CLIPBOARD

“What are you doing?”

“Just looking.”

“For Pete’s sake, Norman! We’re on holiday! Can’t you leave it alone?”

“But, Sandra, this is out of date.”

Norman held the carbon monoxide detector in his hand, studying the date stamp on the unit. He turned it from front to back, tutting and shaking his head. Sandra cringed at the sound; it was one of the many idiosyncrasies about her husband that grated. They’d been together nearly thirty years. This was supposed to be a nice break in Dorset. A preamble to their big wedding anniversary celebration later that month.

“I suppose you’ve checked the smoke alarms?”

“Yes, they’re okay, but I’m a bit concerned about the distance that socket is from the hob.”

Sandra put her face in her hands – something she did more often these days. Oh, for the love of God, why can’t he leave it alone? It’s getting worse!

Norman Cooper had passed sixty and was approaching his retirement. It was still a few years off, but it was a retirement he wasn’t eagerly anticipating, one he almost resented. Because the thing he loved the most, his work, the thing that truly moved him, had recently grown out of all proportions to become a litigious behemoth. Norman was head of Health and Safety at Protek Industries, a role he shouldered with an adamancy beyond reason. And his wife, who had loved him and encouraged him throughout his career, was watching him slowly slip away into his own private madness. That was the way she saw it, and it had begun to wear her down. A distance had grown between them, that she saw only widening, so she was glad of her new distraction at work – one Norman was not aware of.

The long weekend passed pleasantly enough. The couple visited a market and two National Trust properties, the management of which Norman made only passing comments on. Sandra responded minimally to these, steering the subject away towards a fine tapestry or suit of armour. A coping mechanism she had acquired over the last few years. At the second of these properties, after a lunch purportedly made with local produce, Sandra excused herself to go to the toilet. In the ladies, she looked at herself in the mirror – at the lines and the skin that had lost its youthful elasticity. She didn’t look that bad, her jowls didn’t hang, and the bags under her eyes were minimal. She was glad she didn’t smoke, not like that Joyce in the office, who reminded her of a sharpei. More lines than the London Underground, she often thought, when talking to her. God, it’s so easy to be bitchy. I’m still attractive though, she thought, pulling the skin back from the corners of her eyes, and at least someone else sees it.

This thought occupied her as she wandered out of the ladies, paying no attention to where she was going. One end of the rope forming a barrier to the stairwell before her, had dropped off its hook. The sign, that said ‘No Entry’, had fallen with it. Sandra descended the stairwell, only vaguely aware of what she was doing. Walking absent-mindedly along a corridor, she eventually came to a door she did not recognise. It was only then she realised she had taken a wrong turn. Looking behind, she saw she was alone, the passage lacking signage of the sort that herded the visitors around upstairs. The worn, bronze doorknob was cool in her hand as she tried it. It was a small act of rebellion; the feeling in her chest told her so. Norman would never have attempted it, would never have been so bold. The sensation in her chest increased as the door opened, the hinges complaining at their age.

The room was musty smelling and dimly lit by a table lamp and a small hopper window, high up near the ceiling. The window was probably at ground level, she thought, or maybe it was in a window well, with one of those grates above it. Sandra surveyed the space and saw the room was unoccupied. She felt daring enough to go in and nose about. I’ve lost my senses, she thought. The room was laid out as a study, one wall lined with a bookcase. Under the window was a desk, on which sat a large, open book and something with a metallic sheen. Sandra paced carefully across to it, noticing another odour as she did so. At the desk, she saw the table lamp wasn’t powered by electricity, but by oil; the other odour she had smelled. Next to it, a pen rested in an ink well and an old-fashioned pocket watch with an intricately engraved cover. With delicacy, she moved her hand across the table, feeling the tooled leather surface beneath her fingers. The book looked ancient, and on the yellowed pages that were visible, there appeared to be what looked like a list of names. These all seemed to begin with the letter N. It all spoke of an age very distant from the one she inhabited. For a moment she was lost to it, unaware of the figure at the door.

When the voice came, it caused Sandra such a jolt that she almost wet herself, grateful she’d just been to the toilet. Her shoulders hunched up into her neck and she froze.

“May I help you, madam?”

Sandra turned slowly; her hand placed over her heart like it needed securing in place. She looked at the stranger in the doorway. His voice had a reassuring tone, only mildly inquisitorial. He reminded her of Alec Guinness when he played that character in Star Wars. There was something monastic about him.

A reply was needed but none came, so he asked again.

“Are you lost, madam?”

“I... I believe I am. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have just come in here.”

The stranger looked at her with sympathetic eyes, a wan smile on his lips. Then he slipped his hand out from the pocket in his brown robe, moved aside from the doorway, and motioned for her to leave the room.

“I can show you the way back, if you would care to come this way.”

Sandra hesitated for a moment then relaxed enough to move towards the door, although her movements were stiff and uncertain. As she got near to the man, he stepped back to allow her egress into the hall. His gaze never left her; his placid, benevolent eyes looked like they contained a thousand years of knowledge. She walked down the corridor, the stranger following close behind.

“Turn left up ahead, Sandra.”

