Jonathan Barnes - The Domino Men

“We could go together,” I suggested hopefully.

“Sweet thing, I’m going away.”

“Away?”

“To Gibraltar. With Gordy.”

I set my coffee down on the table, frightened of spilling it. “Who’s Gordy?”

“He’s a mate. Don’t fret, darling. He’s in the biz.”

“Not another actor?”

“Producer, actually. He’s booked us into the most marvelous hotel.”

“Great.”

“Don’t look so down. I’m happy. Just keep an eye on the old bastard for us, will you? Give us a tinkle if anything happens.”

I stared down at the remnants of my sandwich and nodded.

Mum’s handbag began to trill. She pulled out her mobile and clasped it to her ear. “Gordy! No, I’m still with him.” Tittering, she turned to look at me. “Gordy says hi.”

“Hello, Gordy,” I said.

“No, no,” she said, suddenly putting on a baby voice. “I think he’s Mr. Grumpy ’cause of his granddad.” She kissed me on the forehead, waved goodbye, walked out of the cafe and into the street, still bellowing her endearments, broadcasting her sweet nothings for all the world to hear.

I looked at what remained of my sandwich and pushed the plate aside, my appetite suddenly curdled.

I had just got back to my desk when Peter Hickey-Brown summoned me into his office.

A stranger sat beside him. Baby-faced, clear-skinned and enviably exfoliated, he radiated good health. He was a walking advert for diligent grooming. When I came in, he looked at me but offered no smile and simply stared, unspeaking, in my direction.

“You wanted to see me?” I said.

Hickey-Brown, uncharacteristically grave, told me to sit. I was surprised to see that he had put on a tie since the morning and that he’d removed almost all of his jewelry.

“This is Mr. Jasper.”

I stretched my hand across the desk. “Hello.”

The man just stared. I noticed that he had a flesh-colored piece of plastic buried in one of his ears and I remember wondering (how naive it seems now) whether he was hard of hearing.

“I’m Henry Lamb.”

Still nothing. Embarrassed, I withdrew my hand.

Peter cleared his throat. “Mr. Jasper’s from another department.”

“Which one?”

Hickey-Brown looked as though he didn’t really know the answer. “A special department. I’m told it keeps an eye on the personal well-being of our staff.”

At last, the stranger spoke. “We like to think of ourselves,” he deadpanned, “as the department which cares.”

Hickey-Brown clasped his fingers together as though in prayer. “Listen. We know that something happened yesterday. Something to do with your grandfather.”

The man who had been introduced as Jasper looked at me icily. “What is the matter with the poor old fellow?”

“They think it might be a stroke,” I said, just about resisting the temptation to ask why it was any of his bloody business.

“Is he likely to recover?”

“The doctors aren’t sure. Though I suspect it’s unlikely.”

Mr. Jasper turned his eyes upon me but said no more.

I looked over to my boss. “Peter?”

He managed an insincere smile. “We’re worried about you. We need to know you’re OK.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure. But listen. You need any time off — just say the word. Just give the nod.”

“Of course.”

Jasper was still staring, coolly, unblinkingly.

“Is that all?” I asked.

Hickey-Brown glanced toward Jasper and the stranger gave the tiniest inclination of his head, a motion which might, in the right light, if you squinted a bit, have been a nod.

“Alrighty,” said Peter Hickey-Brown. “You can go.”

As I walked out, I felt the stranger’s unsympathetic eyes boring into my back like lasers.

After work, I retrieved my bike and cycled over to the hospital. Although there was no change in my granddad, he was, at least, no worse, and it didn’t seem to me as though he was in any pain. I held his hand and told him something about my day, about the fat woman in the basement, my lunch with Mum and the visit of Mr. Jasper.

Someone shuffled behind me. The nurse.

“You recognize your grandpa now?”

I blushed in shame.

“He seems sad,” she said.

“Sad?”

“He was in a war.”

“Actually,” I corrected her, “Granddad didn’t fight. He wanted to but they wouldn’t let him go. Some kind of heart defect, I think.”

The nurse just smiled. “Oh, no. He was definitely in a war.” She turned and hurried away, the heels of her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor.

I looked back at my granddad. “You weren’t in a war, were you?” I asked, although of course I knew there’d be no reply. “What war?”

Half an hour later, with visiting hours at an end, I was on the ground floor and almost in sight of the exit when I saw a patient I recognized. He seemed quite cheerful, sitting up in bed, propped against a pillow and engrossed in a tabloid, his left leg hanging suspended in plaster. He looked like an extra from a Carry On film, the kind of potato-featured background artist who would have ogled Barbara Windsor’s wiggle and guffawed at Said James’s dirty jokes.

I stopped in front of his bed. “I know you.”

The man looked up from his newspaper. It was definitely him. The squitty face, the shock of ginger hair, the air of insouciant lechery — all were unmistakable.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” said the window cleaner.

“You fell,” I said. “You fell at my feet.”

“Sorry, pal. Don’t remember nothing about it.”

I nodded toward the cast and pulley. “You broke your leg?”

“Nah, I’m doing his for shits and giggles. What do you think?”

“Sorry. It’s just that you seem… I don’t mean to be rude but you seem absolutely fine.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You fell five stories.”

“Then I’m made of tough stuff, aren’t I?” Evidently irritated, he made a big deal about returning to his tabloid.

“Yesterday,” I said, “just after you’d… landed.”

“What?”

“There was something you were trying to tell me. You kept saying that the answer is yes.”

He snorted. “Did I? Well, you do funny things when you’ve had a knock, don’t you? Can’t have been thinking straight.”

“You’ve got no idea why you said that to me??”

“Mate, I can’t even remember.” His next look began as truculence but shifted halfway through into one of recognition. “Don’t I know you?”

“Ah,” I said. “So it’s coming back?”

“You’re off the telly,” he said. “You’re a little boy.”

My heart sunk. “I was,” I snapped. “I was a little boy. Not anymore.”

“I remember your show. What was it you used to say?”

Now I just wanted to leave. “Don’t blame me. Blame Grandpa.”

The window cleaner started to chuckle, then abruptly broke off. “Wasn’t very funny, was it?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Come to think of it, that show was a real shitcom.”

“It’s always nice to meet a fan.”

“You’d better hop it. Visiting hours are over.”

“Well, I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Your mate’s waiting.” He nodded behind me.

“What?”

“Over there. By the door.”

He was right. Standing on the other side of the ward, just by the exit, someone was watching us. He vanished through the door as he clocked me but I’d already seen enough to be able to recognize him as the man from Peter’s office. Mr. Jasper.

The window cleaner turned to the soccer results with the air of a reader who does not wish to be disturbed. I left and went outside into the cold but, if he’d ever been there at all, Jasper was nowhere to be seen.