Resonance Page 2

  The train pulled into and out of stations; people got up, sat down, walked by, hung from straps, the train filling with every stop. A large man carrying a suitcase shuffled in front of Graham and grabbed a strap. Graham shifted in his seat, looking for another unobstructed view of the window. A girl stared back at him. He looked away, gazing hurriedly at someone's back while watching the girl out of the corner of his eye. She was still looking at him, her eyes fixed. Had he left some remnant of breakfast on his face?

  He moved his tongue in a wide sweep around his mouth, checking for crumbs. The girl did the same and smiled.

  Graham reddened and slid along his seat as far to the right as he could, away from her line of sight.

  The train entered a tunnel; there was a sudden whoosh of noise and a momentary blackness followed by the stutter of the carriage lights.

  Graham leaned even further to the right, trying to catch his reflection in the blackness of the window opposite. Was there something strange about him today? Had he cut himself shaving? He strained his eyes, peering at the badly focused image. He ran a hand through his hair, over his face. He found nothing. No breakfast, no blood, no enormous spot.

  He looked down at his clothes. Had he misbuttoned his shirt? Was there a stain?

  There was nothing, nothing that he could see.

  He checked the other passengers, was anyone else looking at him? He slowly scanned the carriage, watching people's faces in his peripheral vision, never looking at anyone directly, never giving anyone a chance to take offense.

  No one appeared to be watching him.

  Except the man by the doorway! He was looking. Wasn't he?

  The man looked away.

  The train lurched and swung, tunnels came and went in quick succession.

  Graham was confused. He was anonymous. People didn't look at him. Ever. Even if the man by the door was a coincidence there was still the girl. She'd smiled at him. No one ever smiles on the tube.

  He glanced back towards the girl, with her face hidden behind the ample body of the man with the suitcase he could watch her in safety. She was wearing jeans, her legs crossed, her right foot bouncing up and down with the motion of the train, her shoe loose and flapping, her . . .

  No, it couldn't be!

  She had a tattoo, just above the right ankle, just below the hem of her jeans. A tattoo of a blue bird.

  Graham's mind raced. Was it the same girl? Her hair wasn't red, was it? It was more orange from the brief glimpse he'd had. But that didn't mean anything these days. It might have been dyed. Or a wig.

  And if it was the same girl . . .

  He was intrigued. And panicked at the same time. Intrigued by the possibility that here was someone who saw the world as he did. Who appreciated the danger of stepping on cracks. And panicked by the fear that she didn't; that it was all an act, a joke primed to explode in his face. He'd been the butt of too many jokes to trust the first stranger that smiled at him on a train.

  And even if it wasn't a joke what could he do about it? He wasn't like other people. Any attempt at casual conversation would end in disaster. He'd learned that lesson a long time ago. The rest of the world was on a different wavelength to him, anything he said would either be laughed at or cause offense.

  The train began to brake hard. Graham looked up, was it Baker Street already? The train continued its long deceleration, commuters grabbed hold of straps and hand rails, newspapers were folded, bags picked up.

  The train stopped. Graham stayed in his seat, watching for the girl as an endless stream of people filed between them. He caught glimpses of her between the bodies. She smiled, he looked at his shoes. She was attractive in a street urchin sort of way, her features angular, her hair bright orange and unbrushed. What was she; twenty, twenty-two? A few more people filed past. He looked for her again. She'd gone.

  * * *

  He was still thinking of the girl on the tube as he performed his morning unlocking ritual on the Post Room door. He'd looked for her on the platform, he'd looked for her on the Bakerloo train, he'd half-expected to see her walking ahead of him on Westminster Street. But he hadn't.

  He pushed open the door and switched on the lights. The Post Room flickered into life. He walked over to the terminal in the near corner and switched it on, waited for the screen to come to life so he could log in and print off the staff list.

  "Morning, Graham." A young Indian girl came through the door. Graham smiled and nodded in her direction. Sharmila smiled back and hung up her coat.