A small chill rippled up the back of her neck as he spoke the words. It was like the voice had come from inside her. He knows my name. Turning the corner, she saw the staircase up ahead and increased her pace. Sandra did not see the way her escort watched her. That he sensed the tingle in her when he spoke her name. At the foot of the stairs, she turned to thank the man for assisting her. He was very close and eyed her serenely, placing his hand on her arm. The sensation coursed through her like centipedes in her veins. It was brief, almost tidal, then was gone.

“Do not fret about your situation, Sandra, but be careful what you wish for.”

The stranger gave her an unsettling look, an odd, sort of reptilian smile. He nodded at the stairs.

“Tick Tock, Sandra, your husband will be concerned about you. Enjoy the rest of your visit.”

“Er... thank you, I’ll try to,” Sandra squeaked, in a voice she barely recognised. She began ascending the stairs. After half a dozen steps, she turned back to chance a last look at the stranger. He was nowhere to be seen. She hurried upwards at a much brisker pace, an uncomfortable feeling nestling in her stomach.

“Everything alright, dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I feel a little odd, Norman, but I’ll be fine. Do you mind if we leave soon?”

“Why, of course not, are you okay? Did something happen to you? You’ve been quite a while.”

“There was a bit of a queue, you know how it is in the ladies. I think maybe the mustiness of the place, or something, has got to me.”

“Was there something wrong with the toilets? Should we report it to someone?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Have you paid the bill?”

“Yes, dear.” Norman saw his wife was nonplussed but let it go. He was preoccupied with the thought that there really ought to be a better proportion of ladies toilets to gents. Women always had to wait that much longer. He got up and removed his coat from the back of his chair, and the couple left.

It was a week later that the couple were strolling down their own high street, on their way to the White Hart. Close to seven thirty in the evening, the motor and pedestrian traffic was negligible. A van was approaching the railway bridge. Sandra recognised it as the one Glen parked at the office. He had been out surveying a job for an estimate and was on his way home.

What’s he flapping like that for? Twat. Glen thought, driving past the couple. The woman, he recognised immediately, the man, he had never seen before. But from his actions, he knew it could only be her husband. Sandra had talked about him when they had their chats in the office. Friendly, occasionally risqué banter. The refurbishment of the interior of the property management company Sandra worked at had been going well. The added bonus was the relationship he was forming with her. She was like a breath of fresh air, detoxifying the memory of his divorce. And he knew she was unhappy; it didn’t take much to realise when you scratched under the skin.

“What on earth are you doing?” Sandra turned to Norman, who was waving his arm up and down. He was indicating to the van driver that he should slow down. He even said the words out loud. Not shouting but whispering, loudly, as though giving them greater effect. An oddly peculiar English thing to do. It reminded her of a Les Dawson character.

“He’s going too fast, dear, it’s thirty for a reason.”

Oh God, he’s even using that nanny statism they like so much. Sandra cringed inside again but didn’t reply. He’ll end up quoting that ‘twenty is plenty’ mantra soon.

“There could be children around,” he continued.

It was seven thirty in the evening, and they were the only two people in the street. There was no one on the bridge.

Does he think they’ll fly into the road from the railway lines?

The van drove past, and her heart skipped a little when she saw Glen behind the wheel. He was looking at her but didn’t signal, just grinned like a schoolboy with a secret.

Monday came around, like always, but Mondays for Sandra were unlike most people’s. She enjoyed going to work recently. The reason had nothing to do with her job but had to do with the friendship between her and Glen. Builders were presumed to be coarse, primitive creatures, who enjoyed beer and wolf-whistling. A presumption that was entirely groundless in Glen’s case. Their brief hellos had extended into longer chats and the occasional ribald banter. It surprised her how easy it was. But it was playful and skilled, not crude; Glen was funny.

He was already there most mornings when she arrived at nine. The building manager arrived earlier than the office staff and let him in. Sandra thought up ways to go downstairs to where he was working – usually the stationary cupboard or the archive room – these were both legitimate reasons for her to be away from her desk. During the last couple of weeks, a few of the other female employees had noticed a slight difference in her appearance. It was subtle, but whether it was physical, or to do with her mood, was hard to gauge.

Glen, who had made alterations to the staff kitchen and toilets, was now in the process of decorating. He saw her hovering at the door to the archive room, as if it was difficult to open. He grinned, knowing it wasn’t, of course.

“Is that door giving you problems, Sandra?”

She looked at him and shrugged; the look on her face strained. Glen knew instantly that a well-timed double entendre would be misplaced.

“Are you alright, or shouldn’t I ask?”

“No, it’s okay, I’m fine. Really.”

Glen moved closer and leaned on the wall a couple of feet away from the door.

“You’re not fine, are you? Whatever’s up is written all over your face.”

Sandra sighed and shrugged again. It wasn’t like her at all, he thought. Not the woman he had developed an affinity for. More than an affinity, if he was honest. The attraction was both cerebral and physical.

“Was that your husband I saw you with Saturday night?”

“Yes, that was Norman.”

“What was he doing flapping like that? Is he some kind of traffic vigilante?”

