A Shock to the System (16 page)

‘Charmian, there's something you don't know . . .'

‘Yes. What?'

He suddenly realised what he was about to do, and stepped back from the brink. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't. . . I'm confused . . .'

Again she misread the cause of his incoherence.

‘I know it's a shock. Take time. Let the idea sink in. Think about it. Or ask me any details you want to know.'

‘Yes. yes.' And with the broken delivery masking the baldness of the question, he asked, ‘What about money?'

‘Money?'

‘Yes. I mean, if you were to look after them, you couldn't do it for nothing.'

‘Ah, I see what you mean. Yes, I had thought about that.' She had. Sensible woman. She had thought it out in some detail and she presented her suggestions with clarity. The appeal of the idea to Graham increased. It would move the obligation to his children to that area of contractual agreement he so favoured.

But the greatest appeal of Charmian's proposal lay in how little she was asking. With no mortgage repayments and the children mopped up by such a modest monthly outlay, he was going to be quids in. True, there were school fees, but they couldn't possibly get to their current schools from Islington, and he recalled with relish that Charmian was a great advocate of State education. Still, time enough to sort that out.

He felt light-headed. He couldn't believe with how little effort everything was working for him. That the force of Charmian's hatred of her mother should be channelled so conveniently was pure serendipity. What she had offered him completed his desires. He had removed his wife from his life. Charmian was proposing to do the same service for his son and daughter. And, incidentally, for his mother-in-law.

All was quiet when he returned to the Boileau Avenue house. He had taken a taxi all the way, feeling he deserved a little pampering and celebration. He had contained the urge to leap about and shout for joy until he got home.

Inside he found the post, which had been neglected in the upheaval of the cremation. Amongst other less important items was a letter from the broker through whom he had arranged the mortgage.

From a flurry of condolence, one hard fact emerged. The letter confirmed that, following the tragic death of his wife, the outstanding mortgage on the Boileau Avenue house would be paid off by the insurance policy.

It had all worked. Graham poured himself half a tumbler of Scotch and, drinking it, began to laugh, softly at first. But as the tensions of the past weeks, of the old man's murder, of Merrily's murder, of the inquest, the cremation, drained out of him, the laughter increased in volume.

He was aware after a time of the door being opened and of Lilian's bemused face framed in the space. Hers was soon joined by the shocked faces of Henry and Emma.

And the sight made Graham Marshall laugh all the more.

An unpleasant shock awaited Graham the next morning. He had not been in to work since Merrily's death, claiming a week of compassionate leave.

When he walked into his office he found that his desk had been moved from its central position to one side and directly opposite it was an identical desk, at which sat a young man in an open-necked shirt and brown leather blouson. The young man smoked a small cigar. Graham recognised him as Terry Sworder, one of the brighter Personnel Officers who had been recruited from Operations Research Department.

‘What the hell are you doing here?'

The young man looked up at the question. ‘Oh, hi. Very sorry to hear about your wife.'

The sentiment was delivered without interest, purely as a matter of convention. Ironically, though Graham was not aware of the irony, he felt affronted that the young man was not showing more respect for the dead.

‘Thank you. But that doesn't answer my question. What the hell are you doing here?'

‘Oh, Bob asked me to sit in while you're away,' Terry Sworder replied languidly.

‘Bringing your desk with you is a rather elaborate way of “sitting in”. If your presence was really necessary, I wouldn't have minded you sitting at mine.'

The young man shrugged. ‘Bob said I might as well make myself at home since we're going to be working together.'

‘Who's going to be working together?'

‘You and me, pal.'

‘On what?'

‘Bob reckons it's daft not having someone who can use the computer in this office, so I'm going to be here to help you with that.'

‘Oh, are you?'

Terry Sworder seemed not to notice the sarcastic emphasis. ‘Yes. We're going to put in a terminal over there.' He gestured vaguely to the corner of the room.

‘And you're really asking me to believe that you're going to stay in here?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘We'll see about that.'

Graham stalked out of the door and set out along the corridor towards Robert Benham's office.

The Head of Personnel Designate's secretary directed him to the office of the retiring Head of Personnel. ‘Bob's with George, I think.'

Graham didn't like the way Robert Benham had suddenly become ‘Bob' to everyone. It betokened a certain mateyness of management style that didn't appeal to him. He didn't want the Personnel Department filled with scruffy young men in denims calling everyone by Christian names. Christian names should be reserved for colleagues at the same level, and their use extended beyond that by invitation only.

He met George Brewer in the corridor outside his office. The old man was moving about nervously, as if anxious to get to the Gents, but his movement had no direction.

‘Graham, hello. Very sorry to hear about Merrily. I know how I felt when my own wife . . . when ... I ... I don't know what to say.'

Again Graham felt that this response was only just adequate. He said yes, it had been a terrible shock, and the reality of what had happened would only sink in gradually, and he would have to learn to live with it, and he thought hard work was going to be his best therapy for the time being.

‘But what are you doing out here, George?'

The old man looked shifty. ‘Oh, I . . . It's Bob.'

God, the mateyness had even infected George.

‘What about him?'

‘Well, he's, er, he's in the office with the Head of Office Services, and I thought it might be easier for him if I just slipped out.'

‘Slipped out? Waited in the corridor for him to finish?'

‘Well, er . . . not exac . . . yes.'

‘God, you are still Head of Department, George.'

The old man's eyes appealed pathetically to him. Their corners, he noted, were gummed with yellow. ‘Don't want to make waves,' he murmured.

Graham snorted and pushed into the Head of Department's outer office. Stella looked up at him over her typewriter.

