COILS
CHERRY ORDERED the carcase of the Negro woman to be lowered into the white toilet. The carcase was a shapeless lump of lardy white, ridged with gristle. The block and tackle creaked as the two workmen hauled at it, hand by hand, and Cherry made little sounds with his mouth as he directed the lowering.
She said,
—Cherry, why are you doing this to her?
He replied,
—Because she is black.
—But she’s white, she’s all white, except for those brown patches of blood.
—She is black,
said Cherry.
The greasy carcase was almost entirely inside the toilet now. She saw a hair stuck on the fat. The carcase disappeared and the workmen disengaged the hook and pulled up the chain. The hook had little lumps of fat stuck onto it.
—Cherry, I feel sick.
—Go away,
he said, and when she did not move,
—GO AWAY,
he roared.
The sound of his voice traveled out and out to the distant walls of the huge room and bounced and reverberated back. The air was vibrating and the great space was webbed with sound.
—AYAYAYAYAY,
came the sound of the room.
Cherry was looking into the gleaming toilet bowl and muttering to himself. The workmen were looking on uninterestedly.
She ran away from them, skimming over the radiant floor, birdlike, cloudy folds of white robe floating around her. She drove her legs hard against the floor, resilient, ran and ran, until the hazy walls took on definition and she saw a door. The door was so huge that the handle was out of her reach. She pressed hard against the smooth surface and it opened, silently. She looked back. Far away, at the other end of the enormous room the little group stood, almost hidden in the glimmer of light. Cherry was talking to the workmen and the distorted words of their conversation babbled from the walls.
She pushed the door with all her might and it swung slowly back into its housing.
—THOOOOMMM,
it sounded, dull surf-thunder.
A bell began to ring. If Cherry came after her . . .
She leaned over and switched off the alarm clock. Feet tangled in sheets and nightdress damp with sweat. If Cherry came after her . . .
Already, the unpredictable coils of dream were giving way to the ordered lines of existence. She closed her eyes against the day and tried to go back into her dream. But the lines were driven too deep for escape; her mind was already trundling along well-worn tracks, meeting no resistance, no retardation of steady, constant speed. She stumbled groaning out of bed.
She walked into the living room.
She cooked breakfast.
She ate breakfast.
She washed her face, neck, ears, arms up to the elbow.
She dressed.
She combed and arranged her hair.
She put on her coat.
She went to work.
At work, Mrs. Cox said to her,
—You’re looking a bit haggard, dear. Bags under your eyes. Not getting enough sleep, I expect. My Ronnie’s the same—out till all hours doing God knows what. I tell him the same as you—you need more sleep, my lad, instead of gallivanting God knows where in the middle of the night. But does he listen? Talk to the wall.
Mrs. Cox went on like this all the time. Her conversation was like a continuous tape-recording, endlessly repeating itself, forever beginning again. You could dip in at any point and follow it quite easily. Mrs. Cox was a small, neat woman. On her right cheek was a large wart with hairs growing out of it. She gave off a stale musty odor, like potatoes too long in the earth.
She sometimes liked to listen to Mrs. Cox so that she could smell the odor. It was not pleasant but she liked to smell it while Mrs. Cox talked to her, in the way that she used to prod a painful tooth with her tongue when she was a child.
A pile of invoices stood before her and she began to work on them. After a short while she simply sat with a pen in her hand, held over the paper, dreaming of nothing she could put into words. Her eyes were glassy.
Mrs. Cox tapped her on the shoulder and said,
—Mr. Cherry wants to see you, dear. Shouldn’t worry—it can’t be anything serious. Gor, you do look tired.
Mr. Cherry said,
—Sit down, do, Miss Taylor. No, over here if you don’t mind. Where I can see you. Don’t get much chance to see a pretty face stuck behind this desk. Well, just a general chat, dear. Just to see how you’re getting on in the office, so to speak. How’re you doing then, eh? Any complaints?
—No,
she murmured.
—Nothing.
—Good, good. I like everyone to be happy. I’ve observed that—
his face became serious,
—people work much better if they’re happy. Don’t you agree? Mmmm? I’m happy—wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. And I like my staff to be happy. Don’t like them moaning around with long faces all the time.
