Accidental Crime - 26

Jarrod

Jarrod was surprised to discover that neither the window nor the door were open; as he read the words ‘Good-night, my friend. Come again soon’, bringing the story to a close for the third time, he felt a third consecutive chill, a sensual reaction accompanying the glazed wonder that numbed his thoughts.

He checked the time. 12.15. The clock was surely wrong, as his assertion that the six pages could be read three times before 11.30 was being mercilessly mocked by the second hand that was undoubtedly speeding by, most likely as the result of a faulty battery or something equally explicable. As he cast his eyes towards the seat to his right, he half-expected her to be there, her smile evaporating as he doubted her presence, the emptiness returning to the room as the thud of the metal flap of the letterbox slamming back into place signalled the arrival of an unwanted take-away menu. Although there was no-one to speak to, it still felt as if he were momentarily unable to communicate and, had somebody appeared at the door offering him a Hobnob and a nice cup of tea, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to offer more than a cursory glance in their direction, perhaps supported by a nod, as he longed to linger further in the haunting solitude she had set upon him.

What troubled him the most was not the confusing figure of the man holding violets, nor the splattering of French, but the idea – so simple and so profound – that the ‘secret selves’ of the characters communicated that which they could not and, at times, would dare not speak, as if each could read the other’s most intimate thoughts and intentions, without ever needing to resort to the revelation of actual speech. More than that, the secret selves would whisper, as if worried that they might be overheard, their secret words perhaps spilling over into audible declarations that would destroy what they had been so careful to maintain by resisting saying what they so longed to say.

Jarrod needed a coffee. His mug had been cruelly forgotten and only a microwave could come to its rescue now.

There would, he realised, be some difficulty in explaining to Dawn what ‘the book’, as she would call it, was about and it would probably be safest to mutter something about identity, consciousness and character, observing her polite nods as she sought to shift topic. And yet, perhaps Mansfield was right and Dawn’s secret self would be whispering throughout, ‘you don’t have to pretend, I want to know you for what you really are’, whilst he did everything he could to clasp a hand over his secret self, wary of what it might reveal should he permit it any freedom to express itself.

He sniffed and turned Mansfield over, laying her out on the table so that her spine was raised like a tight-rope, the divided pages fanned either side. He headed to the safety of the bathroom, quickly glancing towards the front door to confirm the presence of the menu lying on the mat beneath.

As he rested his hand on the bathroom’s door-knob, the phone rang. His mobile was lodged in his pocket but it was the landline that was demanding his attention at such an awkward moment, especially since Dawn’s resistance to his plea to finally acquire a wireless handset had made the possibility of continuing with his trip to the toilet whilst nonchalantly chatting away on the ‘phone completely redundant. Unless he could master not only long-distance but round-the-corner-and-up-the-stairs aiming, he would be forced to hold it in until he could be rid of the person who had unknowingly put him in this position.

The ring continued, seemingly increasing in intensity, as if growing irritated at the lack of response. Forget ‘secret selves’, the public Jarrod was quite happy to make it clear that anything other than a book deal, a birth, a death, an unexpected job offer or a proposal from his future wife would be met with short shrift and would mark, once and for all, the last time he ever answered a landline.

‘Hello?’ he sang into the handset, slightly overdoing his intended pleasantries.

‘Jarrod?’ the voice asked in an assertive tone, ‘is that you? Yeah, it’s me here.’

He could hear her wince in disappointment, a disappointment he shared alongside a surprising hint of optimism that he struggled to fully understand given the piercing pain  building within his overworked bladder.

‘Dawn? Dawn are you all right, you sound a little out of breath?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Listen, I’m glad you’re home. I need you to do something for me. Something big.’

His eyes looked through the ceiling to the toilet above. Why couldn’t some salesman have rung today? This felt like it was going to be too important for a man with an aching bladder to listen to. Perhaps he could ask her to call back in two minutes, making a fake knock sound against the stool to suggest there was someone at the door?

‘Jarrod? Jarrod are you there?’ she persisted, growing in agitation by the second.