Sandra’s face changed then, like thunderclouds had rolled into her head. And he caught sight of an anger he hadn’t seen in her before.

“Sorry, Glen, I need to get something,” she said, pushing the door open and disappearing into the room. He thought about waiting, but the look on her face as she had entered, and the tone of her voice, told him not to.

It was at lunch he saw her next. The day was warm and dry enough for him to sit at one of the picnic tables on the company grounds. She went to her car first, as though looking for something, then came over.

“It’s okay for you to talk to the tradesman, you know.”

“I know… but some upstairs do like to gossip.”

Sandra sat on the wooden bench opposite him, unpacking her lunch.

“I’m sorry about earlier today, you kind of hit a nerve.”

“No need to apologise, it should be me for being nosey.”

“Well, to be honest, I felt a little embarrassed.”

“About your husband?”

“About Norman, yes, he does that to me quite often. It’s entirely unconscious with him, he can’t let it go.”

“What do you mean – can’t let it go?”

“His obsession, his job, it’s got worse over the years.”

“What does he do? I don’t remember you telling me.”

“He’s a health and safety manager, and to cap it, in a factory that supplies PPE.”

Glen stopped in mid-motion pouring tea from his Thermos flask. He gave Sandra a look of pained understanding and shook his head gently from side to side.

“The bane of my life. Not being disrespectful to your husband, of course, I don’t know him, it’s not personal.”

Sandra raised a hand, “No need to apologise.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I can understand the need for some of it… asbestos, ladders. I’ve known people come to grief in the trades. But it’s gone way beyond the reasonable. It’s a self-propelled industry all of its own now. For me, it’s a symptom of the nanny state, simply another way to control people. It starts with small things, seemingly small things. Take away the need for common sense, for instance. Which, I suppose isn’t small really. Instead, elicit the justification that there is danger in everything and that the state knows how best to deal with it. Create a system of measures and controls that appear rational, and bingo! Eventually, you begin to erase the need to think for yourself. It’s a system that slowly chips away at the need for any rational thought or to question ‘why’. It makes you wonder how anything used to get done.”

Sandra simply stared at Glen while he talked, Cajun chicken wrap in hand hovering between table and mouth.

“Wow, have you done on your soapbox?” She smiled at the look on his face.

“Sorry, it just winds me up. I have to deal with it all the time, and you could say I have an issue with authority. A big one. It stems from my youth.”

The man facing Sandra intrigued her. The very opposite kind of creature from the one she was married to. In fact, more than intrigued her, if the occasional daydreams were anything to go by. She put the thought out of her mind in case it made her blush, then took a mouthful of her wrap, as Glen took the opportunity to take a sip from his tea.

“Were you a wayward youth, then?” she said, after chewing.

“You could say that. Rebellious, I suppose. I was never really evil; I just didn’t take too kindly to being told what to do.”

“By your parents?”

“By anyone, really. I suppose I was confrontational, you know, always needing the reason behind the request. I probably drove my parents bonkers.”

Glen sipped his tea again and studied his lunch partner. Sandra took another bite of her wrap. She was obviously comfortable around him, which he took as a compliment. He guessed she must be somewhere in her fifties, like him, although he wouldn’t dare ask whereabouts.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Sandra said, after finishing her mouthful.

“Sounds ominous… but go ahead.”

“Is there a Mrs Glen?”

She saw his face drop ever so slightly at the question. And it said a lot without the addition of words.

“There was.” Glen lifted his left hand and pointed at the faint indent on his ring finger; the skin slightly paler where the gold band had been.

Sandra gave his hands a closer look then. Builder’s hands. She couldn’t help imagining what they would feel like on her bare skin. The thought started a sensation that rippled through her. Just like the one she got watching Dr McDreamy – although he’d long left that particular show. As if reading her thoughts, Glen reached out and placed his right hand gently on her left. She drew it back, but not immediately, letting the weight of it rest there for a moment.

“What are you thinking about? You look miles away.”

Sandra centred herself, letting the images, as pleasant as they were, fade out.

“Oh… sorry, you’re single then. I mean, divorced?” What am I saying? she thought.

Glen smiled. “I am, are you propositioning me?”

“No, of course not.” I am though. “I’m married.”

Glen let the smile linger, then finished his tea. “I should really get back now – that paint won’t apply itself. You enjoy the rest of your lunch.”

He got up and walked over to his van, put his lunch box away, then turned and gave Sandra a short wave before heading towards the building. There was a lightness to his step, an internal one not visible to the naked eye. Unless, of course, you were someone in the same situation. Someone who had initiated a similar series of events, leading where you hoped it would. She’s married though. The constant thought circled in his head, refusing to be ejected.

“Watch out, here comes Clipboard.” Kev’s tone had the right weight and derision to rouse Del from his semi-conscious state. The health and safety manager was known to many by the same nickname. By far worse to others.

“Oh God! Has he got it with him?”

“Not that I can see.”

“You mean it might be a social call?”

The men looked at each other and sniggered, Del sounding like Mutley due to his fondness for cheap cigars.

