Peter Temple - Dead Point

We started with the plinths, six of them. Their fit was snug but allowed for wood movement. More important were the levels. I worked my way around the room with a long spirit level and a box of maple shims. Fortunately, the floor was true; only three thin shims needed.

Next came the base cupboards, fixed to the plinths with Charlie’s hidden locking wedges. Then we put the shelf cabinets on the bases, again fixing them with secret wedges. As instructed, I screwed each cabinet to the wall with two screws that went through prepared slots. Then I slid into place the decorative cover strips that hid the expansion gaps. Finally, I attached the cornices and the skirtings.

The room was transformed. Boz and I stood looking at it. We’d worked well together, said little as we turned a bare room into a library: woodwork softly glowing, bevelled glass catching the light. With books, a library table, a few chairs, the room would be complete.

‘You blokes know what you’re doing,’ said Boz. ‘It’s beautiful. Best thing I ever carted.’

‘Did your bit,’ I said.

I walked around, tested a few locks, opened and closed a few doors and drawers, admired the fit, even admired my hand-cut dovetail joints and raised panels. This piece of furniture would be giving pleasure long after everyone alive on this day was gone, I thought. It was not a bad thing to have helped create.

A voice said, ‘Oh my God, I’m dreaming. Heaven, this room is absolute heaven.’

Mrs Purbrick, owner of the house, danced into the room, head thrown back, came around me, pirouetted with arms above her head, finished leaning back against me. It would have been girlish had not Mrs Purbrick’s girlhood been somewhere in the early 1960s. She was a short blonde with a formidable bosom, all of her lifted, tucked, sucked, puffed, abraded, peeled, implanted, stripped and buffed, and, today, packaged in a short-skirted dark-grey business suit.

‘Mr Taub will check the installation when he gets back,’ I said. ‘This is Boz Bylsma, who did the hard work today.’

Mrs Purbrick was walking around the room touching the woodwork. Her eyes flicked to Boz, summed her up, nodded. She stopped, put her head back and shouted, ‘D aavii d.’

David appeared. He had clearly been waiting in the passage. He looked around the room. ‘Marvellous,’ he said. ‘Quite marvellous. In exquisite taste.’ He tugged at an earlobe. ‘An island of good taste.’

Mrs Purbrick fixed him with her gaze. ‘I want the books in by the end of tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Is that clear, darling?’

‘Clear? What could be clearer? Any preferences? Leatherbound Mills amp; Boon? Collected works of Danielle Steel? I believe there’s a special on Jeffrey Archer.’

‘Use your exquisite taste,’ Mrs Purbrick said. With difficulty, she raised her eyebrows and showed her top teeth. The teeth were perfect. Some cosmetic dentist probably lay warm and slack beside a pool in Tuscany on the proceeds of that achievement.

‘How I wish that that were a standing instruction,’ said David, not quite tossing his head.

Mrs Purbrick tried to narrow her eyes at him. ‘On your way, you dear little man.’

‘Well, that’s it from us,’ I said. ‘On behalf of Mr Taub, I wish you well to use this library.’

Mrs Purbrick came over to me, came close, the torpedoes prodding my bottom ribs, put a short-fingered hand on my cheek. ‘You are so old-fashioned and courteous, I can’t believe men like you still exist.’

I caught the eyes of Boz, we were even-height, eyes level, some distance above Mrs Purbrick. She was expressionless, then she blinked, just a blink.

‘Frozen in time,’ I said.

Mrs Purbrick moved her hand down to my chest, traced a circle with a stubby finger. ‘I’m going to have to have people for drinks to show off the library, make them envious. You’ll be getting an invitation, you and Mr Taub. Nothing fancy, just drinkies after five. Mike and Ros Cundall will be coming. I’m sure you know them.’

‘Not in the flesh, no.’

‘Lovely people. And I’m sure they need a library. God knows, they’ve got everything else. I was at Sam’s birthday party a few weeks ago, that’s the son and heir, charming young man. In the recreation wing. Wing, mark you, it’s like a resort, two bars, the pool, billiard tables, gymnasium, sauna. And then there’s this games room — electronic shooting things, old pinball machines, you name it, my dear.’

‘A library would certainly complete the facilities,’ I said. ‘I look forward to receiving your invitation.’

Mrs Purbrick saw us to the side door. On the way, she ran a hand over my buttocks, no more than an appraisal, the touch a trainer might give a horse’s rump at the sales. It had been a while since anyone had done that to me.

‘You will come for drinks, won’t you, Jack?’

‘It’ll require legislation to keep me away.’

‘And make sure the darling Mr Taub comes.’

Going back across the river, the empty van bouncing and squeaking, I studied Boz’s forearms. Long, sinews showing, just a sheen of pale hair.

‘So,’ she said. ‘Hangin out with the rich and famous. I was on a film set where Sam Cundall was big-notin himself.’

‘In films too, is he?’

‘Had money in it. Just for tax. And the possibility of sex. Dud film.’

‘I haven’t been to drinks for years,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to go if the invite comes through. Charlie could use another library job.’

Boz gave me an unbelieving look. ‘What about this Cannon Ridge business?’ she said. ‘Reckon it’s bent?’

We talked about the politics of the state. She had no respect for anyone. Outside Charlie’s, she said, not looking at me, ‘That was quick. Short-time. What d’ya reckon?’

‘The deal’s the deal.’

She looked at me, left hand went over her stubble. ‘No. Make me a lesser offer.’

I thought about it. ‘You pay for a late lunch.’

Dodging drug dealers and their customers, we walked to a Lebanese place in Smith Street where they knew me.

Seated in the window, I said, ‘How’s the film business?’

Boz shook her head. ‘Shithouse. I’m thinkin of givin it away. There’s a bloke called Sewell moves a lot of art and antiques, wants to pack it in, sell the business. Problem is I can’t work out what I’d be buyin.’

‘How’s that?’

‘It’s about ninety per cent goodwill, no contracts or anythin, just customers he’s had for twenty years. They could take one look at me and say so long Maryanne.’

‘You know that number? Tell him you want to go through the books. Work out the percentage of turnover from each of the regular customers. Then go and see them and ask if they’ll carry on hiring the firm if you buy it.’

She looked at me, fork poised. ‘I could do that?’

‘If he says no, walk away. How old’s this bloke?’

Through the window, a few metres away, I could see a boy of about thirteen, a thin boy, face sharpened by the street, peachfuzz on his chin. He was someone’s child, lost into the world like a puppy into an open drain, now waiting for something, someone, agitated, scratching, licking his lips, rubbing his small nose. The person came, older, bigger, stood close to him, obscured him.

‘Fifty maybe, around there,’ said Boz.

The boy was gone. Two girls, older, late teens, dirty hair, faces pierced in three places, were on the spot, heads moving, looking in different directions. One clutched a plastic bag.

‘You’ll need a restraint of trade in the contract,’ I said.

‘Pardon?’

‘How old are you?’

‘Am I asking a stupid question?’

‘No. I’m just losing touch with ages. I need a baseline.’

‘Thirty-six. A week ago.’