There was an underlying sense to his words, an unstated implication which she answered with an unintelligible sound. —We had a girl here once, about the same age as you in fact, moped about all day with a face as long as a fiddle. It depressed you just to look at her. Last in in the morning, first out at night type, no interest in her work, you know the kind I mean. Well, I let things go like, and pretty soon she was doing hardly any work at all, sat dreaming with her eyes out of the window all day. Mrs. Cox got sick, having to do most of her work for her, and I got sick, listening to Mrs. Cox’s complaints—outcome of it was I had to sack her, told her she was no use to the firm, getting a decent wage for nothing.
He paused and gave her a straight, honest, Northcountryman’s look, full in the face.
—I’ve never had to do that again, so far—learned my lesson, so to speak. I realized that besides doing the firm a bad service I was doing that girl a bad service as well, just letting her go on like, the way I did. She wanted someone to put her right, tell her she was doing wrong. Now if I see a young girl shaping up that way I always have her in for a little chat, just an informal talk, you understand, and I try and put her on the right path. Suggest a few little pointers, you know. It’s never failed yet.
Silence. Then he laughed heartily.
—Anyway, enough of that. If you’re happy that’s all right. Get out and enjoy yourself, have fun. I wish I had your life in front of me, yes I do. Okay then, Miss Taylor, that’s all I wanted. Just an informal talk, just to get to know staff better, you know. Feel free to pop in anytime you’ve got something on your mind, I’ll do my best to help you.
—Thank you, Mr. Cherry,
she said,
Beans on toast and a yoghurt for tea. Read for half an hour. Stare at the wall for half an hour, hugging her legs against the heat from the electric fire. Records, magazines, and a bedtime cocoa.
—The lecture tonight,
said Mrs. Cox,
—is entitled “Time and Humanity.” Dr. Cherry will speak for approx. half an hour and there will be a short period for questions afterwards. Dr. Cherry.
There was a spattering of light applause, in which she joined automatically.
—Thank you, thank you,
said Dr. Cherry, waiting modestly until the clapping died down.
—The subject of my lecture tonight is one which might easily daunt any man. Time in one form or another has been studied or conjectured upon since the—ahem, I was going to say since the beginning of time—
He paused for polite laughter.
—But of course we cannot imagine any beginning to Time, or to Space, for the two are sides of the same coin, so to speak. An infinity of Time and Space, an endless pool in which we, finite, short-lived, rude creatures of decay, dwell. Or perhaps a more apt metaphor would be that of a rushing river carrying us irresistibly onward for eternity.
The pedantic words walked jerkily on stilts above her. She gazed at Cherry’s face, at the blue jowls, the thick pudgy ears, the folds of neck hanging over the white collar of his shirt.
Something tickled her hand. She looked down and saw a mouse on her knee, nuzzling her folded hands. She gently disengaged one hand and stroked the little furry nose of the mouse. It narrowed its eyes with pleasure and sat perfectly still.
—But it has not been proved that there is something eternal in man, something to correspond with the endlessness of the cosmos, something that is not tumbled and rushed downstream by the river of Time, but sails calmly on its surface, completely at home.
She took a pin and drove it firmly into the little humped back of the mouse. The skin dimpled at first, and then the point penetrated and the pin sank easily into the flesh. The mouse wiggled his tail quietly with pleasure. She stuck another pin into him, gently, pressing the head flush to the surface of his body with her fingertip.
—And yet there are those who fight against Time. I have shown you how it is necessary for men to order their existence into patterns, to have each thing happen for a set and known duration in time. I have shown you how it is imperative that a day be organized into little precise packets of time. And yet there are those who fight against this, those who do not see that the only defense, the only security against Chaos, is Order. You have met them, I have met them. They are a well-known type—the last in in the morning, first out at night type, so to speak.
She stuck more pins into the mouse, who remained still under her gentle hands. The pins were quite well spaced out over the little body and so she began to fill in the spaces between them. Soon there were whole patches where she could run her fingers over and feel nothing but the rounded heads of the pins, no flesh or fur at all.
—She resents Order. She gets on the bus in the morning and she tries to play games with Time, tries to stretch it out. And how does she do this? She retreats to the only place where Time is plastic and subjective, she retreats into Dream. She dreams Time away, making no use of its precious irrecoverable substance.