Norman Cooper’s trajectory seemed destined for the pair of workmates, but he veered off, nodding a good morning as he went by. He continued towards the mezzanine and the flight of metal stairs that led up to the gantry. When he was at the top, he leant on the railing, surveying the factory floor.

“God, I’m surprised he doesn’t take a pair of binoculars with him!” spat Kev, as he eyed the man.

“He’d do well in a black uniform and jackboots,” Del replied.

“Yeah, I could see that, mate.”

Then the two men turned to each other, “But I was only following orders!” they mocked, perfectly synchronised.

Norman left his vantage point at the railing and stepped towards the deputy manager’s office. The two men shared an equal, quiet disdain for each other. Norman thought Carl lazy and boorish. Carl thought Norman overly officious and wearisome. They tolerated each other because they worked together; because they had to.

“Have a seat, Norm.”

It’s Norman. “Thank you, Carl.” I don’t see why it’s so difficult. I don’t call you Car!

“This new raft of measures you’re proposing.” Carl lifted the plastic, folder-bound document from his desk. “You’re sure it’s entirely necessary?”

“Oh yes, the new directives are coming in the autumn, and I want to be ahead of schedule.”

“You’ve seen the cost implications, the disruption?”

“Yes, and they are all outlined in the document.”

“We are quite literally talking centimetres here, aren’t we? In all the years I’ve been at this factory, there’s never been an issue or accident in those areas.”

“That’s correct, but there could be, Carl.”

The intonation in Norman’s response caused the muscles in Carl’s shoulders and neck to tense. And not for the first time.

“My job here is to make the safest possible working environment for the employees of this company. The monetary implications are not my concern. My actions are governed by outside forces – the health and safety executive.”

“I understand that, Norman, you complete a-hole, but there weren’t any issues the last time they inspected.”

“Oh no, no, Carl, there were some recommendations. As outlined in their report, of which you had a copy.”

“Yes, recommendations. They weren’t compulsory, you pedant. Even they understood the impact on the business.”

“That was two years ago, Carl, and the new proposals in the pipeline are more stringent.”

The tension built until, finally, Carl’s fist smashed squarely into Norman’s nose, breaking it and causing him to tumble from his chair, blood splattering in a vivid arc across the room.

“What’s the matter, Carl? Are you alright?”

The image faded as Norman’s voice carried across the table. It wasn’t the first time Carl had imagined punching his colleague, but recently the instances had increased. Carl looked down at his clenched fist and at the man sitting opposite. The man stared back at him and then down at Carl’s fist, resting on the desk. He relaxed it and tried to relax the tension in his shoulders. It proved impossible; the man had already wound him up.

“Sorry, Norman. I have a bit of a headache, that’s all. Leave this with me, and fuck off out of here, and I’ll deal with it.”

“Certainly. Thank you, Carl.” Norman got up and went to the door.

“Oh! And Norman,” Carl raised his voice so the man leaving his office would turn around, “I don’t imagine I can get this implemented in the short term, when hell freezes over, pal, but I’ll keep you posted.”

After Norman left, the document Carl had been holding in his hand flew across the room like a wounded bird. It made a dull thud as the plastic corner hit the wooden door. Carl pulled his top drawer open and took out two paracetamol. The headache had become real.

The following Friday, Sandra noticed a melancholia in Glen she hadn’t seen before. As she came downstairs on the now accustomed pretext of file-checking, it dawned on her what it might be. He was nearing completion of the job, and, something which he had already alluded to earlier in the week, their rapport, that comfortable bon ami that had developed between them, would also come to an end. Then something else hit her that she would rather not admit. The connection was deeper than mere banter. It had become a kind of secret courtship, and the fantasies that increasingly populated her daydreams, the carnal ones, she realised she would very much like to share with him.

Glen was re-fitting the signage in the corridor on the ground floor when he saw Sandra, with, he imagined, a breezy smile on his face. But the look on her own told him differently. It must have looked more like a grimace. And he realised they were being mutually awkward. She came over to where he was working.

“Hi, Glen. The place is looking marvellous! You must be nearly finished.”

“Yes, should be today, really.”

Sandra experienced a sudden weight in her chest at his words, and as crazy as it might seem, she felt like a love-sick teenager. The moment was made worse when Ellen appeared from the staff canteen. She sauntered past the pair of them, smirking.

“Blimey, you two should get a room!”

They both laughed it off. Is it that obvious? Sandra thought, and then, perhaps we should. The look on Glen’s face matched her own. Is he thinking the same thing?

“Glen, do you have a business card? We have some work at home I’d like quoted.” It came as naturally as if it were true. And it surprised her how easy it was.

“Sure, what is it?” She hasn’t mentioned anything before.

Sandra thought quickly, “Just some decorating we’ve been talking about for a while.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Glen took out his wallet and pulled out a card.

Sandra looked at the card and the soft bends at its corners. It had sat there for a while, she reckoned. There was an email address and a mobile number. She could send a text.

“Thank you, Glen, I’ll let you get on. I’ll be in touch.”

He watched her go, pleased he hadn’t had to come up with a ruse to meet again. It had been cycling his mind all morning. In the end, far easier than he had hoped for.

