Redshift

By Ted Byrdon

Eric Adler. Architect.

Shortly after his wife is killed in a car crash, Eric accidentally discovers that she was having an affair with his best friend. He feels betrayed and sets out on a ruthless quest for revenge. But does he really? Or is his search for justice nothing but a figment of his imagination?

 

Carlos Aguila.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 4pm
• Release date: May 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9789464360622

Book preview

REDSHIFT

The Novel

Ted Byrdon

Copyright © Ted Byrdon, 2021

The moral right of Ted Byrdon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.

This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

Trade paperback ISBN: 9789464360615

eBook ISBN: 9789464360622

‘Everybody knows that the dice are loaded,

Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed…’

Leonard Cohen

For Angélique

Part I: ERIC

Chapter I

Why can’t my name be Carlos?

He looked up at the clock and only then did he recall taking it down. Where it used to hang, there was a faded stain on the wall. He could always ask the cleaner to try and remove it, but he suspected that the mark was there to stay. Besides, all the cleaner ever did was talk, talk, talk anyway... He remembered now. The clock had broken down: too many monkeys monkeying around with it.

Okay...

This was what he had ended up with... In spite of everything he’d done, in spite of everything he tried, he still turned out to be the idiot on stage, surrendered to the whim of others who were so much better at this game than he was. It was out of his hands now...

Right. Now we’ve got that out of the way, why Carlos?

Carlos is a good name. Carlos is a strong name. In another time and place, a Carlos might typically be a bullfighter, a big game hunter, or a mountaineer. Alternatively, he could well be a successful businessman. He might even be an award-winning scientist...

Carlos might be a lawyer.

He thought about this for a second and decided that, no, Carlos could not possibly be a lawyer.

Carlos, naturally, is dark. His eyes are dark. He has a dark fringe of beard, neatly trimmed, which emphasizes his full lips. His hair, profuse as a lion’s mane, is pitch black. When Carlos grows old, his hair doesn’t thin, although it might just turn silver overnight.

He had tried to tell them about Carlos... But just like the cleaner said he would, he had lost control. And now, they were waiting for him outside…

Where was that damn cleaner anyway? How come he was never around when you needed him? All you got was Carlos...

Tonight, Carlos has been a good listener. Eric stares at him emptily. When things get tricky, who else should come to the rescue but Carlos... It is one of life’s ironies: a wee little joke at his expense...

Carlos has taken a bottle of scotch and two tumblers from the cupboard.

You said wanted a stiff drink? Well, there you go...

Since then, Carlos has hardly said a word. Of course, he expressed surprise at the state of the flat. Or rather: he frowned when he entered. He looked about with a sense of uneasiness. He gazed at the jumble of paper in the middle of the table but showed no further interest. And he didn’t say: what’s that smell?

Or: have you gone mad, Eric?

Carlos sits opposite Eric. He rests his monumental head on one hand. He wears an expensive Italian leather jacket and a turtleneck sweater. Now and then, he just nods. Now and then, he shakes his head.

Eric has been telling him about the night’s events. Carlos listens morosely, without the slightest sign of incredulity, without even the slightest expression of scepticism.

The room is silent. Eric looks up at the clock on the wall. At first, he thinks it has stalled, then, as the ticking swells, the hands start to move, slowly but persistently.

It is half past four.

It was.

‘Anyway, God knows why they arrested me, but they most certainly didn’t...’

Probably mistook you for somebody else...

Carlos chuckles.

‘Is it too far-fetched to suspect it’s some sort of a conspiracy?’

Ah... A conspiracy: of course. I should have seen that one coming.

‘It just doesn’t make sense. Nothing’s made sense since Jacky-’

The room becomes painfully quiet.

Eric gets up. He walks past the massive dining table, goes over to the liquor cabinet and pours himself another drink. The bottle is almost empty. He doesn’t ask Carlos whether he wants one, although his glass too, is empty. He returns, sits down, and picks up the sheet of paper in front of him.

‘You know, maybe I just need a strategy... ‘

Carlos finds that highly unlikely.

Strategies are for monkeys and for honeybees, mate.

‘No, seriously, if I had a decent strategy, I could pull all of this together. Things would just have to fit... I’d force them...’

That’s not the way it works, Eric...

‘I won’t let them take away my soul, Carlos.’

Your soul? In the days when we still had one, you mean. Long time since...