‘Yeah, yeah, sorry. I was just, never-mind.’ It was pointless resisting. Isn’t pleasure supposed to follow pain? He might as well endure a little longer. ‘So, what is it? What do you need me to do?’

‘It’s Nigel,’ she began, assuming far more understanding than Jarrod possessed, ‘I need you to stop him, before it’s too late.’

He knew it. Nigel Time! was indeed something to be feared, the exclamation mark a danger warning that he hadn’t taken seriously enough, and now he was being set to work to fix what he should have stopped a long time ago. But, what exactly did it mean to put a ‘stop’ to him? Surely she knew his opinions on murder?

‘Dawn, are you OK? What’s he done to you?’

‘Oh, no, no, no. It’s nothing like that. He’s done nothing to me yet. Not if we can stop him in time. Not if you can stop him.’

Jarrod’s favourite line from Flash Gordon echoed in his mind: Flash, Flash, I love you, but we only have fourteen hours to save the earth! It occurred to him that you never saw heroes need the toilet, a long drawn-out scene of Flash excreting last night’s curry, as the fourteen hours ticked by, waiting for him to finally be ready to respond and save the day, and it seemed like it would now too be wrong for him to put his bladder first, even once the phone call had ended, if it meant a delay in his heroic rescue.

‘What is it, exactly, that you need me to do?’ he asked, with forced calmness and poise, perhaps even a hint of Clark Kent in his tone. He would make sure that his voice sounded prepared, even if no other part of him would be.

‘I need you to find and get to a patent office, as quickly as possible,’ she responded, each word clearly enunciated to ensure that no misunderstanding could creep in.

‘A patent office?’

Superman hung his costume back up in the phone box.

‘A patent office, yes,’ she repeated, as if there were nothing remotely odd about the request. Jarrod puffed out his cheeks and looked longingly up the stairs.

‘I thought you said this was an emergency?’

‘It is...sort of,’ she replied, beginning a little to doubt for the first time whether the call had been a good idea.

‘So what is it then? What exactly am I supposed to be putting a stop to?’

He noticed that his left hand was now clutching the bulge in his trousers.

‘Look, do you remember this morning I was working on an idea in the kitchen?’

‘The sandwich thing?’ he interrupted, pleased that he was able to show he had been paying attention.

‘Um, yeah, the sandwich thing. Well, anyway, the idea I had was good. Great, in fact. So great that I think, no, I know, that Nigel is going to claim it for himself unless I can get in there first, unless we can get to a patent office before him, register the idea and make sure that Munch makes me the fortune, not him. Do you see what I mean? This is big, really big, and I need you now.’

Silence stood between them for a few seconds before Jarrod finally spoke.

‘This is crazy.’

‘I know it sounds a bit insane but I’m serious. This is big, I know it is.’

 ‘Do you realise what you interrupted me doing?’ he responded, his eyes lowering to rest on the ever-tightening clasp of his left hand.

He could hear her shudder, her mind clearly reaching a different conclusion to that which he was intending to direct her towards.

‘Look, I’m sorry to have to put this on you but I really need you to do something for me for a change. If I could do it myself I would. Do you think I want to involve you in this?’

It was like Batman being told that he’d only been called because Spider-Man was busy.

‘I just don’t see why it’s so urgent anyway. I mean, do you really think this Nigel character is going to steal your idea?

He immediately despised himself for using the words ‘Nigel character’.

‘To be honest, I don’t know. How could I? It’s not like he’s going to come and tell me he’s about to steal my idea. But you should have seen the look in his eyes when he heard about Munch. You should have seen the way he twitched in his seat, like he couldn’t wait to claim the glory the moment my back was turned.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Has he gone off to change the world while you talk to me?’

Jarrod detected the sound of shuffling feet.

‘Oh no.’

‘Don’t tell me, he’s holding an over-sized cheque and shaking the Queen’s hand?’

‘Worse. He’s getting in his car. Jarrod, you have to stop him.’

‘What do you expect me to do, steal his keys?’

‘It’ll take him at least thirty minutes to get into town, probably more like 40 or 50 given the traffic. You need to get there before him, to hold him up before I can get there. Simple.’

‘Simple? There’s nothing simple about this.’

