Read V 02 - Domino Men, The for Free Online

Child to Work Day.  “This is where the files are sorted.”
    The room was taken up by four large trestle tables, each stacked high with dun-colored folders, each populated by three or four workers — the only exception being the last table, whose occupant worked alone.  A few of these unfortunates, pimple faced and greasy with perspiration, glanced incuriously over at us as we came in.  They were sorting through the files, pulling out minutes, memos, action plans, graphs and annual reports, putting everyone in alphabetical order and placing them in a trolley.  Later that day, someone would wheel them to the lift and distribute them amongst the floors above.  This was the engine room of our department, the business end of the place.
    “Big turnover of staff down here,” I said.  “People don’t tend to last long.”  I pointed across the room to the woman who sat alone and who was busy opening parcel after parcel, filleting the contents with automotive efficiency.  “Except for her.”
    Sausage-fingered, gelatinous and blubbery, she had greasy, lank hair and face, swollen and pink, had the consistency of Play-Doh.  Beside her was a gargantuan bottle of cola from which she took frequent, compulsive swigs, as a baby might reach with blind dependency for the nipple.  As usual she was pouring with sweat and her clothes were stained with inky spots of perspiration.
    “Hello,” I said, realizing that I couldn’t remember her name.  Pam?  Pat?  Paula?  No matter how many times I’d been told it just didn’t seem to stick.  The fat woman made a slurred noise in reply.
    “This is Barbara,” I said, perhaps pronouncing my words a little too emphatically.  “She’s just started upstairs.”
    The woman made another incoherent noise (“herrow”) and groped again for her bottle of Coke.
    As we headed toward the exit, Barbara whispered:  “What’s wrong with her?”
    “No one likes to ask,” I said.  “It’s very sad, really.  The poor thing’s been here longer than anyone can remember.  She’s become a bit of an institution.”
    “Looks like she belongs in an institution,” Barbara muttered, rather cruelly.
    Governed by a strange impulse, I turned back.  Coke bottle midway to her lips, the woman was staring at us, fury blazing from her blancmange face.  Feeling suddenly guilty and ashamed, blushing scarlet, I hurried Barbara from the room, away from the grouchy hum of the fans, the omnipresent smell of sweat and the woman’s silently accusing eyes.  We were both of us relieved to head back upstairs.
     
     
    At lunchtime, I met Mum for a sandwich in Café Nero.
    “How long did you stay last night?” she asked, slurping at her latte.
    I thought about telling her what had happened with the window cleaner, but then, guessing how she might react, decided against it.  “Not long.  There’s nothing I could do.”
    “He’d always had it coming,” she said.  “We all know he used to like a drink.”
    “Will he be OK?” I asked in a small voice.
    Mum just shrugged.  “Who knows?”  She yawned.  “Keep an eye on him, won’t you?  Your Dad would have wanted you to.”
    “I’m going again tonight,” I said.
    She seemed surprised.  “Really?”
    “I want to be with him. It’s not like he’s got anyone else.”
    “But who does he have to blame for that?  Actually, darling, I was hoping to ask you a favor.”
    Her motive for lunch had suddenly become clear.  “And what’s that?”
    “The old bastard’s house.  Lord knows why but I’ve got a spare set of keys.  Be a dear and pop round in the next couple of days, will you?  Just make sure no one’s trashed the place or turned it over.”  She deposited a bunch of keys on the table with a resolute clunk , as though this settled the matter, like there was no need for further discussion.
    “We could go together,” I suggested hopefully.
    “Sweet thing, I’m going away.”
    “Away?”
    “To Gibraltar. With