The day was warm enough to sit in the garden for lunch. Sandra watched Norman place his glass down, then move it, ever so slightly, so it was the correct distance from his plate. The action was entirely unconscious, she thought. He does it with everything! It was firmly on the growing list of eccentricities that rankled her. Was she just being unreasonable? Had she become hard and intolerant? And then she remembered how Norman was before he had been employed at Protek. He had changed; that was certain. But was that change just the man’s real personality evolving?

“Penny for your thoughts, dear?”

Has he always called me that? “Sorry, Norman, I was miles away.”

“Yes, you looked it.”

“You know I’ve been thinking about having our bedroom decorated. It’s been quite a few years and I feel like a change. What do you think?”

“Is it necessary, dear? When did we have it done last?

“When we moved here, Norman, fifteen years ago. So yes, I think it could do with a freshen-up. The spare room too, come to think of it.”

“If you’re sure, would you like me to make some enquiries?”

“Some enquiries? No, I can handle it, I’ll get some quotes.”

“Very well, I’ll leave it in your hands.” Norman took another sip from his wine glass. “You know, I’ve been thinking about taking part in the community speedwatch programme. There’s a meeting about it one evening this week.”

“Oh really, when’s that?”

“Thursday evening, I believe, I have it in my diary. I’ll double-check.”

Monday morning, Glen had started a new job in Broadway. His working radius was thankfully small. There was a glut in refurbs as the city dwellers had started moving out to the Cotswolds. His diary was bursting at the seams, like all the other tradesmen he knew. He was quite happy to take their money, even though he knew what their impact was on the local community. Make hay while the sun shines. But today felt weird; he wasn’t fully engaged with his task, and he knew why. This was brought home with startling effect around ten o’clock with a message.

‘Hi Glen, would it be possible for you to pop over on Thursday evening to quote for that decorating?’

‘sure what time?’ He noted her lack of abbreviations while replying. He didn’t worry too much about correct grammar.

‘Around 6.30?’

‘should be ok – send me your address’

At 6.28 pm on Thursday, Glen pulled up near the property. A detached, 1960’s, yellow-bricked house. Absolutely typical and non-remarkable for the era – and the neighbourhood – he’d seen and worked in many. He rang the doorbell, tape measure and notebook in hand.

“Hi, Glen.” Sandra answered the door and looked him up and down. “You look different.”

“I don’t live in my work clothes.” He grinned and noticed how well put together she looked. In fact, he thought she had a little more make-up on than at work.

“Come in.” Sandra pulled the door open.

Stepping into the hall, he noticed how neat everything was. He waited for her husband to appear. Mild surprise washed over him when he didn’t.

“Isn’t Norman joining us?”

“No, Norman is at a road safety meeting with the community speedwatch volunteers. It’s his latest thing.”

Glen couldn’t help but hear the disparagement in her voice. It was masked behind the outward relief. She’s set this up, he thought, and he didn’t mind one bit.

“Can I get you a tea? Coffee?”

“Er, no thanks, Sandra, maybe after.” After what? That sounded loaded. Or maybe my imagination is getting the better of me.

She gave him an odd look.

“Come on, then. I’ll show you what I’d like done.”

Glen couldn’t help it, but his mind was racing. He followed her up the stairs at a respectable distance. His eyes took in the way she moved, her shape. He was abruptly stopped near the top of the stairs, almost clattering into her. She’d paused and turned to look back, and he was very close.

“The main bedroom first, Glen.”

He followed her in and looked around. It was neat and he could tell it was all her. It had that feminine vibe he was used to seeing in married people’s houses.

“I’ve always fancied being fucked up against the wall, what do you think?”

Glen snapped out of his semi-trance instantly.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’ve always fancied duck egg on the walls. You know, duck egg blue. What do you think?

Glen focussed and gave himself a mental slap.

“Yeah, sure, the colour doesn’t really matter for the quote. I can give you a price for a couple of different brands. Do you want any walls papered?”

“I haven’t really thought about that. I suppose that might be nice, like a feature wall?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

“Ceiling, walls and woodwork? They’re all looking a bit tired.” Not like you.

“Yes please, might as well. Have you seen enough in here?”

Glen made notes, he didn’t need to measure anything. He was quite capable of estimating distance to within an inch or two. It came with experience.

“Yes, thanks, lead the way.”

Sandra brushed past, close; he caught her perfume and followed. The larger of the back rooms was made up as a spare. It looked sad, as if it hadn’t had visitors for a while.

“I’m not sure what I want to do in here.”

I can think of something. Glen gave himself another mental slap.

“Shall I just price it up like the other room? Give you an option for wallpaper as well?”

“Yes, okay, that would be good.” She turned to face him and moved a step closer. “I like options, I feel like trying something completely different.”

Glen studied her face then, her eyes, and the inflection in her voice. She moved closer still and he felt the stirrings in his groin. A small, intense heat began to creep up his back. Now she was close enough that he could lean over and kiss her. She looked directly into his eyes.

“They say a change is as good as a rest.” I dare you to kiss me. “Shall we go down and have that cup of tea?”

