting, in the structure of sitting, in the architecture of sitting, in the genus of sitting, in the heart of sitting, in the white of sitting, in the dark of sitting, in the cold of sitting, in the becoming of sitting, in the point of sitting, in the point of the point of sitting.
And outside, on Wellington Road, the March wind blew, and the two dog roses shook in the wind, and the shaking was the medium, and the medium was the becoming, and the becoming was the point, and the point was the shaking, and the shaking was the point, and the point was the shaking, and the shaking was the point.
And a quarter of a mile to the east, in a beige office on the fourth floor of a beige building on Sutherland Road, Gerald Firth sat at his beige desk, in his beige chair, in his beige room, and he opened his leather notebook, and he wrote, in his careful, precise hand, on a fresh page:
Colin Whitfield.
He did not know why he wrote the name. He did not know where he had heard the name. He did not know why the name was in his head, sitting in the back of his head, in the dark, in the cold, in the becoming, like a cabbage in the fridge, humming, low, steady, endless.
He closed the notebook. He made a fresh pot of tea. He drank it standing up. He looked out of the window. The March sky was grey. The March light was thin. The March air was cold.
And he did not know yet what Colin Whitfield was. And he did not know yet what Martin was. And he did not know yet why Vivienne Ashworth had not hung up. And he did not know yet why the name Colin Whitfield was in his head, humming, low, steady, endless, like a telex machine in the next room, clicking, chattering, metallic, toothed, patient, persistent, irritatingly specific, irritatingly true.
He did not know yet.
But the notebook said Colin Whitfield.
And the notebook did not lie.
And the not lying was the point.
And the point was the notebook.
And the notebook was in his hand.
And his hand was shaking.
And the shaking was the point.