‘See, that’s just what I mean. That’s it, exactly.’

A malicious grin crosses Carlos’s lips.

I can’t even remember.

‘That’s because you’re not real.’

Carlos laughs briefly and generously. Somehow the statement seems to flatter him.

You cannot will things into happening or not happening. And one thing does not necessarily lead to another. The dominoes have not been arranged in a straight, orderly line: they are all over the place.

‘I know that. But they are all there for a reason.’

Carlos gets up and paces about the room. After a while he stops and pulls the curtains aside. The blood red rays of the sunrise cut into his eyes. The battles of the night are nearly over. There are still some minor skirmishes here and there, but the main forces have retreated. The warriors lay their tired limbs down on the red rock: they swear, they spit blood ... They watch the sun come up. They have no greater aspiration than that: to see the sun spawn another day.

Chapter II

It was the day after the funeral, and he was craving for normality. He got up in the morning, took a shower, and went to work.

His appearance at the office caused conversations to grind to a sudden halt. Just before entering, he hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. Blankly, he stared at the company logo. The bright red triangle pointing upwards with the company name underneath: InSpire, in big, bold letters, followed by a finely italicized by-line that said, Innovation in Architecture.

As soon as he walked through the door, Sally came up to him.

‘Eric?’ she whispered, ‘we weren’t expecting you today. How are you doing, Eric?’

He tried to smile at her and did his best to assume a business-like manner.

‘I’m fine, Sal, thanks. Could I have my mail, please?’

She gave him a pile of envelopes and held his hand longer than was strictly necessary.

‘You know,’ she said, leaning towards him, ‘if you need to talk, I’m here.’

She looked at him with large, doting eyes. Sally was one of the few truly nice people he knew. To the utter desperation of her girlfriends, Sally wore her heart on her sleeve all the time. Her love life was a disaster. Boyfriends found her refreshingly naive at first, and then turned into monsters, simply because they found that, around Sally, they could.

‘Thanks,’ he said. He reeled about but she held him back by his arm.

‘I just wanted to say that nothing ever happens without a reason.’

‘Oh?’ he said, frowning, ‘it was an accident, Sal...’

‘I know,’ the girl nodded. ‘But that’s not what I meant...’

Her earrings bounced up and down like a pair of scales. Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘In the general course of things... there must be some sort of significance... you know? Got to be, Eric.’

He nodded absentmindedly and she appeared to take this as an encouragement. She leaned in closer to him.

‘And we have to keep going, regardless of the trials that cross our path. Nothing, Eric, nothing ever happens without a reason...’

Once more he frowned. ‘Thanks, love,’ he said, ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

She still held on to his hand and continued to gaze at his face with tearful eyes.

‘Sal,’ he finally said, ‘do you think you could...’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said and cast down her eyes, ‘better let you get on with it, then, eh?’

He sat down and plugged in his laptop. Gradually, he became aware of people staring. The silence in the room was palpable and thick. Quietly, Paul came over. He eased himself down onto the tabletop beside him, one leg dangling across the edge.

‘How are you doing, Eric?’

He looked up at the steel rimmed glasses, denting Paul’s temples.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘thanks.’

Paul put a hand on his arm. ‘No,’ he said and shook his head, ‘what I meant was: how are you really doing, Eric?

‘I told you: I’m fine.’ He put down his pencil in irritation. ‘Why does everybody keep asking me that?’

‘Why do you think?’ Paul said.

‘Okay,’ Eric shrugged, ‘but I’m fine. Really.’

‘And are you up to this?’

He looked around. People were avoiding his gaze. Josh, mirroring his brother’s pose at the other end of the table, was staring out of the office window, whistling a silent tune.

‘Once more, Paul, I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Oh, come on, Eric, you’ve been through a lot, and we’d all assumed you’d take some time off. Put things into perspective, you see what I mean?’

‘Yes.’ He tried to sound as casual as he could. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I do see.’ He leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘And it’s exactly what I have done: put things into perspective. Don’t worry: I am up to this.’

What he really meant to say was: couldn’t we somehow pretend everything’s gone back to normal and pick up the thread? Fellow monkeys, fellow honeybees, I ask you: how’s that for a strategy?

Paul shrugged and stood up. ‘Okay, mate,’ he said, ‘have it your way...’

