David Hughes
The Vortex
Kate had been my rock since the breakdown two years ago. I’d be lost without her—as she pointed out at every opportunity.
She always made sure I did—or didn’t do—what was best for me. Drinking was a big one. In the summer she initiated a ‘strict two-can maximum’ after I apparently took to falling all over the kitchen and getting ‘abusive’ after a few beers.
I didn’t remember it afterwards of course, so it’s impossible for me to say just how abusive I really was, but I have my doubts. Kate’s never been one not to stick it in and break it off when it suits her purposes. I do have some recollection of lurching across the kitchen, and the sugar bowl—that German one she liked so much—breaking; but I was tired as much as I was drunk.
#
It was a couple of weeks after the sugar bowl incident that she suggested the Arabic class. "It’ll be something we can do together. We don’t seem to do anything any more. And I think you need some focus for your talents. You’re a talented guy Stevie—it’s time you had something to get your mental teeth into. Come on—it’ll be fun."
That kind of image was typical of her. The idea of mental teeth made me smile inwardly—I mean it’s an absurd image—but she didn’t have a clue she’d said anything ridiculous. My face wouldn’t have given anything away either; I gave it blank face with a guardedly optimistic smile most of the time. I know she assumed it was the medication that made me so much more lacking in expression these days—which in some ways is quite surprising. You see Kate’s a clinical psychologist. Very clever. And with as much common sense as an egg.
I gave her a buttery (well I can’t believe it’s not buttery) smile as I crunched my toast. "Good," she said, returning the smile. "I’ll get you to post the cheque later then. I’m away to work. See you." Kiss. Brisk. Very brisk. I winked at the cat, who was cleaning his bottom on the chair in the corner. I think he smiled too.
#
It felt funny to be back at White Friars. I’d come here for some sessions to try and get me back into the workforce (or something like that) last year. Oh boy, some of the specimens on those courses—surpassed only by the session leaders. Still, it had been ok actually, not too demanding; and it was us—the mentalists and the long-term unemployable—who called the shots, not them. Quite fun in a weird sort of way. Perhaps I don’t give them enough credit—I mean I do a cleaning job in the job centre two mornings a week now, and help out at the CHUMS shop Tuesday afternoons.
It’s an old building—quite impressive really, sprawling—18th century I think, with lots of staircases and storeys up half-flights of stairs that seem to be between floors. Anyway, we went up the ramp from the car park and pushed open the big wooden door. I held it for a moment just in case Zac—my ‘imaginary’ dog—was behind me (as in: "For God’s sake Stevie, I pay hundreds and hundreds of pounds to heat this house. I’m not paying it so you can keep the door open for imaginary dogs!" Slam!).
It might seem slightly eccentric—I mean he can find his own way in if he can be there in the first place, surely—but I find it reassuring. Oh, and it annoys Kate. "Come on," she snapped. "We won’t get seats together." I sighed, smiling at the dog, and let the door go.
#
Our classroom—room 20—was on the second floor, although it was more like the first-and-a-halfth floor really, up one of those half-flights I mentioned. We went up the back stairs, me slightly ahead, and through a set of double-doors. I didn’t know this part of the building, but I thought it was likely off to the right; don’t know why really, but I just had a feeling; so I started down the smaller corridor off the main one. I’d only gone a few steps when I noticed it.
Set back in a recess, there was this door—just like dozens of others in the building: big, solid, wooden, old. But a yellow sign was screwed onto this one. I only glanced at it, feeling instinctively that it meant something—and that it would be best to keep it to myself. But that glance was enough. I saw the big, gulping exclamation mark like a toad; above it the word ‘Vortex’ and below ‘Danger of Death’.
I wheeled round as Kate came up behind me. She hadn’t spotted it.
"Must be the other way," I said. We turned back onto the main drag and clacked on—past an open room where I spotted something else that made me thoughtful—to our room.