  "Oh, I nearly forgot. Mr. Anton was in the lobby. He wants you to call round at three this afternoon. Something about a large batch of documents that need to go out on the afternoon van."

  Graham picked up a Post-it pad on the desk and searched for a pen. Which room was Mr. Anton in these days? Three hundred thirty-six? He browsed the staff list on the screen to make sure. There it was, U.S. desk, room 336. He carefully wrote out the details and stuck the note to the side of his in-tray. A dozen other Post-its ringed his in-tray like an early Christmas decoration. Another twenty adorned the notice board above. They were his memory made tangible. Whatever happened to the world outside, however dislocated his memory became, he knew that here was one place he could trust. One place that kept pace with an everchanging world.

  He didn't know how other people coped. He used to ask—his parents, other kids—but they'd look at him as though he was stupid or swiftly change the subject.

  His father had taken him aside one night just before his eighth birthday. "Sit down, Graham," he'd said. "We need to talk." Graham had sat down, shuffling along his bed to sit back against the headboard.

  "Children can be cruel," his father had said, smiling and making room for himself on the edge of the bed. "They pick on kids who are different. They'll pick on you if you keep asking these questions. See?"

  Graham had nodded, bouncing his head up and down in exaggerated agreement, his arms clenched tightly around his bear.

  "Good," his father had said, looking relieved. "We'll never talk about this again. Right?"

  "Right, Dad."

  And he hadn't, though it hadn't stopped him thinking about it. It was obvious people didn't want to talk about unravelling. He understood that now. It made them uneasy. So they pretended it never happened. And hoped to God they were somewhere else, safe and untouched, whenever the next thread worked loose.

  * * *

  Graham pushed the mail trolley along the short corridor back into the Post Room.

  "Well, if it isn't Mr. Post-it."

  Graham's heart sank. Surely it had gone eleven. He always timed his rounds to be out of the Post Room whenever Ray was driving the midmorning van. He glanced at the clock on the far wall, just the slightest of glances, enough to confirm the time—eleven-fifteen—and then quickly turned the glance into a deferential nod towards Ray.

  And added a smile, his shield against the world.

  "Shut up, Ray, you know he doesn't like it."

  That was Sharmila, undoubtedly the reason Ray was still hanging around the Post Room. She sat at her desk, probably trying to work, while Ray hovered behind her, looking down her dress.

  "Of course he does," said Ray. "Look at him, he's smiling."

  Graham turned away, retracting his smile and pushing the trolley over to the sorting stacks. If only he could push Ray away so easily.

  "I'm surprised he hasn't stuck one of those notes on you, Shar."

  Ray laughed. Sharmila hissed something inaudible. Graham started sorting the mail from the trolley. He picked up the first envelope and looked for the name: G. Stevens, 5th floor. He didn't recognize the name, not that that in itself was unusual. People had a habit of coming and going.

  He checked the list for G. Stevens, and found her in room 510. She must have taken Jerzy's old job. He checked the list again. What had happened to Jerzy? He wasn't anywhere on the list and he hadn't heard anyone talking about Jerzy leaving. There'd been no collection or leaving card. At least not t
hat he remembered.

  But then that's what often happened. Sometimes people just disappeared. Their name would be removed from the staff list and all record of them having worked in the building would be erased. They'd never existed, never worked for the department and no one would ever talk about them again. The office taboo; you don't talk about the unravelled.

  Even when they came back.

  Which Graham couldn't understand at all. How could you not talk to an old friend who'd disappeared for six months? But it happened so many times. They disappear, they come back and everyone treats them as strangers. Even close friends, people they'd gone drinking with every lunchtime, would pass them by in the corridor without a second look.

  It was like they'd broken some unwritten rule. They'd come back. They'd made people face up to something they preferred not to. So they had to be punished, made to start over as though it was their first day and everyone was a stranger.

