Accidental Crime - 14

Jarrod

On the fifth day, Jarrod felt compelled to take the long walk to reprographics.

It was not a walk he had taken before, nor was it a walk he had any legitimate reason to take, ever since electronic data entry had made photocopying redundant in his surprisingly-narrow line of work. And yet, like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow – he instantly hated himself for the simile – lay Janine. Well, she probably stood, unless the repro room was decked out in Victorian-style chaise-longues, in which case their potential meeting would assume an entirely different course of events to that originally envisaged. Most likely she would be standing, perhaps half-shielded by an over-sized photocopier that not only copied and reproduced the item it scanned but also hole-punched it, stapled it and, rumour has it, added a little hint of Chanel No.5 to make your paperwork smell oh so sweet.

In order to make the trip appear entirely conventional, Jarrod had mocked up a table of names and addresses that Gavin, as he would tell the story, had asked him to make a copy of so that they could be entered by another client at the same time in some sort of speed-typing-contest that ultimately decided who stayed and who went at the end of the week.

It was a flawless alibi.

Janine had spoken highly of the pleasures of photocopying whilst staring at the remaining crumbs of her bagel barely 24 hours earlier and painted a picture that Jarrod was keen to admire. He would be careful not to appear dismissive of her job – in fact, there was something quite admirable in her decision to free her mind for endless wanderings whilst her well-trained hands provided an invaluable service – and would, if the moment presented itself, seek an opportunity to compliment her on how well she refilled the machine with paper or how quickly her fingers tapped away on the touch-screen.

The machine whirred loudly, beckoning Jarrod towards the room as he turned the corner and began his long walk down the corridor to Janine, practising his opening line over and over until he was certain it was perfect.

Hi Janine. Flawless. Get the tone of voice right and there’s no way you can lose.

As he approached the door, he could see a pink blouse hovering nervously by the entrance, confirming Jarrod’s suspicions that his timing would be out, that the prospect of privacy was fading fast. Janine had not come across as a wearer of pink during their brief encounter and she was, of course, standing behind the over-sized photocopier, so there was little doubt that the blouse belonged to a Laura or a Lizzie – certainly a name beginning with ‘L’ at least – who most likely had pressing photocopying that needed to be done, probably while they waited, as there wasn’t a moment to lose, not a second to waste. ‘Deadlines to meet. People to please,’ she would tell Janine in a song-like voice that belied the stress and bitterness welling up within. ‘Only if you’re not too busy,’ she would insist, while whispering within, ‘but I will of course find some way to get you fired if you can’t help me immediately. My job is far more important than your job. Whatever you were doing before must be stopped now for me. I take priority. Serve me. Help me. Love me.’

Well, perhaps love wouldn’t be on the cards – at least not for Lizzie – but the lingering presence of the blouse as Jarrod edged ever closer implied that service and help was still in demand.

‘Thanks, Janine, that’s great,’ the blouse sang out, as a hand clutching a surprisingly small pile of paper (collated, double-sided, hole-punched) emerged into view.

‘No worries, Mags. See you,’ Janine’s voice called out, as the blouse departed hurriedly.

Mags? It made no sense. That didn’t begin with ‘L’ at all. True, it was only one letter out, but still. Most likely a nick-name for Letitia, or something like that, Jarrod thought, as he strode with renewed confidence towards a door that he now noticed had been only recently painted. That’s my Janine, he smiled, picturing her waltzing in to the manager’s office to point out that there was something distinctly unappealing about the repro door, that it created a bad impression and that just one coat of the right paint would see productivity soar through the roof. The manager, transfixed by the twinkle in her eyes, promised to leave work there and then to check out the Dulux range, reassuring her that, come tomorrow, the world of reprographics would never be the same again.

For whatever reason, orange – well, ‘tangerine dream’, ‘satsuma summer’, or whatever it was actually called – had been chosen to represent reprographics, and for now it stood as a bright, slightly garish, beacon signalling the end of Jarrod’s increasingly intimidating journey.

Janine stood with her back to the door, feeding an enormous machine that looked like it could photocopy an entire tree, let alone a few select pages, expertly aligning the salmon-coloured paper with a deftness of touch that made it appear as if she cared for the condition of every sheet.

Jarrod’s well-rehearsed ‘hi Janine’ was initially lost in the slam of the paper-refill drawer, as it crunched satisfyingly back into place, and so he found his voice quivering slightly as he echoed the words, less assured second time around, whilst her dark blue v-neck top swung into view, a beaded necklace tempting the eyes to gaze beneath the warm smile she wore on her slightly-flustered face.

‘Oh. Hi.’

‘Hi Janine.’ The best things came in threes. The pattern of three, the power of three, the list of three. It was an impeccable persuasive technique.

‘Jarrod, isn’t it? From the...canteen, the other day?’

‘That’s right. We met over a bagel.’ He winced inside, feeling the tuna afresh, as his throat became unbearably overwhelmed by the urge to hiccup, burp or worse.

Her brief laugh brought welcome relief.