Well, what can I say about the class? Everyone was friendly enough: Badi—our Tunisian teacher with gold half-moon glasses on one of those chains popularised by Larry Grayson. He told us this was his first time teaching Arabic, and he was looking forward to it, saying ‘actually’ every second word or so; and the usual collection of overly-intelligent weirdos you get at any evening class—too much time on their hands mostly.
There was one berk I took an instant dislike to though. He said he was a "Director of People" with "contacts in the Middle East". Kate was impressed by him at least, or so I thought. It’s funny, isn’t it? I say there’s so much she doesn’t know about me, but actually I misread her sometimes too—get it completely wrong. Ah well. Too late now. Just one of those things I guess.
We didn’t do a lot; just talk about how great we were and why we wanted to learn Arabic. I didn’t particularly, so I made something up. I also said I was a cabinet minister, which brought a couple of laughs—but mostly an embarrassed, painful silence—and made Kate close her eyes tight for a second or so and mouth "Oh dear Christ!" The show-off sneered at me, then looked round to get some support from the other normalists. But they were too busy trying not to show astonishment and disbelief.
We learned the first four letters: ‘ta’, ‘tha’, ‘ba’ and ‘noon’ and how to do three or four basic greetings, then practised on each other until the break at just before eight. "Coming down?" I asked Kate.
She shook her head. "I’m going to go over my notes."
"’kay," I said. To be honest she wasn’t big on soft drinks or the stuff they did in that vending machine downstairs. Most of the rest of us sidled out. The bumboy made a point of not catching my eye. Probably afraid it would reduce his status. I knew the type only too well.
The classroom next door was still open but empty. I guess they’d already gone for their break. I hadn’t seen him, but I knew there was a good chance he’d be in that group from the look of the others. I’d look forward to seeing Tim again. We’d met when I’d been here doing my back to the real world course or whatever it was called. He was on an everlasting programme for the learning disabled.
I’d twigged he wasn’t too bad one day in the coffee bar when I saw him pulling the wool over a particularly naïve young helper and coming out a pound richer at the drinks machine. I’d been listening and watching the exchange, right amused, and pretending I wasn’t—for all the world looking at the second-hand books on display on the shelves—when I had glanced over furtively, and he’d caught my eye—a look of lucidity and cunning on his face while the helper looked intently at the machine. He’d winked and smiled for a moment before she turned to him with words carefully chosen to speak to those less fortunate than ourselves. I’d smiled too as I quickly looked back to the books.
The others in the Arabic group weren’t too bad actually. I got into a bit of a chat over the hot chocolate with a few of them. One—an old guy who said he’d started to learn Hindi last year, before they’d discontinued the class—said "You’re not really a cabinet minister are you?" He said it with a tongue-in-cheek smile, and I guessed it was the kind of thing he might have said himself in his younger, crazier days. He winked at me and the others grinned—holding out the branch.
"Not actually," I agreed, grinning sheepishly as I took it. He nodded wisely, sipping his chocolate.
"Never done any Arabic before?" he asked.
"No, complete beginner. You?" I looked round the group. A collection of nods and me toos told me they were all in the same boat. Not that anybody really gave a toss; it was just chit-chat; people feeling each other out.
I had another stop to make when I went back upstairs. Just a quick one. It was there all right—I hadn’t mistaken it for something else, although it was tucked away off the proverbial beaten track so it would be quite easy to miss; and it felt like the dust hadn’t moved much in decades up here. But the door was exactly as I’d seen it in that first glance—with the addition of the words ‘No Unauthorized Personnel’ and ‘Do Not Cover Or Remove This Sign!’—health and safety first, right. A quiet, powerful hum came from behind the door; it sounded distant somehow—as if it was coming from a long, long way away. But what the hell was it doing here?
#
"Self-important tosser!" said Kate as she rolled out of the parking space and down to the exit ramp.
"Eh?" (You can call me lots of things, but self-important—these days at least….)
"That guy—that ‘director of people’!"
"Oh him." I looked at her as she raged. "I thought you rather liked the look of him."
She looked incredulous. "No fear. He came up to me in the break and told me all about himself. What a creep!"