There was no more room left for pins now. The mouse was a little shivering silvery creature, a metalflesh mouse. No room for pins on the body. She took a pin and drove it tenderly into one of the tiny black eyes. There was a pop and a little bead of blood appeared. The mouse quivered with ecstasy and then lay still as she pierced his other eye, pop. Eyes of silver beads, body of silver foil, only the tail was flesh. She cut it off with a pair of sewing scissors and the mouse froze into metal immobility.
With the immobility of the mouse an awareness came to her senses and she realized that the room was silent. She looked up. Cherry and Mrs. Cox and the students were all looking at her. They had been looking at her for some time.
—You were not paying attention. What were you doing?
asked Cherry.
—WHAT WERE YOU DOING,
he roared, when she did not answer.
Mrs. Cox strode up to her and pulled the metal mouse from her hand. Cherry looked at it with horror and there was a gasp from the students. Cherry held the little mouse up in his big hand and it began to bleed. Each little pin-prick poured out blood so that his hand was red. Tears of blood streamed from the pierced eyes and the mouse died with a squeak.
—Oh no,
she cried,
—You’ve hurt him.
And then Mrs. Cox and Cherry took her outside and the wind made her white robe flutter. The temple was bathed white with light from the moon and the pillars shone silvery. They each took one of her hands and ran, pulling her lightly between them, and they ran at the pillars, one on either side, she between, and they ran straight at the stone pillars and she was smashed and crushed and torn on the hard stone and then through the other side and the next pillar loomed up and she was smashed and torn and then through the other side and she died with shock each time the pillars crushed her. A bell began to ring. Police?
She leaned over and switched off the alarm clock. Her body was slippery with sweat.
She washed and pinned her hair up.
She put on her white robe.
She walked to the bus stop, birdlike, cloudy folds of white robe floating around her.
At work Mrs. Cox said,
—You’re looking a bit haggard, dear. Bags under your eyes. Not getting enough sleep, I expect. Went to Dr. Cherry’s lecture, did you?
She ignored her and began her work.
—Mr. Cherry wants to see you, dear. Shouldn’t worry—it can’t be anything serious. Gor, you do look tired.
Mr. Cherry said,
—Sit down, do, Miss Taylor. Just a general chat, nice robe you’re wearing, by the way. It’s come to my notice that your heart isn’t exactly in your work. You know, last in in the morning, first out at night principle, and I just wanted to have an informal talk with you . . .
The droning words buzzed sleepily above her. She felt a tickling on her hand. She looked down and saw that a little mouse had crawled onto her knee and was nuzzling her folded hands. She proceeded to stick pins into the humped flesh of his back.
—I know you resent Order,
Mr. Cherry was saying,
—but you must know that human existence has to be ordered into little precise packets of time. Everything must have a known duration. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Of course it is, and if there’s going to be any defense, any security against Chaos, everybody must live inside those little packets, because that means Order, and Order defeats Chaos. Everyone, mark you. If one single person lives outside Time that person represents a threat to Humanity, a chink through which Chaos can work its insidious intent, so to speak.
The little mouse’s body was quite covered with pins now and there was no room for any more. And so she stuck pins into his eyes, pop pop.
She looked up and saw that Mr. Cherry was watching her, had been watching her for a long time.
—What are you doing?
he asked.
She lifted her hand and showed him the little mouse. He took it from her in his big hand and it began to bleed. Each little pin-prick poured out blood so that his hand was red. Tears of blood streamed from the pierced eyes and the mouse died with a squeak.
She began to cry and great waving sobs shook her whole body.
—Oh, you’ve hurt him,
she cried.
And then Mr. Cherry and Mrs. Cox came and took her gently by the arms and someone gave her tea and sat her down. Then a man in a uniform came and they lifted her into the ambulance and Mr. Cherry and Mrs. Cox were saying soft, gentle things. She lay in the rocking bunk and saw the mudstains on her white robe and a little mouse nuzzled friendly against her hand.
After the hospital it was sausage and egg for tea. Then she read for half an hour and then she stared at the wall for half an hour, hugging her legs against the heat from the electric fire. Records, magazines and a bedtime cocoa.
Mrs. Cox said,
—You’re looking very haggard these days, dear. Bags under your eyes. Not getting enough sleep, I expect. My Ronnie’s the same—out till all hours doing God knows what. I tell him the same as you—you need more sleep, my lad, instead of gallivanting God knows where in the middle of the night. But does he listen? Talk to the wall.