‘Look,’ she began, launching into the kind of impossible-to-ignore speech that made Munch such a tantalising proposition in the first place, ‘I need you to do to this for me. You’re the only one I can call upon, the only one I can trust to get this right. I know we still barely know each other and I know this all sounds crazy but it’s just something I need to do and you’re the only one who can help me. This could be my lucky break. Could you really live with yourself if you stopped it happening?’

She had pulled out the big guns and Jarrod knew it. Not only had she made it abundantly clear that there was obviously no-one else in the entire world that could help her in her moment of crisis – and this was undoubtedly a crisis of some sort – but she had also implied that his failure to act would make every subsequent failure in her life his fault, providing the perfect moment of regret to haunt him forever.

‘Are you sure there’s even a patent office anywhere around here? I’ve never seen one.’

‘It’s not like you’d have been looking for one before, is it? There must be one somewhere. Why would he have taken off so quickly if there wasn’t one?’

The absence of logic in Dawn’s latest protest didn’t fail to escape Jarrod but there was something endearing about her desperation and he was beginning to see that, while Dawn might well be asking him to stop Nigel getting to the patent office, her secret self was perhaps inviting him to prove something to her, to delve deep into his soul in search of feelings that would compel him to act even though all reason led him up the stairs, into the bathroom and back to Mansfield. It wasn’t quite the twelve labours of Hercules but maybe, just maybe, this was an unspoken challenge that would determine so much of what lay ahead.

‘I can’t promise anything,’ he began, content to provide low-expectations, ‘but I’ll do everything I can to find this place and to get there before him.’

‘Oh, thank you Jarrod, thank you so much. You won’t regret this,’ she joyfully, albeit a little breathlessly, responded.

‘But,’ he interrupted, ‘what exactly do you want me to do if I do find him or if I get there first?’

‘You’ll think of something. I have complete faith in you.’ He was sure she didn’t but he was also sure that she had little choice other than to throw her full confidence behind him, no doubt all too aware that he would happily seek an excuse to end the plan right there.

‘Hmm,’ he responded, ‘well, just don’t be too long. I’ll text you the address when I find it out. Just get in your car and get moving. If you’re right about him then he’ll be about ten minutes ahead of you by the time you’re heading in the right direction.’

It was strange, Jarrod felt, to now be giving the instructions, as if this was his plan all along but then again he could never remember Superman asking Lois Lane what she thought he should do. The feminist in him was outraged.

‘I’ve just got to sort out my alibi for this afternoon and then I’ll be on my way,’ she whispered, as if planning a robbery or a casual murder, and went to hang up before adding, ‘oh, and Jarrod? I’ll...I’ll never forget this. I really mean it. This really could be the start of something big.’

The urge to seek clarification as to exactly what it was that this was starting left Jarrod struggling to form the words Dawn needed him to say to bring a swift and suitable conclusion to the unexpected ‘phone call. He became unbearably aware of the dull ache spreading viciously throughout his bladder; it was surely only moments from rupturing and the ‘phone call and the entire Nigel-thwarting plan would be rendered entirely pointless.

‘So, um, yeah, I’ll, I’ll look it up now. I...I won’t let you down,’ he insisted, his voice barely concealing the ache. It seemed foolish to make such a rash promise but this didn’t seem to be the moment for crushing realism.

‘Great!’ she shout-whispered, clearly equally as keen to finish the call, ‘I’ll see you soon!’

The receiver clicked into place and she was gone. Despite his pressing need to leap up the stairs, Jarrod remained still for a few moments, slowly lowering the ‘phone back into position. Part of him resented the way in which she had assumed that he was completely free to do whatever she asked of him, as if his time had not been apportioned to any other worthwhile task now that he had absented himself from the world of work. An afternoon with Mansfield had been brought to a swift end by a call from another woman; it was hard not to feel just the slightest bit ashamed.

The clutch of his left hand tightened further. There would be plenty of time to think things over while his bladder emptied. His legs carried him up the stairs – at least two at a time – and into the bathroom, flinging the door behind him as if to block off any possible further distraction, the lock sliding rapidly into place. 