"Oh." I looked out of the window, smiling to myself. Dead wrong on that one. So, bummer was doing some sniffing around was he? That was interesting.
#
A couple of weeks later and the course had lost most of its first-night, bursting-at-the-seams newness. In fact we were down to 11 Arabists—from 18. Actually (you see how catching it is—you see?), we were making quite good progress—although Badi’s approach was unconventional to say the least. Also, no one was on their best behaviour any more.
Small dislikes and tensions were becoming apparent, evidenced by looks and the occasional sarky comment. Badi was looking a bit like a man who is just beginning to twig what he’s let himself in for, and doesn’t much like it. A couple of times already this evening he’d snapped "But I already told you that!" at some poor, mild-mannered old cow, who also copped for sneers from my friend.
I caught him looking at Kate too with what I can only describe as an ‘oh yes I’d do that!’ face. Lecherous little basket. Mind you, I knew what he meant. Kate was a good-looking woman: good figure; lovely long black hair straight off a conditioner commercial; and deep blue eyes. Although living with her for the last five years had taken some of the gloss off for me.
Anyway, while all that was entertaining, and actually, I was quite glad I’d come along to the classes after all, it’s not the important thing that happened that night. What was important was that I finally saw Tim. He recognised me straight off, and I shepherded him off into a side-room away from the vending machine area.
"What up, dog?"
"Yeah, okay mate. Really okay. You?"
"Still beats working." He grinned. We both did. What a swizz.
"Tim, I need you to do me a favour."
"What is it Steve?" he asked, all business.
"Have you been up to that corridor just before the back stairs on our floor?" I knew he’d spent a lot of time here, and would know the old building and its half-hidden places well.
"Nineteen and 20 you mean?"
"Yeah, yeah, that corridor where we are tonight, but off to the right…"
"Before the corridor proper," he pre-empted, nodding. "Yeah."
"What’s that door in the nook with ‘Vortex’ on the warning sign?"
He shrugged, but he knew where I meant. "Search me mate."
"’kay." I sucked on my lower lip, thoughtful. "I need you to do me a favour…"
And I told him, point by point. When I’d finished he was grinning and shaking his head. "You up for it?"
"You know, anybody else would have asked me if I thought I could do it—or more likely just assumed I couldn’t. That’s what I like about you Steve." He meant it too.
"Yeah. I reckon I can do that."
Then we heard a well-meaning voice nearby. "Where’s Tim got to?" and then, louder, "Tim? Tim? Time to get back."
"Better go. We’re doing bullying role-play. It’s great. You’ll drop the stuff off in the week will you?" he said, adjusting his old, treasured San Diego Padres cap.
"Yeah." I smiled. There wasn’t any more to say for now. He composed his face into one that was instantly recognisable as a guy in his twenties with learning disabilities.
"Hasta luego," he said.
"Vaya con Dios," I agreed.
#
The plan swung into effect the week after—early November. I’d done the signs on an unlocked computer in the office where I clean, printed them off and wiped the file; making sure I got rid of it from the recycle bin as well. Belt and braces—I’ve always been like that. Tim would put them up; one outside our normal class saying ‘Beginners’ Arabic—Room 18’ with an arrow pointing to the end of the corridor and round; and the other outside the door to the vortex; this one saying ‘Room 18—please go in. Badi’. We’d both checked carefully, and for some reason, there was no room 18 anywhere in the college. In any case, the arrow could only lead to one place.
I’d very, very gingerly tried the door, and—I have to say to my relief—confirmed it was locked. They obviously didn’t want anyone blundering into the vortex by mistake. So, we needed the key. I got Tim, who was there most days, to snoop around for it. It was beautiful, because at every stage, even if he was discovered—going through a key rack in a closed area, or hanging around somewhere he really wasn’t supposed to be—well, what the hell do people expect of the learning disabled? It’s the perfect cover, as he’d once told me thoughtfully. Not that he didn’t have learning disabilities, but it’s a bit of a catch-all title; people have so little clue they expect them all to be half daft—at least half daft, and incapable.
