Kieran rode the lift with the flatbed up one floor to the basement level.
He thought about his old friend Phillip, with his slightly asymmetrical face, his mesmeric green eyes and his awkward gangly slump. They’d had some good times back then during the four years they were at school together, and then for a few years after that. That night in the cellar at his house in Highfield Road had been particularly scary for them.
When they both reached nineteen, Phillip took time out from education to travel round the world. He was gone for two years, and after he returned, they didn’t really stay in contact, even though they lived just a few roads away from each other. It wasn’t that anything in their friendship went sour. It was just that they’d gone in different directions with their lives and had less in common than they used to.
They still met up every few months to shoot the breeze and put the world to rights, but he hadn’t seen Phillip for almost half a year now, although a couple of weeks back Kieran had received a postcard in an envelope with a photograph enclosed of Phillip with his cheek pressed against the face of his girlfriend Ashley. The picture was still in his pocket, and he pulled it out to look at it.
Phillip had grown a goatee beard and his hair was wild and his skin was sun-dashed and he seemed to look more like an adult now, as through the beard that now hung from his face existed to cover up the child that was once behind it. Phillip and Ashley were on a beach in the photograph, both of them smiling broadly into the lens and squinting at the sun. The camera was being held by Ashley, who’s arm extended away from the camera at the side of the picture. The postcard that had accompanied the picture in the envelope had been a “wish you were here” from Fuerteventura. On the postcard Phillip wrote that they should get together after he returned to England.
He had, in fact, returned three days ago.
Remembering their excursion into the cellar of his old house when they were just thirteen, Kieran thought it would be nice to meet up and share a few of those old memories. He decided he would call Phillip later.
He returned the picture to his pocket and took the flatbed trolley back to Tim. Then he headed back to the post room to begin the mid morning round.
The whole area was a flurry of activity. Mr Cray was barking orders at people like a war general orchestrating a complex attack manoeuvre on the front line. The post team had worked together for so long now that they were able to dance and weave around each other with admirable deftness and balletic precision, throwing letters and packages back and forth to colleagues and pigeonholes. By now all the internal envelopes had flooded in from the first mail round and there were fewer large packages and external mail now, as they had all been dished out in the first delivery. Kieran was handed a pile of envelopes to sort into his own set of pigeonholes.
He was responsible for the 4th floor East Block, where the accounts department was located, and in the second delivery to this department he often found himself pushing a trolley load of green and white track-feed dot-matrix printouts, containing long lists of numbers that probably meant something to somebody, but definitely meant nothing to him. Today was no exception. Someone had kindly dumped them onto the table in front of him.
As he loaded them onto his trolley, Mr Cray shouted across the bustling room at him, ‘Kieran. Make sure you fill in an archive report for that guy who sent the boxes down. Edward Gosnell. I think he's on the sixth floor. Who’s doing the sixth floor? Darren is. Kieran. Give it to Darren. I want it delivered this round.’
Kieran took an archive report from the rack of forms that hung at the back of the post room. Using a half eaten biro that dangled on a sellotaped piece of string that was drawing-pinned to the wall, he filled in the form that would be delivered to Edward Gosnell stating for his records that the three boxes had been placed in R14 on today’s date. The report was a formality that informed Mr Gosnell of the extension number to call if he wished to retrieve any of the boxes, and that his department would be contacted on a six-monthly basis to evaluate whether the boxes should continue to be stored or not.
Kieran handed the form to Darren, who took it, read it, and looked blankly at his pigeonholes.
‘Edward Gosnell doesn’t have a pigeonhole,’ he said. ‘Kieran. Do you know what department he is?’
Kieran looked at Darren’s pigeonhole rack, ‘Maybe he’s a temp, or here on work experience. Just take it up there and ask around.’
Darren shrugged and slotted the sheet of paper into the front of his trolley. Soon he was gone through the door.
~
Kieran and his buckled red and white mail trolley rode the lift up to the 4th floor. He was sharing the lift with a couple of pink-shirt-wearing self important post-graduate types who seemed to think that the most important thing in the world was how bladdered they got last Friday and how bladdered they were going to get this coming Friday. They got off on the third floor, and the smell of Hugo Boss followed them out.
As Kieran pushed his trolley past the regular crowd in the accounts department, saying hello and dropping off piles of envelopes and track-feed paper, his mind wandered to that time he and Phillip were in the basement in the house back in Ealing. Back to the time he first saw the word Spireclaw.
The word itself conjured an image in his mind of an old church, deep in the forest, beaten and weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Only accessible by an overgrown path that folk were too afraid to use at night. And perched atop the church’s most elevated cross, a dark bird with a deformed beak. A crow that scanned the stormy land looking for carrion, squawking up at the wind and clouds.
His overactive imagination had created the dwarf in the cellar all those years ago, but the word itself was real; he had Phillip to verify that. And now it had reappeared here, at his work. This ghostly graffiti tag, and both times below street level.