Over the next few weeks, things gradually went from bad to worse. Whatever strategy he might have had - bee-, monkey-, or otherwise - broke down completely. At first people were very understanding and supportive. They invited him for dinner, for drinks, they told him to drop by any time - any-time- and to just pick up the phone whenever he felt like talking. Considering the most these invitations nothing but dutiful expressions of sympathy, he didn’t even bother to decline. And he kept telling people that he was all right.

I’m all right.

It took one look, and not a very close one at that, to see that he wasn’t.

After a few weeks friends and acquaintances slowly began to bleed away. Sadness was in the reflection of his eyes; grief weighted down the corners of his mouth, and people moved on. They crossed the street when they saw him coming their way. And when they did run into him by accident, they pointed at their watches, and said that they really, really, had to dash. He was still telling everybody that he was all right, but by now people weren’t listening anymore. They’d stopped asking a while back, but he hadn’t noticed and kept it up, regardless.

And then there was the incident with John Allan...

John Allan was a big man. Bulky and tall, he had the voice to match his appearance. He was one of those people who are unable to speak quietly, let alone whisper. He couldn’t just smile; he boomed with laughter. He was an important client for them, but he also was a bit of a handful.

Today he came staggering into the private dining room of the Wentworth Arms huffing and puffing. Crossing the creaky old floor, he grumbled: ‘Are you people out to kill me? My physician warns me to avoid all unnecessary strain and then you chaps are having me climbing up three flights of stairs?’

‘Hullo, John, how are you?’

‘Don’t ask,’ he said.

‘Well,’ Paul began, ‘I’m sure we can…’

John waved at the waiter and ordered a pint of Marston’s. The waiter, a red-haired twenty-year-old, swallowed visibly: they were all out of Marston’s.

Pulsating in the middle of his broad forehead, a malicious little vein betrayed John’s irritation. He exhaled sharply and ordered a gin and tonic.

Careful, Paul asked him if he’d had any trouble finding the place.

John, however, was concentrating on the quality of the cutlery.

‘Look at this crap: not even properly dried. Swarming with germs.’

Again, he called the waiter over and had him replace the cutlery.

With Paul laughing sheepishly and trying to get him to focus, John preferred to turn his attention to the wine glass. He held it up to the light.

‘Oy, lad,’ he shouted, ‘are you trying to poison us? Look at this! There’s lipstick on here from the fifties.’

Suddenly, Eric, who’d watched John’s antics quietly, had enough.

‘I’ll take care of that for you, John,’ he said. His voice sounded as if he were choking. He almost turned the table over as he jumped to his feet. He snatched the wineglass from John’s hand and hurled it through the room. It exploded against the back wall.

‘There,’ he said, ‘sorted. Happy?’

John held his head low between his shoulders. Both Paul and Josh were too perplexed to speak.

Eric looked at the table. ‘Check your plate yet?’ he said.

John looked at him with wide, bulging eyes. The little vein was throbbing in the middle of his forehead with an even greater vigour. His mouth was open. He swallowed.

‘What?’ he said.

‘You obviously haven’t,’ Eric said and before he realized what he was doing, the plate followed down the same route as the wineglass.

Panicking, Eric tried pushing every possible button. It was useless. He was locked up inside a maniac whose backside was firmly in the driver’s seat, and who was enjoying every minute of the ride.

‘There now,’ the maniac growled, ‘is there anything else I can do for you?’

Slowly John recovered from his initial surprise. ‘Now just hang on a minute-’ he began, and his voice sounded no less constricted than Eric’s. He tried to raise his bulk out of the chair.

‘You know what?’ Eric’s madman said, ‘we might as well get rid of all this stuff.’

He grabbed hold of the tablecloth, but just as he was going to snatch it away, Paul found his tongue back.

‘Eric!’ he shouted, and the sound of his voice distracted the madman long enough for Eric to throw another lever and regain ascendancy. Slowly his eyes began to focus. He looked at Paul.

‘What’s gotten into you? Are you out of mind?’

Eric fell in his chair and buried his face in his hands. With his three companions still staring at him, he got up without a word, swept up his coat and hurried down the stairs.

There were some people outside the door smoking, and trying to regain his presence of mind, he bummed a cigarette. For a minute he debated whether he should go back, but he was still too agitated. In the end, he decided to take a stroll along the river and clear his head before heading back to the office.