‘That’s right. So we did.’ It sounded like a distant memory, rather than an instant recall of the events of 24 hours earlier, as if she had already worked hard to confine the few moments they spent together to the distant recesses of her mind. ‘Well, it’s...good to see you again. Can I...can I help you with any photocopying or anything? Or perhaps you need a pen or a stapler, or something like that? I look after the stationery too.’

Reprographics and stationery. She was, indeed, multi-talented.

‘I’ve been asked to photocopy this for Gareth,’ he lied, passing the fake table of names and addresses into her innocent, outstretched fingers. He was making her an unwitting accomplice in his crime, an accessory to fraud.

‘Gareth?’

‘Yeah. Gareth...Jones.’ It would do. It was a perfectly believable pairing. She would surely never make the leap from Gareth to Gavin; he had decided, to his surprise, that it was important to secure the alibi further by using a different name so that the story could never find its way back to Gavin himself and so fall apart at its otherwise impeccable seams.

‘I don’t think I know him. What area’s he in?’

‘Well, to be honest,’ Jarrod began, welcoming himself back into the realm of truthfulness, ‘he spends most of his time smoking, so I’d guess he’s in outdoor recreation, or something like that’.

A giggle, perhaps even a chuckle, bounced around her cheeks, as her hands moved into auto-pilot, feeding the fake document into the machine in an act of fraudulent innocence. Shaking her head, she commented that it was surely unfair that ‘the smokers’, as she called them, effectively gained hours of free time every week by taking their little cigarette breaks, insisting that ‘us non-smokers’, including Jarrod with a quick nod in his direction, should make a stand and take ‘fresh air breaks’ every time they ducked out for a quick fix. Jarrod nodded intently throughout, his eyes following the journey of his fake table as it became unexpectedly reproduced on A3 salmon-coloured paper, each made-up name and address blown out of proportion not once but twenty-two times, as a frantic Janine pressed the ‘cancel’ button until the machine finally yielded and settled for only producing twenty-one more copies than originally requested.

‘That’s OK. Don’t worry about it,’ Jarrod insisted, as Janine cradled the pile in both hands. ‘It means that more of us can do the speed test at the same time now. It’s great. Gareth will be pleased.’

It seemed ever more likely that the test would have to happen now. One piece of white A4 paper could be carefully concealed in a pocket but with this pile it would be like bringing back a hamper of deceit – and no doubt an unwanted dent in the well-scrutinised budget – to be shared with the whole team, an act he could perhaps blame on a ‘moment of inspiration’ as Gareth’s – well, Gavin’s - nicotine-stained fingers grasped the test, demanding an immediate explanation. He would have to stick to the story he gave Janine and hope that Gavin’s thirst for competition was as great as his appeared to be. For a former eleven-year-old expert on Touch Typist Pro, the test would, of course, not be a problem for him, but it was with some sadness that he would observe the look of panic that would spread across Neil’s blemished face and the horror that would be seen in Pam’s rapid brushing of her hair. In one swift lie he would be contributing to the national statistics for unemployment levels. Before that moment, he knew, unemployment levels stood below three million. Neil and Pam would bring the unwanted rise in that statistic before the whole nation, as the evening news signalled the latest evidence of the failures of government to get people ‘off the streets and into jobs’. With an election looming, one fraudulent piece of A3 salmon-coloured paper could prove to be the final nail in the Prime Minister’s coffin. He, Jarrod Bowman, would be bringing down the country’s government, and all for a glimpse of the dark blue v-neck top that continued to occupy his eyes as Janine’s wearying arms held out the documents that would change the course of the nation.

‘Jarrod? Jarrod are you going to take these?’ she demanded, her voice lifting his eyes to hers.

‘Oh. Yes. Yes, of course,’ he stammered, gliding his hands against hers as he took the papers into his arms, cradling them as he imagined one would hold a real salmon. As his feet itched to depart, he yearned to make more of the moment his long walk into political sabotage had provided and secure the possibility of a future meeting.

‘Is there anything else I can do for you while you’re here?’ she asked, perhaps sharing his desire to return to the heady days of bagel-banter and discussing Lawrence with an implied sense of supreme knowledge and understanding.

He had one opportunity to make the invitation inviting and briefly cast his eyes around the room in search of inspiration. On the table to the left lay a deluxe edition of Scrabble.

‘Would you like to come to my games club?’ he could ask. ‘We meet every Friday and play all sorts of games, like Scrabble, for instance. You’d love it, you really would. It’s nothing serious, just a bit of fun for people like you and I who love a bit of Scrabble.’

It seemed perfect, albeit for two slight flaws; not only did Jarrod not belong to a games club, thereby being unable to call upon fellow guests for their night of Scrabble mania, but he also didn’t own a single game, which made it look less like a club and more of a spontaneous panicky cry for company. It was important that true intentions were never revealed.

A further glance revealed a pile of pencils but the previous evening’s Google search of ‘things you can do with a pencil’ had been decidedly disappointing, so there was little mileage there.

And then his eyes fell on the DVD of Raging Bull propped against the over-sized hole-puncher to his right. A film night. It was perfect. Nobody could say no to a free film. He could always call it a ‘film club’ if that made it easier. There would be lots of people there, lots of food, lots of drink. What could be better? How could she not come?