  Laughter broke out behind him. Ray again. He had an unpleasant laugh, more sneer than humor.

  "Shush!" hissed Sharmila. "He'll hear."

  Graham tried to block Ray out of his mind as he filed the first envelope in 510's pigeonhole. Not that he understood why Ray was still employed by the department. He'd been arrested last year for abducting little girls. Even used the department's van. Or so Graham had heard. You hear a lot when you keep your mouth closed and your ears open.

  Though he'd never heard what had happened to the charges against Ray. Dropped most likely. The legal system was in a mess. Everyone said so. You only had to read the papers.

  "Well, nice talking to you, Graham."

  Ray's departing shot, loaded with sarcasm and fired in Graham's direction. Graham ignored it, as he always did, lifting a hand in acknowledgement and keeping his eyes on his work.

  "See you tomorrow, Shar."

  Ray whistled into the distance, the delivery bay doors swinging shut behind him.

  "He's all right really. Once you get to know him," said Sharmila, looking almost wistfully towards the door.

  Graham had known many Rays over the years. None of them had improved with acquaintance.

  The cloakroom door swung closed behind him as Graham stepped out into the second floor lobby. He liked to use the men's room on the second floor on Tuesdays—it was part of his rota; five men's toilets, five working days. Visit them in turn and keep them all functioning. So easy for a room to lose cohesion without regular use. Once you took people out of a room anything could happen. Storerooms were notoriously fragile.

  He pressed the button for the lift and waited. The seconds ticked by, he checked his watch, rocked back and forth on his heels and counted the first row of ceiling tiles.

  The lift bell rang as he counted the twelfth tile—always a good sign. Lifts that arrive on an odd number never feel right. They're either packed or stop at every floor or there's someone inside you don't want to meet.

  The lift doors opened and Graham walked in, carefully avoiding eye contact and turning to face the doors as soon as he could.

  "Hello, Graham, haven't seen you today."

  Graham beamed. He hadn't noticed Brenda in the corner. He turned and grinned and gave her his "maybe this afternoon" sign—a shrug and a fist rotated clockwise, one of the half dozen or so signs he'd developed over the years.

  "I'll look forward to it."

  He liked Brenda—always had—they'd joined the department at the same time, Brenda as a clerical officer, Graham as a messenger. She made him feel almost normal. She didn't treat him as deaf or stupid, she didn't slow down her speech or raise her voice or talk about him as though he wasn't there. She wasn't brusque or patronizing. She made him feel visible, something that Graham Smith appreciated more than most.

  He waved goodbye to Brenda on the ground floor and slipped back into the Post Room to pick up his jacket and sandwiches.

  And found something unexpected.

  There was a second note in his jacket pocket.

  Do it now. They're on to you.

  He read it again, shocked. What did it mean? He flipped it over—blank—flipped it back. Do it now. They're on to you. Do what now? Who was on to him?

  And who had written it? He didn't recognize the handwriting. Which was odd. He was used to finding strange notes in his pocket but they were always in the same handwriting. And it was always the same note—even if he never remembered writing it—it always contained the same basic information—name, address, job, place of work. All the information he'd need to get home or find his way to work. But this?

  Had someone slipped it into his jacket while he'd been out of the room? Or maybe before that—on the street or on the tube? It hadn't been there when he'd left this morning, had it?

  Not that he could trust his memory.

  * * *

  Best to ignore it, he decided. Ignore it and it will go away. It'll be a joke, probably Ray. He stopped at the curb and waited for the lights to change. People milled all around him; the noise of lunchtime traffic and conversation, music spilling out from the shops and passing cars.

  The lights changed and a wall of people surged over the road. Graham hung back and let them flow around him. Then he was back on the pavement, his mind free of strange notes and soothed instead by the calming mantra of ritual. Left and right, back and forth, one foot after the other, each step preordained and symbiotic. Streets were like pets—they loved to be stroked. They loved the repetition, the constancy, the daily caress of a well-measured stride.