Her expression was strange, tense and excited as if she was expecting something. With a feeling that was not unpleasant he realised that this was in response to his new status. The intent of their encounters at the wine bar had been ambiguous when he was married, but now he was a widower the potential of the relationship had changed. He recognised Stella's awareness of this change and felt mildly flattered. The way his life was currently going, anything might prove of advantage to him.

‘Graham, I was very sorry to hear about your wife.'

The response was becoming automatic. He nodded grimly. ‘Yes, it was a terrible shock. Be years before I really take it in. Still, life must go on.'

He injected just enough twinkle into the last sentence to keep Stella's hope alive, and continued, ‘Is Bob in there?'

‘Yes.

He's with –'

Graham didn't wait for the explanation, but walked into the office.

Robert Benham was leaning over George's desk. The Head of Office Services, a thickset man in his early fifties, was showing colour samples. ‘I want something bright,' Robert was saying, ‘get away from the terrible institutional drabness of – ah, Graham. I was very sorry to hear about your wife.'

Graham didn't bother with any response this time, just demanded, ‘What the hell is Terry Sworder doing in my office?'

‘Didn't he explain?'

‘He gave some explanation, but I couldn't believe he'd got it right.'

‘Why not?'

‘Robert, I have been in that office for four years. Lionel Agate was in it for five years before that. It is the Assistant Head of Personnel's Office.'

‘Things can change, Graham.'

‘It's something that goes with the job.'

‘It's staying with the job. It's just that you'll be sharing it.'

‘But that's ridiculous! Think what it'll do to my status in the company if I'm shoved into the corner of my office like some junior filing clerk.'

‘Graham,' said Robert Benham coolly, ‘I don't give a shit about your “status in the company”. I don't give a shit about anyone's “status in the company”. All I'm after is an efficient operation.'

‘Oh yes? If you don't give a shit about status, why are you having your office redecorated? Go on, that's what he's doing, isn't he?'

The Head of Office Services, appealed to directly, took the opportunity to say what he'd been wanting to for some time. ‘Perhaps I'll just slip out and wait while you finish this discussion. Then we –'

‘You stay,' snapped Robert Benham. ‘This interruption won't last long.'

‘No?' Graham was shouting now. ‘Go on, if you don't care about status, why don't we move half the typing pool into
this
office? I'm sure it wouldn't inconvenience you much.'

‘Graham, I know you're upset about your wife –'

‘Don't try that one! Oh yes, pretend I'm only behaving like this because I'm under emotional stress. Listen! I have a perfectly legitimate complaint, and I demand that you send
Terry
Sworder back to the Computer Room or wherever he crawled out of!'

‘No.' Robert Benham shook his head briskly.

‘Come on, you haven't answered my question. Would you object to having some “assistant” shoved into your office? Go on, of course you would.'

‘The two cases are not comparable. First, I am Head of Department '

‘Not yet you aren't!'

‘In all but name.' The words were delivered with great forbearance. ‘Secondly,' he continued, ‘if I thought I needed an assistant in here for the efficient discharge of my duties, I would install one.'

‘Meaning I don't discharge my duties efficiently?'

‘Meaning that it is insane to have someone in that job who's not computer literate.'

‘What?' This frontal attack winded Graham. Mustering what reserves of sarcasm he had left, he asked, ‘If that's how you feel, why don't you just get me out of the job? Kick me out?'

‘I have investigated the possibility,' Robert replied coolly, ‘and unfortunately it can't be done. You're too senior in the company to be removed for any reason other than gross misconduct.'

‘Terrific,' said Graham. ‘I'm honoured that you've taken the trouble to find that out. And bear in mind, you're less senior in the company, and getting you removed may prove a lot easier!'

Graham Marshall looked down at the swirling waters of the Thames from Hammersmith Bridge. The place now held no fears for him; rather it was a source of strength, a shrine almost, the scene of his conversion, of his rebirth.

The sun that glinted on the water was warm with the promise of summer. It made him think of holidays. Yes, he would have a nice holiday this year. Somewhere hot, somewhere rather luxurious. He would put behind him the rowdy family heartiness of Cyprus, the awful memories of self-catering in Wales, and go . . . where? The West Indies, maybe ... Yes, that had the right sort of feel. And he'd certainly be able to afford it now. Luxury for one was comparatively inexpensive.

He thought about his scene with Robert Benham. The skirmishing was over; both sides had nailed their colours to the mast. For Robert to have admitted that he had investigated removing his rival left no further ambiguity in the relationship. It was now open war.

Graham had spent lunchtime in the company bar with other members of the Department, and then set off home, an action that could be interpreted as a symptom of bereavement, or an expression of pique against Robert Benham.

The bar-room conversation had given Graham considerable encouragement. His were not the only hackles which had been raised by Robert Benham's ungentle style. Already, before he had taken over the job, a power-base of opposition had built up against him. Marshalling that opposition was the kind of task for which Graham's skills were uniquely formed. He began to relish the guerrilla warfare ahead.

Robert Benham would fight hard, but Graham knew that Robert Benham would not win. He might have a formidable armoury of skills and talent, but he did not possess Graham's ultimate weapon. It was a weapon that might not be brought into play, but it was there, and in extremity Graham Marshall would not hesitate to use it.

On his way home Graham walked past an estate agent. He went in, announced that he wished to put his house on the market and arranged a time for a valuer to call and assess the profit of his crime.

‘I think we really ought to sell it. I'm sure we could use the money.'

‘What?' Graham looked up. He had only half heard his mother-in-law's words, engrossed in the book he had just got from the library. It was a book about famous murder cases, and he was reading it with amused relish. It boosted his confidence. They had all been such incompetents, such amateurs, all weakened by lapses into inefficiency or pity. His feeling of untouchable exclusivity increased.

Lilian repeated her words, exactly, an habitual form of reproach she had used on her daughters when they weren't listening to her. She prefaced the statement, as ever, with ‘I said'.