When Paul and Josh came in, a couple of hours later, they were in a festive mood, and all fired up.

‘Done deal,’ Josh gloated.

He raised his eyebrows.

‘No thanks to you, though.’

Eric shrugged and he must have pulled an ugly face, because the elation of the two seemed to evaporate.

‘What the hell were you thinking? If you had just come back and apologized, at least we could have turned it to our advantage… You’ve let us down, Eric.’

Paul stood with his back turned towards the pair of them.

‘Look,’ he suddenly interrupted, ‘we have to talk about this.’

‘Damn right,’ Josh said. ‘You’re becoming an absolute hazard to all of us. A loose-’

‘Okay,’ Paul said, ‘that ‘ll do. However, I do feel that we have to deal with this. Get it sorted.’

Getting things sorted was postponed until after office hours, when most of the staff had left. The lights in the office section were off and Sally was the last to hover about the demi-darkness of the place. Almost at random, she moved a chair here, shut a drawer there, and just, in general, waited for somebody - anybody- to give her a pat on the back.

The three of them had retreated to a corner at the back of the office which people called ‘the lair’. It was a comfortable nook used for informal meetings where they’d put down a couple of Chesterfield chairs, a coffee table, some lamps...

At first, the atmosphere smacks deceptively of an evening at a gentlemen’s club. Its scent is that typical mixture of old wood, leather polish and cigar smoke of an Edwardian backstreet mansion; its soundtrack that of the boys, haw-hawing and chummily nudging each other after a slightly burnt joke. In the background sounds the tinkling of ice-cubed, whiskied glasses and the crackling of a well-tended fireplace.

Unfortunately, none of these are to be had this evening. Tonight, civilized company gives way to the chafing raw heat of the noontime savannah and the deep-throated roar of the plains.

Josh reaches across the back of his chair with one arm. The flat of his hand leaves a sweaty mark on the leather. He yawns, runs his fingers through his hair and goes back to drumming a nervous little tune on the elbow rest. Paul is rocking on the edge of his seat. He stretches his arms and snaps his fingers, one by one. Absentmindedly, he coughs, shakes his head, and stares into the darkness of the office. Each man attempts to look indifferent and disinterested and fails miserably.

Slowly but surely, the air is being saturated with big, fat clouds of testosterone. The strong, subliminal display doesn’t miss its effect on Sally. In turn, she has been bulleted into a strictly physical universe, which is not necessarily the same as that of the others. She walks about the place with her head stretched back and curls her upper lip the better to catch the wafting virility. She will wiggle her bum past them and bend over, seemingly unaware, to pick something up. If it weren’t just a tad inappropriate, she’d wrap herself around the columns supporting the ceiling and happily spray a generous dose of the old pheromones in order to attract their attention. She’d roll over on her back and squeeze her luxurious bosom, just like the girls on the net... She’d do all that and more, if it weren’t just slightly at odds with the overall setting.

Unfortunately for Sally, this particular intersection is hers and hers alone. To the three men she remains invisible.

Josh turns his head: first towards his brother, then towards Eric.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘I want to apologize. I shouldn’t have affronted you like that… I realize things must be difficult right now.’

The apology comes out a deep throaty growl. It makes Sally shiver with pleasure. This savannah climate really does agree with her: she relishes its sultry heat, the beading of sweat on bare, glistening skin and the promise in a pair of ruthless eyes. To her disappointment, however, Josh is taken aback by the sound of his own voice, and he looks to Paul for assistance. His brother, cleaning his glasses yet again, still tries to maintain an air of careless indifference.

‘Well, yes…’ he says, rubbing friskily without looking up, ‘we know you’re going through a rough patch, Eric. We all sympathize, but that’s not the issue here.’

He puts his glasses back on, pushes the bridge back against his nose and tries to focus.

‘Fact is,’ he continues, ‘you make people feel uneasy. One moment you’re dragging yourself around the office like some wounded animal, and the next you’re snarling at people and telling them to back off. Staff are none too happy, I can tell you...’

Sally pokes her head around the crossroads of her private little world, and clumsily knocks a cup off the table.

‘Sorry,’ she murmurs, and goes off to find a dishcloth.

‘And now,’ Paul continues undisturbed, ‘it’s come to this? You’re assaulting our clients? So, what’s next, Eric? Any more surprises in store?’

