Simon Brett - A Shock to the System

The screwdriver was still in its package, so he was able to follow the instructions exactly. The point was to be placed against the suspect appliance and the other end lightly touched. If current flowed, the neon in the handle would light.

He switched the mains back on and returned to the loft. Laying his torch on a rafter so that it was trained on the switch and holding the screwdriver tentatively between finger and thumb, he brought the blade down on to the brass casing.

Nothing happened.

A surge of anger swept through him. This was not the way it should be. Everything was going right for him, he was invincible.

Then he chuckled. Of course. Elementary electrics. He took the rubber glove off his left hand and tried again.

The neon glowed.

Methodically, he went downstairs, switched off the mains, returned to the loft and defused his booby trap. Down again to restore the power, and up again to check the switch was no longer live.

Then he climbed from the ladder to the opening again to see if there was any way the pipe could be avoided. There wasn’t. The light from the landing shone on it, and the height of the steps was such that one needed a handhold for the last pull. He might have been able to heave himself up on the frame of the opening, but Merrily, being some nine inches shorter, would be bound to use the pipe.

Once in the loft, it would be natural for her to keep hold of it. The rafters were not boarded so she would have to balance with care, and lean across towards the light switch. Even though she was lighter than he, her weight would press her hand against the live metal. The shock would pass from arm to arm, through her chest and heart.

Graham picked up the torch and screwdriver and went back down through the opening. He replaced the cover, folded the steps and put everything away. Then he sat down to watch the wrestling.

The final part was easy. On the evening of the 21st of April, Graham packed his bag for Brussels before supper and then went into his study, leaving the door ajar. He sat in the swivel chair, got out one of his pornographic magazines and studied its splayed orifices with detachment.

He was aware of Merrily’s presence behind him before she said, ‘Supper’s ready.’ He shoved the magazine into a drawer. Quickly. But not quickly enough.

‘What’s that you’re reading?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just some insurance thing.’ He rose this time too quickly. ‘Supper, good.’ He hustled Merrily out of the doorway.

‘What have you got in there, Graham?’

‘Nothing, nothing. Come on, I’m starving.’

‘Graham, there’s no point in keeping secrets from me. I’ll find out.’

‘No, you won’t.’ He slammed the study door. ‘Now, listen! I will not have you snooping in my things.’

Merrily put on her little girl pout and a voice to match. ‘Do you think little me’d do a thing like that?’

Yes. Yes, I hope so, he thought, as he said, ‘No. Of course not,’ and kissed her.

After supper, he acted restless and tense. He was getting good at acting. Only a few weeks earlier the tension had been real, but now he knew what he was doing, he felt increasing self-control.

Then, suddenly, he announced. ‘Oh, I knew there was something. I was going to get that sewing machine down from the loft for you.’

‘There’s no hurry. I’m not going to have time to — ’

But Graham had gone. With elaborate caution he went into his study and opened a few desk drawers. He contrived to be on the stepladder to the loft with his arms full of papers when Merrily was drawn by curiosity upstairs.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Oh, just having a clear-out. Taking some rubbish upstairs.’ He wondered if he was overdoing it. Under what circumstances would he take wastepaper to the loft? But Merrily’s suspicion, though rampant, was aimed in a different direction.

‘Really?’ she asked drily.

‘Yes. I thought, while I’ve got the stepladder up. . Nothing you want me to put up there for you?’

She shook her head.

‘I mean you never go up there, so if there was anything. .’

‘No. I never go up there.’ She gave him a mocking look that was almost a challenge, and drifted downstairs.

He worked quickly on the switch. He knew he was taking a risk fitting it without turning off the mains, but he had bought wooden tongs to handle the metal parts, and felt safe. Within five minutes the job was done and he received a comforting glow from the neon of his screwdriver. He used the wooden tongs to switch off the light and went back downstairs.

Merrily looked at him contemptuously as he entered the sitting-room.

‘Where’s the sewing machine?’ she asked.

Graham enjoyed the conference. It was like being back at school. Though the class was made up of international personnel experts, though the surroundings were the impersonal, dust-repellent luxury of a new hotel, though the equipment included videos, computers and interpreters, it was still the values of school which prevailed. What counted were the questions raised after each dissertation, the points brought up in discussion groups, and in supplying these Graham, with his quick wits and lack of real commitment to the subject was able to excel. He also had the comforting sensation that all the delegates were being assessed, and that he was coming out better than the rest. Graham Marshall felt his old self again.

He was untroubled by what he was missing back at Crasoco. The Departmental Heads’ meeting was less interesting than the Brussels conference and, he decided, probably no more useful. Already he was forming sentences with openings like ‘Of course what they’re doing in Holland about this problem. .’ or ‘I think the statistics from West Germany are relevant in this matter. .’ He was refurbishing his armoury of information, little details which could be used in his old game of confusing his colleagues. He might not fool Robert Benham, but he could still fool the rest of them.

And Graham was now feeling more confident about Crasoco. Yes, he’d missed George Brewer’s job, but he wasn’t written off yet. A hatchet man like Robert Benham was bound to make enemies, and a focus would be needed for the disaffection he created. George Brewer’s policies had become unfashionable and been reversed by the appointment of his successor, and exactly the same might happen when Robert Benham went.

Because there was no doubt that Robert Benham would go. He had made it clear that Head of Personnel was just a rung on the ladder he had planned for himself. Within five years he would have moved on to another company or … or who could say what might have happened to him?

Graham found that being away from London gave him objectivity. Since he lost the job, he had been too bound up in thoughts of his own failure and Robert Benham’s success. Now he could achieve a more balanced view of his position. All was by no means lost.

He also liked living in a hotel. He liked the anonymous cleanness of the decor, the polished tiles of the shower, the paper-wrapped individual soap, the breakfast that appeared in obedience to a form hung on the door. He liked the impersonal luxury of a world where every service was part of a financial contract, where nothing depended on the inefficient motivations of duty or goodwill, where environment was merely a support system, not an expression of personality. This was the style in which he intended to live in the future.

The thought process of removing Merrily from his life was now complete. He did not think of her at all, just of himself as a skilled athlete returning to peak efficiency. There had been a hiccup in his training, a virus perhaps, which had laid him low, but he was now on the mend and would soon be capable of even greater feats.