Glen felt limp, except for the part that he wished was, the part that began to press on his trousers. Sandra moved away and headed for the stairs; he followed. By the time they got into the kitchen, Glen was moving more comfortably.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please, milk, one sugar.”

“You’re a man who knows what he likes.”

I am.

“Would you like a biscuit?”

“Er, no thanks, I’m watching my weight.”

Sandra turned and studied him, then saw the look on his face. He must be in his fifties, and he hasn’t got one of those horrid beer bellies.

“You’re joking with me.”

Glen shrugged and smiled.

“Work keeps me fit enough. I can’t play footie anymore; my joints won’t take it.”

Sandra brought the tea over when it had brewed. She took hers in a China mug with roses printed on it. He glanced around the kitchen and failed to see anything with ‘world’s greatest mum’ or ‘dad’ printed on it. There were no pictures of kids, grown-up, or others that may be grandchildren. He wouldn’t pry, they might be more reserved as a couple, or simply childless.

“What’s Norman up to tonight then, with his road safety thing?”

Sandra rolled her eyes and put her mug down.

“I think I told you it’s his latest thing. If he can be in a hi-vis and hold a clipboard, then Norman is in his element. The thought of being a plastic policeman has got him all excited.”

“Do you mean like those civvies who stand at the side of the road pointing a speed gun?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. He’s gone to a meeting about it, and he’ll join one of the teams doing it.”

Glen sensed the exasperation in her voice again. He thought about not pushing it, he didn’t want to upset her. Maybe just a little more though… he wanted to make sure his bearings were correct.

“I take it you don’t agree with it then?”

“It’s not that. I’m not as anti-authoritarian as you are, Glen, and we do get some crazy drivers on our roads. It’s just the way it seems to have taken him over. It’s constant, we can’t even go out anymore without him looking for possible hazards, or checking if the correct signage is in place. He can’t seem to enjoy himself anymore. It’s like some kind of correctness phobia. This job of his has definitely made it worse.”

Glen reached across the table and put his hand on hers. She didn’t move it.

“You sound terribly unhappy, Sandra. I didn’t realise it was so bad. It never came across so much at work.”

She looked at him, knowing what she really wanted to say. What he was really asking, in a roundabout way. Why do adults lose the power to simply say what they mean? She knew the answer, of course; unfiltered statements had consequences if they weren’t timed properly.

“The last month at work was different because you were there, Glen.”

And there it was, out, simply stated and in the air between them. Glen gave her hand under his a gentle squeeze. The connection was acknowledged, silently and absolutely. Glen finished his tea and stood up.

“I should be getting on now, Sandra, thank you for the tea.”

“The tea was simple, it’s the rest of it that isn’t.”

Glen frowned, “You’re right, it’s not.” He paused, not really sure what to say. “I’ll get an estimate over to you.”

“Thank you.”

Sandra stood, and they both walked around the table towards the door. In the awkward moment when neither was sure who should go through first, they stopped and searched each other’s faces. It was visible in the eyes behind the hesitant bodies. Their faces moved closer until they kissed. Sandra moved away first and shook her head.

“Not here, not now. I’ll message you.”

Glen nodded, “Okay, I’ll look forward to it.”

The following Monday, a message pinged on Glen’s phone. He’d thought it was never coming.

‘N is out all day on Saturday. Can we meet up?’

‘yes I’m not working’

‘Not here. Yours?’

Glen did a quick mental visual of his place. It could be acceptable by Saturday; he would have enough time to clean up properly.

‘Ok’

‘How?’

Glen thought. Perhaps better to meet up somewhere incognito first. Quiet.

‘Fish Hill car park’

‘What time?’

‘how about 11’

‘Yes, ok’

‘I’ll look out for your car’

‘See you then x’

Glen stared at the small kiss for a moment and realised all this was real.

‘c u then x’

Saturday couldn’t come quick enough for Glen. He’d done his best to get his place cleaned up. Even ironing his washed bed linen. One of the several concessions he had made to his bachelor lifestyle. Female guests had been rare visitors to his home. He lived in an ex-council semi, at the end of a row of houses on the edge of town. It was what he could afford after the divorce. A shabby, neglected purchase, but that didn’t matter to someone in his line of work. It was an ongoing project. It would be, eventually, damned desirable.

He arrived at the notorious dogging site ten minutes early. I wonder if Sandra knows about the seedier side of this place. It was a short wait before Sandra’s car pulled into a space near the end of a row. There were no other vehicles within three spaces of hers. He drove the short distance and reversed in, so that his passenger door lined up with her driver’s side. She looked over at him; he nodded back. Sandra got out of her car carrying a large shoulder bag. Did a quick survey of the car park, then got into his passenger seat. She put the bag on the back seat of his Ford Ranger. He’s taken the trouble to clean it. Sandra gave it a once over and smiled, then leaned across and kissed him softly on the mouth. It was both instinctive and reactive, as though she’d kissed other men in the same way since she’d been married. She never had and was surprised at the buzz it gave her.