‘Don’t exaggerate,’ Eric says, ‘John was making a complete spectacle of himself and I was fed up. I know I shouldn’t have flown off the handle, but we all have our limits... And he was acting like a proper pain.’

Josh frowns and looks like he is about to say something, but Paul beats him to it.

‘You’re right,’ he says and puts a hand on Eric’s knee. ‘He wasn’t on his best behaviour… But then again, have you ever known John Allan to be any different? We’ve known worse, surely... He was just being… typical.’

He chuckles.

‘Anyway. The point is, we’ve discussed this, and we really think you shouldn’t be in the office right now.’

‘We’ve been over this before, Paul.’

‘Yes, I know. It’s just that… Well… Frankly, Eric, we must insist you take some time off. Go away somewhere. Take a break. I… we’re sure it’d do you good to get out of here for a while.’

‘It’s not on,’ he answers, firmly. ‘Why are you so keen to get me out the way? What are you two up to?’

Next thing they know, the whole thing blows up. They shout at each other. Accusations fly back and forth. They jump up, fists clenched, and teeth set, they swear and threaten. And just as they appear to come to blows, out of the blue, a young woman walks into the reception area.

‘Hullo?’ she calls out, her voice wavering. ‘Is there anybody here?’

At the sound of her voice the three men turn their heads simultaneously. She makes her way towards them, and they visibly relax. Paul straightens his ties. Josh coughs in his fist. Eric has been struck by lightning. There is something about the woman’s voice that makes his hair stand on end. He can’t wait for her to come closer, but then the indefatigable Sally steps in and starts sniffing up her unexpected rival. The visitor remains half hidden from view behind one of the columns.

‘Can I help you?’ Sally’s snarl is up there with the best of them.

There are shuffling noises, mixing in with the timid clicks of high heels, as the two women circle about each other. Briefly, a knee-high silk skirt is to be glimpsed at; half a fan of shiny blond hair can be seen as it is swept out of a shrouded face by a delicate, slender hand.

The rhythm of these footsteps... that melody... Eric would recognize it anywhere. Italian sing-song floats up from the floor where they have left an invisible imprint. There are strings; there are deep, reverberating guitar chords...

He can just make out the shape of the woman’s calf and its softly gleaming olive tan. As his eyes run down the back of her leg, she puts one foot forward, allowing him to admire the crocodile shoe in full view. Her instep is completely visible: the perfect curve is elegant and sensual. There is not a single blemish to the hollow of her foot, just a slightly variegated tone of the skin where the blood pulses, like a living vein in a finely chiselled block of marble.

Suddenly the woman turns about, and the distinctive, all too familiar song floats away again. Before Eric can do anything, the door slams shut behind her.

‘Well,’ says Paul, ‘where were we?’

And Josh adds: ‘can we come to some sort of decision?’

‘Jacky,’ Eric replies.

He doesn’t stop to see the surprise on his associates’ faces, as he rushes to the door. On his way out, he nearly bumps into Sally.

‘Letter from Allan Brothers, Eric.’

Unfortunately, Sally’s invisibility was never more acute. He ignores her extended hand with the brown padded envelope and sets off after the unknown woman, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

Chapter III

Outside, he is just in time to hear the sound of the elevator doors closing. She is heading for the car park. It takes the carriage forever to come back up and then ride down again. When he finally jumps out, dozens of cars block his view. Running past them, he catches a glimpse of the woman’s shadow on the very edge of his field of vision.

‘Jacky?’ he shouts and his voice booms through the car park like an explosion.

The woman doesn’t seem to hear, and he charges after her as she flits in between two cars and past a yellow, steel, door that says: ‘No Entry’.

Running, he nearly slips on the brightly painted concrete floor, and only barely manages to keep his balance. Behind the door is a service elevator. He slams the button repeatedly, impatiently, waiting for it to come back up. Once inside, there are no buttons, no floor indications. There is only this: a short ping as the doors close and he begins his descent.

The first thing he hears when the noise of the elevator has died down is the quickly receding sound of footsteps.

‘Jacky!’ he shouts, ‘wait!’

He rushed after her, somehow acutely aware of the fact that he is trespassing. Spotted neon tubes sparsely light the walls. Fist thick cables wind their way along the ceilings, caked with dust and soot. The deeper he penetrates this warren of tunnels and corridors, the more mud there is, squishing under his feet and spattering his trouser legs. After a while, the cables are no longer attached to the ceiling, but they just slither along the floor, hissing and glowing. The air is saturated with the smell of burnt rubber.