As the surprisingly-clear liquid pounded into the porcelain bowl below, Jarrod’s thoughts turned to an invention he had failed to patent many years back: a mini-iron that would seamlessly – pun definitely intended – remove creases from paper and card. Back in pre-Google days, he had never managed to discover whether such an item existed and the thought occurred that, should he in fact find a patent office that afternoon, perhaps he could make a cheeky bid of his own, just in case. He probably had a maximum of an hour to work out the engineering and design of such an award-winning idea but it would certainly be an impressive feat of multi-tasking if he were able to become a successful inventor at exactly the same time as preventing Nigel from stopping Dawn joining him in his success.

As the warm water washed his hands – a quick squirt of liquid soap offering a token gesture towards proper cleanliness – the gaping holes in Dawn’s plan became ever clearer and he was surprised to feel his fingers tingling under the increasing heat as they hovered longer than usual under the gushing tap, his brain confidently introducing him to problem after problem that made his promise that he wouldn’t let her down seem even more foolish than it had the first time it exited his lips. When he distilled the plan down to its basics it amounted to this: find somewhere that may not exist so that you can stop someone you’ve never seen before from potentially claiming an idea you don’t know anything about as their own.

He strode with undue confidence towards his laptop. Countless programmes had implied that a few minutes tapping away at a keyboard could lead to the most miraculous discoveries. Surely he would at least be able to find out something about Nigel’s family, or tap into the patent office’s security system, or bring the city’s roads to a standstill while he ran, Will Smith style, through the streets to get there first?

The words ‘patent office’ yielded 3,630,000 results, none of which said anything as helpful in the title as Directions to your local patent office. In fact, after five minutes of skim-reading a few surprisingly dull web pages, Jarrod wasn’t entirely sure whether patent offices even existed anymore. Didn’t Einstein work in one once – he was sure he could trust Family Guy for historical accuracy – and so they must have existed at one stage? But nobody talks to each other face to face anymore, do they? Not even if they have a world changing idea like a mini-iron up their sleeve (their increasingly warm sleeve).

Even a ‘find a patent office’ refined search brought Jarrod no closer to a destination for his heroic rescue that afternoon. There was something rather odd about having to search for a location on the internet before donning your cape and flying in to save the day; it always seemed that the heroes knew where they were going and he couldn’t bring to mind any film in which they got the A to Z out, rolling down their car windows to ask a passerby if they knew the way. But perhaps this would just have to be one of those moments? If he took the bus then he could casually drop into conversation with people from all walks of life his intentions to find the mysteriously-conspicuous patent office, certain that at least somebody must be able to point him in the right direction, even if that direction was back to his laptop and the complicated online form on the government website. Besides, the mini-iron still needed a few details ironing out and this was really just all about him showing Dawn that he would put himself out for her, wasn’t it? She knew that, he was sure, and if he could only return later that afternoon with a worn-out bus ticket from his fruitless travels then –

His mobile was ringing. Dawn.

‘Hello?’

‘I’m getting in the car now. Are you in town yet?’ she asked, hopefully.

‘Um, no, not quite. Just finishing my search, sorting out the last details before the big push.’

‘Yeah?’ she responded, clearly happy for him to borrow military language in this moment of crisis, ‘well, remember to text me the address, won’t you? And get going fast. He’s got to be almost ten minutes clear of us by now.’

‘Right. Yeah. Of course. I’ll be in touch. Drive safely.’

The phone went dead. Jarrod stroked his unshaven chin.

He typed the words ‘Post Office’ into the search engine and brought up the branch locator page of the official site. She needed a postcode and he didn’t feel sufficiently fraudulent that afternoon to pluck random letters out of thin air, whilst the difference between Patent and Post, he felt, was sufficiently narrow to buy him an element of understanding later that evening when she would look at him with disappointment in her eyes, tear-stained cheeks approaching the pinkness of her blouse, spluttered words despairing that this was her ‘one big chance’. He swallowed as he thought of her crying, unusually moved by the prospect of her tears, before a pen scribbled down the postcode of a branch barely two miles – and a suitable bus journey – away.

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