Kieran found he was picking up just as much mail as he was delivering on his round. The company was being audited and the accounts department was busier than ever. When he returned to the post room, his trolley was creaking under the weight of boxes and paper.
Darren bounded up to him as he entered, ‘Kieran, there’s no Edward Gosnell here mate. I asked around on six. They had no idea who I was on about.’
‘Really?’ said Kieran. ‘Well he managed to dump three boxes down here this morning.’
Darren picked up the office directory that was lying on the postbench and flicked through the pages. ‘G, G, G. Here we go.’ He ran his finger down the page. ‘Geffen, Godber, Gosling, Grimstead. There’s definitely no Gosnell here mate.’ He flapped the book closed. ‘I suggest you call reception and get the temp list.’
‘Thanks for trying anyway D.’
Kieran approached Mr Cray’s desk. Mr Cray was coming to the end of a phone call that consisted of him yelling while the person on the other end listened. ‘…and we are paying you to see that it is!’ he barked into the receiver, which he then dropped back on the cradle. He looked up at Kieran. ‘What do you want?’
Kieran presented the archive report to Mr Cray. ‘This Edward Gosnell fella. D’s been up to the sixth and tried to deliver this form and they don’t know who he is.’
Mr Cray snatched the sheet of paper from Kieran. ‘Must be thinking of someone else. Is he in the directory?’
‘No, I was wondering if you had a copy of the temp list.’
Mr Cray gave a rare smile, though it was more of a smirk. ‘Yes I do.’
He shuffled a few loose papers around on his desk. Courier airwaybills and ripped open jiffy bags, a good many of which were adorned with harsh, angular biro doodles. Three-dimensional cubes and spirals drawn over and over so many times that the paper was nearly torn. He found the temp list and scanned the names on it.
‘Were you here when the boxes arrived, Mr Cray?’ said Kieran.
‘Nope. They were here before I arrived, which was about two hours before you got here, I seem to remember.’
Kieran didn’t allow himself to be roused by the jibe. He remained quiet.
‘Nah, he’s not on here either,’ added Mr Cray.
‘So what should I do?’
Mr Cray screwed up the archive report and tossed it into the bin behind him. ‘Obviously a clerical error. I’d say bollocks to it.’
~
Kieran and Darren spent lunch together in the little park by Temple underground station, wrapped up in coats against the October chill, eating Pret sandwiches, drinking tea from paper cups, and watching the pretty girls come and go from the office.
‘So I’m wondering if that was a sensible idea,’ said Kieran. ‘Cray chucking it in the bin like that.’
‘Why?’
A river bus on the Thames carrying a handful of tourists sounded a loud horn. The sound was soon lost amidst the embankment traffic noise and the sound of heels belonging to the dozens of passers- by in Temple Gardens.
‘He called it a clerical error. I’d say it was a bit more serious than that. I mean. Those boxes appeared out of nowhere, and now I’ve stuck them in the sub-basement. Aren’t we all supposed to be really hot on security now? God only knows what’s inside them.’
Kieran looked around the gardens. At this time of day every bench displayed the same picture. Young men and women in business attire balancing cans of drink and sandwiches on the bench arms and their legs, trying to read a paper or take in the scenery. The wind was still gusty from the morning, but nowhere near as bad as it had been in the dawn hours. Most of the clouds had parted now, and the air was crisp and fresh. The autumn sun cast long tree-shaped shadows across the leafy lawn.
'Does the word "Spireclaw" mean anything to you?' said Kieran.
'Spireclaw? No, I can't say it does mate.'
Kieran nodded, 'Hmm. Didn't think so somehow.'
‘So, what did the boxes feel like? Were they heavy?’
‘Yeah, they were heavy. Well, two of them were heavy. The other one felt like it was empty, but something was rattling around inside.’
Darren uttered a thin laugh, ‘I doubt if any of them were bombs though.’
Kieran nodded, ‘I know. But it’s strange don’t you think? The way they turned up like that. Sent down by someone who doesn’t exist in the company. It’s one of those things that nags at your mind, like.’
‘If it’s nagging at your mind, why don’t you go back down and check them out? Put your mind at ease,' said Darren.
'Okay,' Kieran said absently, 'Gonna call Phillip first though.'
'What?'
~
There was a quiet ten minutes after the lunch break, before the first of the two afternoon mail runs. He knew that in that time Cray wouldn’t miss him.
He nipped into the post room and dialled Phillip’s number on the Cray’s phone while Cray was still at lunch.
Phillip’s number was engaged.
Kieran hung up and went out the door into the lift. He pressed the button for the sub-basement, following the route he had taken just a couple of hours before. Soon he found himself in the storeroom, walking along aisle R to the end, where cage 14 sat.
The three boxes looked ominous this time, but his curiosity would not let him back out now. He had to find out what was in them, just so that he could let this little mystery rest.
