5.5 KiB
Chapter Seven: The Friday
It was Friday. It was the twenty-second of March, 1984. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. The light was going, and the going was the medium, and the medium was the becoming, and the becoming was the point.
Gerald walked to 14 Wellington Road. He walked at his pace. 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 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 skirt suit that was not purple. It was grey. A grey that was the same grey as the March sky, and the same grey as the Pewter Metallic, and the same grey as the filing cabinets, and the same grey as the colour of a bruise that had fully healed and then healed some more, and the some more was the point.
"Mr. Firth," she said. "Or Gerald. Or whatever. Come in."
He came in. The office was the same. The cream walls. The grey cabinets. The wobbly chair. The television in the next room was off. The newsreader was not talking. The silence was the medium. The medium was the becoming. The becoming was the point.
He sat in the wobbly chair. The wobble was the same.
"The Pugh amendment," he said. "I've received it. The £8,200 is gone. The fuel, maintenance, and insurance are in. The return is correct. The file is closed."
Vivienne nodded. She sat down. She did not pick up the pencil. She did not turn it over in her fingers. She sat with her hands on the desk, flat, still, precise, in the way that Vivienne Ashworth sat when she was not arranging herself in the shape of sitting but was sitting in the shape of something else, something that was not sitting, something that was the not sitting, something that was the point of the not sitting.
"Thank you," she said. "For closing the file. For not looking at the other returns. For not making the pattern."
"I made the note," Gerald said. "In the drawer. Query re: structural consistency of Ashworth & Dale filings. To be revisited if further returns filed in Croydon."
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 been told that the drawer is not closed, that the file is not closed, that the pattern is not gone, that the signature is in the drawer, and the signature is her, and the signature is the point, and the point is the signature, and the signature is in the drawer, and the drawer 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.
"The note," she said. "The note is a problem."
"The note is a note."
"The note is a door."
Gerald looked at her. The look was the look of a man who has heard a metaphor and does not like metaphors and is trying to decide whether to swallow it or spit it out, and the deciding was the point.
"A note is a note," he said. "A note is in a drawer. A drawer is in a desk. A desk is in an office. An office is in a building. A building is in a street. A street is in a town. A town is in a county. A county is in a country. A country is in a world. A world is in a point. A point is in a note. A note is in a drawer."
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.
"You can't talk like that," she said. "You can't talk like that and expect me to not smile."
"I can talk like that," Gerald said. "I talk like that all the time. I talk like that to cabbages. I talk like that to filing cabinets. I talk like that to the telex machine. I talk like that to the fluorescent tube when it dies. I talk like that to the beige."
"The beige?"
"The beige is the colour of the office. The office is the colour of the building. The building is the colour of the state. The state is the colour of the law. The law is the colour of the point. The point is beige."
Vivienne looked at him. She looked at him for a long time. And then she laughed. Not the small, strange laugh. Not the laugh that bounced off the tiles. A real laugh. A full laugh. A laugh that came from somewhere deep and specific and irritatingly true, and the laugh was the medium, and the medium was the becoming, and the becoming was the point.
Gerald watched her laugh. He watched the grey skirt suit shake. He watched the *a