Sure enough, when I went in at lunchtime a couple of days after our conversation to give him the signs, he said "Got it."
"Just hanging up was it?"
"Yeah. Under utility cupboards. Had to try a couple, but here it is." He showed me an ordinary dull silvery mortise key with a long barrel—old fashioned, but then it was a very old building, as I’ve said before.
"Well, Tim, I hope you signed it out in the proper manner."
"Piss off," he grinned, slurping his coke. I grinned too, I must say. A shaft of hazy sunlight washed in through the old french doors at the back of the lounge just then; that old building smell of wood, polish and dust welled up in the warmth and light, surrounding us with the strength of memory. We both thought our own thoughts for a minute or two.
"Know what you need to do on Tuesday?"
"Clear as a bell."
"Cheers Timmy."
"Only don’t call me Timmy."
"Sorry Timmy."
"Twat." He shook his head sadly, but he was still grinning, tongue slightly between his front teeth.
#
We rode into town the following Tuesday, Kate driving. The streets were slick and black from rain earlier with more threatening from low, wet clouds. Explosions and lights drifted away in the sky a couple of times as we got into town. She was quite quiet I thought; she’d told me to "For Christ’s sake get a move on Stevie, we’re going to be late!" at about quarter-past six, but the snippiness was almost perfunctory; so much so I’d asked her if she felt all right. "Fine!" she snapped, giving me a disbelieving and somehow contemptuous look as we climbed aboard. Women—I thought—can’t live with them…and chuckled to myself. I was in a quietly excited state; a child who’s got something naughty lined up.
I’d arranged for her to drop me off early at the Odd Man Out, saying I had to give a CV to a friend of mine who works in publishing. The friend does work in publishing, and I did have a CV in the manila envelope, but that was just for verisimilitude (big word: tiny brain). My real intention was to be late for the class. It had made me smile when she’d told me to hurry up and all because I’d engineered the whole thing so she’d be the first one there—nearly half an hour early.
She offered her cheek for a little peck with a hard-done-to, long-suffering expression (how do they do it?) and I said I’d see her in a little while. Then she’d driven off impatiently. I smiled to myself, giving a little wave. Oh I’d miss her in some ways; I truly would. Time for just a pint or two of something tasty.
It was about an hour after that, and a pleasant chat with Pete and John, that I walked through the front door of White Friars. I didn’t make a song-and-dance but I made sure they clocked me from the office. I held the door for Zac and we trotted through the lobby and up the creaky wooden stairs to our floor.
The classroom was shut up and dark, contrasting with the quiet buzz from the two IT suites you pass if you go in that way. No signs on it either. I walked past—down to the end—threw a glance down the half-corridor—empty, and walked down, past the recess. Back to normal on the door: warning signs only, and shut.
I tooled down to the end—a dead end—and back. Ever so carefully I tried the door. Locked. I smiled, ear close, hearing that intense low hum far behind. Well, either nothing had happened, or it had all happened.
I went down the back stairs and round to the coffee bar, prepared to look surprised if and when I met any of the others. I genuinely was surprised when I rounded the corner and saw Kate sitting there with a handful of them—the hard core, minus Captain Superior. Luckily, their thought, and hers, was that I was surprised because they were all miffling about here. They would assume I’d been upstairs and discovered—like they had—that there was nothing doing.
"No class?" I said.
"No," said Sylvie—a retired nurse—a grim, annoyed look on her face. "Badi hasn’t shown up." Her tone—although apparently sympathetic—didn’t bode well for Badi.
"Oh," I said, the picture of mild surprise and disappointment. Ron spoke darkly of Badi throwing in the towel, and that seemed to be the general consensus. He probably hadn’t known what he was taking on—poor little guy. They’d been to the office, but they hadn’t known any more; and couldn’t raise Badi on the number he’d given them.
Everyone drifted off a few minutes later. On the way to the car I asked Kate if she’d been waiting all that time, fully expecting to get my teeth punched in; but she’d be expecting me to ask, that was the key thing. Until I worked out what had gone on I needed to play it cool.