  He noticed her shoes first, walking alongside him, matching his stride and avoiding the cracks. Her blue bird tattoo rising and falling to the amplitude of the street.

  Then she spoke. Her voice low, soft and, unexpectedly, American.

  "Don't look around. Look straight ahead. They're watching."

  Graham wobbled momentarily, his eyes swivelling nervously from the girl on his left to whoever might be lurking in the shop doorways to his right.

  "Pretend I'm asking for money."

  She walked a little ahead of him, her body half turned towards him, her face boring into his. He kept on walking, not sure what he was supposed to do.

  "Did you get my note? Look, I don't know what it is you do but whatever it is you better do it soon. They're on to you and they're gonna stop you. Any way they can. You know what I mean?"

  He shook his head. He didn't have a clue what she was talking about.

  "It's all right, you can talk to me. I'm a friend. Probably the only friend you've got at the moment. Trust me, there is some way serious shit going down and you're right in the middle of it. People want you dead. Important people with a lot of money and a lot of friends."

  Graham swallowed hard and kept walking. This had to be a joke. He was invisible to the world. No one could possibly have any interest in him.

  "Trust me, it's for real. You don't have much time. And burn that note I gave you, they go through your garbage."

  She peeled off and immediately latched onto a middle-aged couple walking in the other direction.

  "Spare some change, lady?"

  Three

  Graham spent the rest of the afternoon in turmoil. What the hell was going on? Was the girl insane or part of some elaborate joke?

  He couldn't fathom it. If it was a joke, what was the point? To frighten him, to make him do something stupid? He could imagine Ray setting him up, he could imagine Ray persuading a girlfriend to play along. But he couldn't imagine Ray not being there to watch. That wasn't Ray. He'd have to be there and he'd make sure he was seen to be there.

  But if it wasn't Ray?

  It had to be mistaken identity. The girl had mixed him up with someone else. That or she really was insane.

  He looked out for her on his journey home that evening. Once or twice he thought he caught a glimpse but either he was mistaken or she didn't want to be seen.

  Gradually he pushed her out of his mind, burying himself instead in ritual and extra counting. Nothing like monotonous exercise to cl
eanse the mind.

  * * *

  Graham performed his ten o'clock door-locking ritual: lock, unlock, breathe and count, right-handed for the front door, left-handed for the back. He latched the chain on the front door and bolted the back. And then did it all again.

  Twice.

  You can't be too careful about home security.

  Or overlook the fragility of memory.

  He scribbled "Tuesday" on a Post-it note and pressed it firmly to the front door, burning the image into his memory—front door locked, Tuesday. He repeated the process at the back door. He knew only too well the fear of lying awake in the middle of the night, unable to remember if he'd locked the doors, unsure if a memory came from last night or the night before.

  Peace of mind was always worth the extra effort.

  Which made him remember the girl's warning about the note. He stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs, wondering. What if she was right? What if people were going through his rubbish?

  He went back to the kitchen, picked up a box of matches and set the note alight, holding it between his finger and thumb before letting it fall into the ash tray by the cooker. He watched the note crinkle and blacken, then took the ash tray into the cloakroom under the stairs and flushed its contents down the toilet. Let someone try and piece that back together.

  * * *

  He awoke suddenly in the night. Everything black except for a grey veil of light at the bedroom window. Something had woken him. He wasn't sure what. A noise, a voice—something—nearby.

  The girl's warning flew into his head—people want you dead.

  He froze. Listening. Everything quiet. Everything except the thud of his heart in his chest.

  There it was again! A scraping noise coming from his back garden! He threw off his covers and fell out of bed, landing on the carpet on all fours. He stayed there for a second, ears pricked like a dog. Unsure what to do.

  The noise returned, not so loud this time. What was it? Was someone trying to break in? Or was it a cat?