Mrs. Cox was boring but she liked listening to her because she could sometimes smell her damp musty odor, like potatoes too long in the earth. She also liked to look at Mrs. Cox’s wart with the long hairs growing out of it.
She began to work on the pile of invoices in front of her. After a while she simply sat with pen in hand, dreaming. The invoices were exactly the same as the ones she had checked yesterday and they were the same as the ones she would check tomorrow. She dreamed of unpredictable things, coils and spirals that led nowhere, instead of straight lines that led to clearly signposted destinations.
—Mr. Cherry wants to see you, dear,
said Mrs. Cox.
—Just his usual pep talk, I expect. Nothing to worry about.
Mr. Cherry said,
—Sit down, do, Miss Taylor.
—No, over here if you don’t mind,
she silently mouthed, just before he actually spoke the words.
—Where I can see you,
he continued.
—Don’t get much chance to see a pretty face stuck behind this desk, ha ha. Well, just a general chat, dear. Just to see how you’re getting on in the office, so to speak. How’re you doing then, any complaints?
She murmured something.
—Good, good. I like happy staff. One of my, so to speak, sayings, is that happy staff plus clever management equals good work. I’ve learned the truth of that myself over the years. I remember a girl we had here, about the same age as you in fact, moped about all day with a face as long as a fiddle. I tell you, it was downright depressing . . .
Afterwards there were more invoices and a tea break. Then there was lunch—two salad sandwiches and a Coke jammed into an hour—and then there were more invoices, and then another tea break and then it was getting near time to go home.
A bell began to ring. Finishing bell?
She leaned over and switched off the alarm clock. The floor of the temple was cold and hard and early sun was striking into her eyes. She washed herself and then donned her white robe, so light that it clung to her like haze. She walked to work, watching the one-winged birds spinning crazily in the sky, trying to fly from tree to tree.
At work Mrs. Cox said,
—You shouldn’t try to attend all of Dr. Cherry’s lectures, you know. You’re not getting enough sleep. Bags under your eyes. In fact, Dr. Cherry’s noticed it himself. Said he wanted to see you as soon as you came in. You’d better go now.
She walked along the corridor to Cherry’s office. The floor and the ceiling and the walls of the corridor were white. It was hard to see, in the dazzling radiance, where floor ended and walls began, or whether there actually was a ceiling or simply a continuation of the walls. The corridor curved very slightly, so little that it was hardly noticeable except as a change in the quality of the sourceless light. She looked back. Only white. Nothing behind her but white.
There was complete silence. A vacuum of silence. Only the rustle of her white robe and her breathing made any sound. The sounds were sucked dry by the silent vacuum.
She walked on. Cherry’s office could not be much farther.
She stopped. There was a faint susurration behind her. A soft, deep-drawn hissing. She listened closely and made out the sounds of breathing and rustling clothing. She turned but there was nothing behind her. She walked faster and again stopped. Holding her breath, she heard the soft sounds still behind her, the breathing sounding more labored.
She began to run, her body almost formless in the dazzling light, the corridor curving gently away ahead of her. She ran and ran, driving her legs hard against the floor, panting painfully. The corridor turned before her on its unseen axis.
At last she could run no more and stopped to listen. The sound was still there, but it did not seem to be coming from behind. She looked before her. A figure in a filmy robe walked slowly along the corridor, almost formless in the sourceless radiance.
The breathing and rustling behind her began again as the pursuer caught up. She ran forward, not wishing to be caught, not wishing to catch up with the white figure ahead.
The corridor curved and suddenly came to an end. She saw an exit through which the white-robed figure was disappearing. She ran forward and reached the exit. The breathing behind her grew louder and louder. She looked out of the end of the corridor into an enormous room. Not far from where she stood was a white toilet and Cherry and two workmen stood near it. Something bulky lay under a sheet and the white figure stood looking at it.
Cherry ordered the carcase of the Negro woman to be lowered into the white toilet. The carcase was a shapeless lump of lardy white, ridged with gristle. The block and tackle creaked as the two workmen hauled at it, hand by hand, and Cherry made little sounds with his mouth as he directed the lowering.
The mouth of the white figure opened.
The breathing behind her came closer and closer, the mouth opened, opened, the tongue stirring for speech. She looked behind and saw a figure in a white robe and as the coils tightened around her, she said,
—Cherry, why are you doing this to her?