‘Jarrod? Are you OK? Anything else I can do for you?’ she asked, with a hint of desperation in her voice as she beheld Jarrod’s wandering eyes.

‘Sorry. Yes, I was just, well, I was thinking about this evening. Friday evenings. Me and a few people, work colleagues mostly, we tend to get together for a bit of a film club at my place. You know the sort of thing. Watch a film, eat a bit, drink a bit, maybe chat about the film and, yeah, that sort of thing. So...anyway. It’s Friday tonight, of course, and we’re meeting as usual, so I just thought I’d mention it, just in case, you know, you fancied perhaps coming along, if you didn’t have anything else on? I mean, of course, you’re probably busy and that sort of thing, but we’ll be meeting anyway, so it’s no problem to us. Just come along if you’d like to. No worries if not. No pressure or anything. Just an option.’ His feet shuffled backwards, as his fingers began to crumple the paper.

‘Tonight? Oh. Um. Yeah, I, I think I’m free. I’m not sure really. I’ll have to check. Why don’t you, um, leave me your number, or your address, or something like that, and I’ll make it if I can?’

She found an elastic band on the desk in front of her to occupy her fingers and stretched it rapidly whilst Jarrod noted down his address in capital letters, along with his home and mobile telephone numbers, underlining his name at the top of the scrap of paper he had eagerly laid his hands upon. There would be no margin for error, no possibility for a mistaken reading of the address that led to an unfortunate scenario of him waiting patiently for his guest to arrive while in fact they headed around the city until the early hours of the morning, knocking on every other house in the area but never quite finding the right street, let alone house number 42. The words ‘opposite the pub, The Red Lion,’ found themselves scribbled at the bottom of the scrap, and for a moment Janine thought he was going to draw a map, just to make doubly sure she could find it.

His thorough approach to presenting his contact details left Janine with a distinct sense of unease. She felt suffocated by the capitalisation of the address, as if it was an imperative compelling her every thought and action, providing no escape from the path towards which he had begun to lead her. All she could offer was a faint smile as Jarrod’s sweaty fingers slid the scrap across the desk, like a disobedient child passing a note in class, getting the shy, innocent little girl into trouble for naively accepting and reading it.

‘I’ll, I’ll...see what I can do,’ she commented, politely, forcing a smile to match Jarrod’s over-eager expression.

‘Excellent! It’ll be great, it really will. We’ve got a brilliant one tonight. Just you wait. And, yeah, anytime from 8 will be fine. Yeah, yeah, around 8. That’s when we usually meet. 8. My house at 8. You’ve got the address -’

‘And I’ve got your number,’ Janine interrupted, her head nodding him back towards the door, as the distant shuffle of feet indicated a welcome interruption was imminent.

‘Yes. Yes, you do. Excellent. So...I’ll see you there. At 8. At mine. Brilliant. Well, better be getting these back to Gareth. Lots of...tests to do. Great. Well, bye. See you later,’ Jarrod hurried, reassuring himself continually that his delivery of the key information had been impeccable. There was no room for error. At eight o’clock that evening, Janine would knock on the door and he would welcome her into his world. Sweet Chilli crisps floated before his eyes; his world would need crisps, these crisps, and perhaps a mild salsa dip, whilst there would be no harm in circulating the shops in search of a special offer on cookie dough ice cream. A quality dessert at a refreshingly affordable price would be the clincher, securing her affection for ever. Perhaps he would even wear the blue shirt he saved for meals out, showing closeness in colour, as well as in taste? It was, of course, mildly possible that Janine would wear a different top from that which was no doubt drenched in the sweat of hours of heavy labour operating the photocopier but blue was at least a safe bet, whatever decision she chose to make.

He marched down the corridor, continuing to cradle the twenty-two sheets, his eyes leaping over every blemish on the faded whitewash walls that flanked his every move. If he had been fifteen-years younger, female and not carrying a pile of A3 paper, he would have skipped, as if dancing down his own yellow-brick road. The professional gait of a fellow smartly-dressed male striding past him, however, whisked Dorothy away with speed and he offered an inconspicuous cough, inadvertently drawing attention to the salmon-coloured prop that would sway the Gavin-centred drama of the scene to come.

As he slowed a little, he heard his words echoed by the smartly-dressed male who had now reached the orange door.

Hi Janine.

‘Oh, hi Roger,’ her voice rang out, compelling Jarrod’s ears to linger further.

‘Is this it?’

‘Yes, that’s it. Just come in today. Looks great.’

Jarrod’s ears longed for the clarification his eyes would bring.

‘Brilliant. Thanks Janine. We’ll play it tonight.’

We’ll? First person plurals never sounded good when used by someone else.

‘Great. Enjoy it. See you, Roger.’

Jarrod reached down towards his left shoe. Pretending to tie his laces would buy him a few precious seconds.

Roger’s well-ironed trousers swept past, raising Jarrod’s eyes towards the sturdy hands grasping the deluxe edition of Scrabble that he had so nearly allowed to sway his thinking only moments earlier. He rose to his feet and smiled, walking on at a suitable distance behind Roger’s fading figure.

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