Kieran opened the cage and walked in. As he approached the first box he dug into his pocket for his house-keys. He used one of them to cut the brown tape that held the box shut, getting his fingers tacky as he pulled it away in twisted ribbons.
For a moment he felt a sense of wrong in his mind. Should he really be digging through someone else’s things in this way? What if he got caught? What if Cray found him?
Kieran stopped and listened to the room. All he could hear was silence. If anyone came along, he would hear them coming, and he would have plenty of time to hide or put the boxes back as he found them.
He lifted the lid off the box and put it to one side.
Inside was a pile of newspapers, tied together with string. They were old copies of The Times dated Friday October 15th 1943. Kieran lifted up a corner of the top paper, and he could see that all the newspapers in the bundle were the same. There were about twenty of them. The headline on the front read: GERMAN FORCES WITHDRAW FROM DNEIPER’S EAST BANK
Kieran cut through the tape on the second box and flipped open the lid. Inside were more newspapers, also dated Friday 15th October 1943.
He moved onto the third box, the empty one, and then stopped, listening.
Footsteps, outside in the corridor. His nerves jumped. He remained absolutely still, unbreathing. The footsteps were getting quieter. The person sneezed. Kieran heard the lift doors. Then silence.
He cut through the tape on the third box and opened the lid.
Inside was an audiocassette. Kieran took it out and turned it over in his hands. The clear case showed a very old inlay card. This cassette looked like it was bought in the 1970’s. It was a blank cassette, or at least, it had been bought as blank. Kieran knew it had been recorded on though, because the protectors on the top had been snapped off so nobody could record over it again.
No one had taken the time to write what was recorded on it, either on the tape itself or on the inlay card, so the only way to know what was on it was to listen to it.
Kieran stood up and surveyed the mess he’d made. Then he remembered the time.
‘Christ!’ he’d been gone much longer than ten minutes. It was more like twenty-five. Cray would probably hang him for this.
He hastily replaced the lids on the boxes, not caring about refastening the tape. He’d made such a mess when pulling the sticky tape off that he would never be able to get it back on properly anyway.
Kieran looked down at the audiocassette in his hand. He knew he was faced with a decision.
He though for a moment about the cassette.
He put it into his pocket, smiling to himself about just how nosey he sometimes could be.
~
Kieran switched off the television, giving silence back to his flat. He picked up his dinner plate and carried it through to the kitchen, where he scraped the uneaten remains of beans on toast into the bin. He dropped his plate into the sink.
Gandalf was sitting in his favourite place on the windowsill looking out into the night. He made a vocal purr of surprise and looked round when Kieran stroked his soft white mane.
He tried Phillip’s number again on the telephone. The line was still engaged.
He flicked open his address book to the letter H and scanned the numbers in the list. Then he picked up the receiver on the kitchen phone and dialled the number for Phillip’s mother’s house.
It rang six times at the other end, and Kieran was just about to hang up when he heard a click.
‘Hello?’ said a quiet female voice.
‘Mrs Hynes. Good evening I’m sorry to disturb you. I hope I haven’t rung at a bad time.’
‘Hello? Who is this? No it’s okay love, I can handle it. Hello? This is Mrs Hynes.’
‘Hello, Mrs Hynes. You might not remember me, my name is Kieran Whyteleafe. I was a friend of Phillip’s at school.’
‘Oh. Oh my!’
‘In fact, I was wondering if this was still your phone number. The phonebook I've got is about three years out of date. I’m ever so glad you’re still at this number. It’s just that I’ve been…’
‘Kieran. Kieran Whyteleafe yes. Yes I remember you. Good God Kieran, why did you call today?’
Gandalf started to brush his nose against Kieran’s leg.
‘I’m sorry? I was actually wondering if there was a problem with Phillip’s telephone. I’ve been trying to call him and it’s been engaged all day.’
‘Kieran? Did you know?’
‘Know what? I’m sorry. Perhaps I have the wrong number for him. I don’t think I do but…’
‘Phillip’s dead. He committed suicide. He was found dead this morning.’
Silence
‘What?’
Silence.
‘He’s dead Kieran. That’s why I wonder why you’re calling.’
‘What happened? I mean… how?’
‘Ashley, his girlfriend. She was working late at the studio. She didn’t get back to the flat until the early hours. She found him. In front of the television. He poisoned himself.’
~
Kieran hung up the phone. Yes he would go to the funeral. Yes she should call him and let him know what date it would be. Yes he was very much looking forward to seeing her again and filling in the gaps made by the years between. Yes Phillip would have liked that.
Kieran sat on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and staring at a single piece of stitching in the jeans he was wearing. The only sounds he could hear were the ticking of the clock in the hall and the wind outside. It was getting up again. It was going to be another blustery night. The forecast said there would be rain.
Gandalf trotted up to him, rubbed his nose against Kieran’s knee, and miaowed pathetically for some food.