At Glen’s house, the tension wound up quietly, the butterflies keeping busy as she got out of the pick-up. Sandra did a quick reccy on their way in – just to make sure no one saw her enter. She didn’t know anyone in the neighbourhood, but that kind of logic fades in this kind of situation. Someone might see her. She thought Glen was playing it cool, blissfully unaware of his own nerves. Inside was much as she expected from the residence of a solo male. Except, she imagined, it wasn’t always this tidy.

Glen turned to his guest in the hallway and saw the look on her face, which mirrored the one inside him. He smiled and hoped it looked natural.

“You’ll have to excuse me; I don’t do this very often.”

“Very often?”

“Never. I haven’t… since…” The words faded.

“And I’ve never been unfaithful.”

Glen drew close to her, put his arm around her back and they embraced. The kiss, at first hesitant, soft, became intense. They both felt a heat entirely at odds with the coolness of the day. Silently, Glen holding Sandra’s hand, they climbed the stairs, fully aware of what they had come here for.

After, laying side by side on Glen’s bed, a tumult of thoughts raced in their minds – guilt, pleasure, satisfaction that a desire had been taken to its natural conclusion. And what would happen now? Where would this go?

“I’d like to do this again, Glen.”

“You’ll have to give me some recovery time. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Sandra gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.

“I don’t mean right now, although it would be nice. I mean I’d like to see you again and, well, yes… do this again, I suppose.”

Glen smiled. “Are you saying you want to have an affair, Sandra?”

“I suppose I am.”

“What about Norman?”

“What about Norman? I don’t want him to know. We don’t have that kind of relationship – an open marriage – we’re not swingers, Glen.”

Glen almost laughed, but the knot of guilt that lay sleeping in his gut began to waken again. It reminded him that he had been on the opposite end in his relationship with his ex. He had been the Norman in that one.

“What are you thinking, Glen?” Sandra was studying his face, then she placed her hand on his cheek, leant over and kissed him, and pulled away. “Don’t think about him, Glen, Norman can go jump under a bus for all I care.”

Sandra moved her hand down his chest and pushed her lips against his. There was an intensity to it, anger, lust, desire. It surprised and excited him. The guilt began to dissolve as the kiss lingered and something else took over. Then they were lost again in each other, and the outside world faded away.

A couple of weeks later, Norman got the nod to participate in the speedwatch programme. He was particularly buoyant the day he told his wife the news. He’d recently attended an Employment Law & Health & Safety Seminar in Oxford. The speedwatch was the icing on the cake. His delight in his own small world, what Sandra came to realise was an ever-diminishing grasp on theirs, or hers in particular, increasingly grated on her. Like the squeal of locomotive wheels grinding on their tracks. The tracks that seemed to link directly from her ears to her brain. Whenever he spoke to her of his accomplishments, in his work or interests, the gulf between them intensified. The increasing detachment, the resentment that she now felt towards him, grew into a nagging and persistent emotional palsy. When she looked at him, she went cold. Instead, she imagined Glen pressed against her, inside of her. It was all she could do not to pick up the coffee cup she was filling and hurl it across the room at him.

Sandra heard vaguely the words he said, about what he would be doing one of the days that week. She had already made plans of her own, having booked a day off, not telling Norman she’d done so.

Thursday arrived, and Sandra got ready for her day off. What Norman assumed was just another work day. She put on special underwear, a recent purchase, and an outfit with just a little more style than usual. Her husband didn’t notice, he was already downstairs, but it would have made little difference if he were in the room. They said their usual goodbyes at the door, but Sandra left before her husband. Usually, it was the other way around, but then she vaguely remembered he was doing something other than work today. It didn’t matter; her thoughts were filled with her own plans.

She met Glen at their agreed rendezvous. He had managed to wangle time off, leaving two of his guys on his current project. They could manage perfectly well without him for a day. As they drove out of the parking space, a man crossed in front of them. An older man, bearded, with a small backpack and a long walking cane. He smiled at them as they passed and tipped his finger to his head.

“Blimey! Where did he come from?” Glen said, “He looks just like Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Who?”

“No matter, that guy in Star Wars, Alec Guinness.”

“Oh, I didn’t see his face. He’s out nice and early for a walk though.”

They drove off, without a second thought for the stranger who stood, silently watching, as the couple headed for the exit. Then he slipped his hand into his jacket and pulled out a pocket watch, caressed the inlaid cover, worn smooth over many years, and flipped it open. He glanced at the watch face his smile flattened, then he closed the cover and replaced it in his jacket.

After they made love that morning, with the urgency of paramours before the gallows, Glen and Sandra dressed for their lunch date. Glen had chosen a gastro pub in a village where neither of them had friends. It was still a risk, but not so much during the week, he thought. Most people they knew would be at work. Even so, the small element of risk excited him, and if pressed, Sandra would admit that too.

The Ford Ranger Glen owned was a double cab model. The minor custom job he’d had done on it made it stand out. It was a big, impressive beast with bull bars on the front. Sandra liked riding in it, with its elevated position, its power, its machismo. She’d only hinted at this to Glen, but her own very normal car was purely functional.