Gradually the light fades until it is pitch black. He has to feel his way along the humid, mouldy walls. Pieces of the gritty surface come away and crumble to the floor. There is no sign of the woman anywhere. As he pushes on, the atmosphere becomes hot and close. A muggy current of air blows into his face and he can barely touch the concrete without scalding his hands. Sweat runs in trickles down his forehead. His eyes sting.

The corridors seem to come alive. From further down comes a high-pitched, persistent howl, and the entire basement falls silent. He moves towards the howling sound and stumbles on a couple of cats. They hiss at him and scurry away, their tails thick with rage. One of them jumps squarely up against the wall and shoots past his face.

Unable to decide what he should do next he becomes aware of shadows darting out in front of him. A reddish glow seems to set the walls on fire, and the sound of running feet fills the tunnels. Anxiously, he cowers against the concrete wall. Suddenly the place explodes with the clatter of a full-scale battle. Shadows dance on the walls around him, as he witnesses the clash. A big man’s shadow plunges a sword into the throat of another man, and he can see the squirt of blood as the victim desperately tries to stop it with both hands. Another man’s silhouette is simultaneously hit by several spears and its sinks to its knees like a sack of flour. Then the light begins to fade again. The shapes on the walls blur and disappear, and yet again, silence fills the darkness.

Gradually, the corridor narrows down to a mere crevice. In places, he has to shuffle along crabwise, and he only just manages to squeeze through. At last, this fissure spills out into what looks like a sewage canal, tall enough for him to stand up. Brackish liquid flows down the length of the stream and a thin grey mist swirls above its surface. He jumps the stream and climbs a brick-walled quay on the other side.

At the end of it is another one of these steel doors. He is not surprised that this one too should say ‘No entry!’ but by now he is no longer intimidated. He pushes at the door, but it doesn’t move. Throwing his whole weight against it a couple of times causes it to come ajar. There is light behind it. With difficulty he wriggles an arm through the crack.

Before he realizes what is happening, his face crashes into the side of the door. Prematurely born stars erupt across his field of vision. He does not have the opportunity to admire the spectacle, because the pressure on his face is released, only to slam into the door a second time. His knees buckle. And just before everything goes dark, the door is flung open and someone or something pulls him inside.

It is unnaturally quiet all of a sudden. He feels at peace. There is no panic, no fear, only a surprisingly liberating feeling of release.

This is it, he thinks: end of the road. Just as Sally had said: tit for tat. An eye for an eye and a genetic predisposition to be mangled and gobbled up by a boar...

For what seems like an eternity, he floats about. Then, gradually, the sound of his own heartbeat begins to wake him up. And still he cannot move: cannot lift a finger. Then, the pain returns. He shies away from it, wants to retreat back into the darkness but finds he is irresistibly drawn towards the light. As his eyes begin to focus, he stares into the face of an elderly woman. Her mouth is sad but not unkind, lips pressed together in concentration. She is dabbing at his temples with a wet cloth. Behind her is a middle-aged man with curly black hair and a moustache. He wears a pink, sweat-stained shirt and a tie that has seen better days. The man says something, but Eric doesn’t understand and doesn’t care. He is too busy focusing on the pain and trying to negotiate some sort of understanding with it. A much younger man stands silently beside the other one, biting on a toothpick.

‘Where am I?’ He tries to sit up.

The older man sadly shakes his head.

‘I am sorry,’ he says, wringing his hand, ‘I am so, so sorry. Is mistake... My young friend here sometime respond to situation...

‘He was trespassing,’ the other man shrugs.

The older man rolls his eyes. ‘Shut up, Maro, I told you before you cannot go around and hit people: is not civilized.’ And turning to Eric: ‘you get up now, yes? Please?’

With difficulty Eric gets to his feet. He groans and looks about.

Dozens of little tables are marshalled across the room in an orderly grid. At the tables, dozens of girls are sewing all sorts of garments, curtains, and pillowcases. The rattle of the sewing machines is deafening. The girls seem completely oblivious of him and continue to work as if nothing had happened.

‘I am sorry,’ the man repeats. He opens his arms and smiles hopefully. ‘Is terrible misunderstanding. You are okay now, yes?’