They had been driving for just over fifteen minutes when Glen decided to cut through Longborough. He didn’t fancy hanging about in the traffic at Stow, so opted for the rat runs on the way to their destination. The speed limit dropped to twenty through the main village, though he seldom went that slow. He glanced over at Sandra, thinking he would be a good citizen and abide by the rules, as much as it pained him to do so. They had taken the series of bends past the pub, when up ahead he saw the unmistakable glow of hi-vis jackets. Three of them. It was obvious what they were up to, and Glen checked his speedo. Sandra looked over at him, concern building as she realised the truck wasn’t slowing down. Glen’s face began to twist in confusion.

“What are you doing, Glen? It’s only twenty and you’re speeding up, not slowing down!” Sandra’s voice ramped up in pitch and volume.

“I’m trying to! Something’s wrong!”

“Glen! Glen! What are you doing!” Shriller, louder.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m trying!” Angrier, louder.

Sandra could see Glen wasn’t mucking about. She could see the panic surface as he assaulted the brake pedal. Still the truck’s speed increased. Up ahead she watched as the man holding the radar gun lifted it and pointed it straight at them. He was flanked by two others, a woman near the kerb and a man next to a garden wall. There was a folding chair on the pavement, between the kerb and a tree planted next to the wall. Like they’d set up a happy little citizen’s day camp. The trio’s faces began to come into focus and the face belonging to the man holding the clipboard, the one writing down the numberplates, made her stomach sink.

The speed gun operator looked on incredulously as the driver coming down the road seemed to be increasing his speed. He thought he was imagining it at first, but he wasn’t.

“Look at this one,” he said to his colleagues. “He must be able to see us.”

“Idiot!” His female companion retorted, “It’s a shame we aren’t real police officers.”

Glen was shouting by now, shouting at the air as he tried to wrestle control of the truck. He couldn’t understand what was happening as they sped up, his foot still jammed on the brake. It was only seconds, but those seconds played out in torturous slow-mo. The steering wheel began to move against his will, and with it, the sounds of Sandra screeching his name into the cab.

The Ranger was approaching forty when Norman looked up from the clipboard into the windscreen. He had been preoccupied with noting the way his companion had previously listed the numberplates, the slant of her writing, the way she had spaced the numbers; not how he liked to do it. It was a very brief transition, from page to window.

The last thing Norman Cooper ever saw was the face of his wife. Sitting in the passenger seat of a strange vehicle. Paralysed with fear, her mouth a large dark ‘O’ as the truck bore down on him. A man he’d never seen before behind the wheel, his face contorted in rage. In rage at him? He lifted the clipboard in a futile gesture of defence, having no time to move out of the way. Two tonnes of fast-moving steel hit the trio of hi-vis-wearing vigilantes without slowing. It sent Norman’s companions airborne, before they landed in twisted, broken heaps, ten metres down the road. Norman was pinned to the tree by the full force of the truck. Became part of it almost, his torso pulped like a bag of over-ripe tomatoes.

As the light faded from his eyes, and his life force ebbed away by the massive trauma, the clipboard slipped slowly from his grasp. It made a soft clunk on the pavement, the pages flipping gently in the breeze.

It took months to recover. Broken bones heal eventually, if not perfectly. Glen was left with a permanent limp, Sandra with a deformed finger. Not bad, considering what happened to Norman. On certain evenings, near sunset, where the bark refuses to grow anymore on the tree, a dark stain can be seen in the wood. The real complications for the new couple came with the mental scars, the explanations, the funeral, the gossip. And for Sandra, the memory of that day in the old manor house, the room in the basement, the stranger she met and the message he gave her. Glen was fascinated by the story when she plucked up the courage to tell him. So, a year to the day after her last visit, the couple went back.

They waited at the top of the staircase, like miscreant schoolchildren about to commit a misdemeanour. When the coast was clear, Glen lifted the rope barrier, carefully replacing it as they descended the stairs. Sandra remembered the corridor and the way to the room. At the door, the courage to open it left her, her hand hovering above the handle.

“Let me,” said Glen.

But he was stopped in mid action by a voice behind them.

“Can I help you?”

They jumped at the sound; the miscreant schoolchildren had been caught. Neither Sandra nor Glen had heard the man approaching. They turned simultaneously to see the grey-bearded security guard, standing behind them in his neat, brown uniform. A small sensation, like frantic worms in her stomach, overcame Sandra as she looked the man in the face. He looked back sympathetically with placid, benevolent eyes. Eyes that appeared to contain a thousand years of knowledge.

“Are you lost?”

Sandra grabbed frantically at Glen’s hand, “Er, no, sorry, our mistake,” she replied, tugging at her partner, not able to tear her gaze from the man in front of her.

“I am very pleased to hear that.” The guard continued, inclining his head just enough in the direction of the stairs to make his point. “I think you know the way out.”

Sandra tugged, Glen understood, and they scuttled off down the corridor, chastised miscreants escaping the scene. At the bottom of the stairs, Sandra chanced a look back, sure she hadn’t heard the security guard following them. He was standing right behind them, right at her shoulder, as though she’d hauled him along like a balloon.

“Tick Tock. Tick Tock. And mind how you go, Sandra… You wouldn’t want to go bumping into anything,” he said, with an unsettling, reptilian smile on his face.