"No actually," she smiled. " I met Heather who was on my PhD course, and we went to the coffee bar for a chat."
"Did you find something to your taste?"
She smiled warmly. "Well, the green tea isn’t too bad. Did you have a nice time at the Odd Man Out?" Pleasant conversation; a genuine, warm interest in what I was doing? Now I really was surprised. I exchanged a look with Zac as she slotted her new CD into the player—a compilation of middle-eastern music called Belly apparently. It burst out in sweet discordant noise and she started the engine.
#
When I spoke to Tim next day—after turning it over overnight—it was essentially how I thought it must have been.
"I’d just fixed the signs, when the little guy—your tutor I think—came round the corner. I tried to stop him, but he was muttering to himself, looking pretty angry. He just went straight up to the door in a flash, read the sign, swore and opened it, and…that was it." I shook my head.
"Then, a second or two later, the other guy appeared—a pompous-looking bloke in a suit." I knew just who he meant. "I was still in shock, but I shouted ‘No!’ just as he got to the door with his hand out, nearly on the handle."
" ‘What do you mean no!?’ he said—in a sneery sort of way—and he went to open it. So I threw myself on him and grabbed his arms, and he started screaming ‘Get off! Do you know who I am!? Get off me you - spastic!’ He was hysterical." Tim shook his head as if he could hardly believe it all.
"A lovely man," I agreed.
"Then he shook me off; I landed right on my back against the opposite wall—and it winded me. He was mad with fury, screaming 'You lunatic—your sort should be locked up! Touch me again and I’ll make it happen.’"
"And he opened the door and went in. I couldn’t stop him. Mind you, he was a prick." He chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I’m sorry about the first guy though."
"Don’t worry," I said. "I don’t think he was going to be here much longer anyway."
So complete chance had meant Kate avoided the vortex while the two others stepped into it. I must say it had never occurred to me she wouldn’t be the first up there—I mean she would have been almost half an hour early, and knowing what she’s like… I felt a bit bad for Badi too—poor little guy. Still, can’t dwell on it. Sometimes, in war, innocent people get hurt.
I wondered how the world of people directors would absorb the loss of our friend—a great and tragic one to be sure.
#
I finished off my can—my third, although Kate hadn’t seemed to notice before she went up to bed a little while ago—and patted Zac who was sitting up on the blue rug and looking for all the world as if he was watching TV. If he was it was more than me. Newsnight was on low in the background—the usual article on the interminable war in the Middle East. The cats were settled in for the night too.
Looking at the set in an absent-minded sort of way, I suddenly did a double-take: just in the near-background of a market—in the Occupied Territories I think—was a confused-looking man, unshaven, a pair of glasses on a chain around his neck. But what made me pay attention was how much like Badi he looked. Then the camera moved off him. I watched to the end of the piece, but no further sightings. Of course, it could just have been some guy who looked a lot like him—I mean I have had him on my mind a bit since the incident. But it’s certainly a small world.
#
The letters from White Friars came first class on Friday morning. It was Kate’s Challenging Children group in the village so we were a bit later with breakfast:
‘Reference Beginners’ Arabic Class NA1043—Dear Mr Hughes,’ (mine read) ‘I am sorry to have to inform you that we have not been able to trace your tutor following the unexpected cancellation of the class on Tuesday evening. Therefore, until further notice, we have no option but to suspend the classes until we are able either to trace your tutor, or appoint a suitably-qualified replacement.’
"Suitably qualified!" Kate scoffed.
"Badi was well qualified," I said.
"At something maybe—not at teaching a foreign language to beginners."
"No, that’s true," I agreed.
I waved Kate off thoughtfully about nine. I’d also had a package in the post that morning; and although I hadn’t opened it yet, I had a pretty good idea what it was; a brown envelope about 8 inches long and half as wide, bound up securely with parcel tape. There was no way this bugger was coming open accidentally.
I waited for Kate’s car to start up and move off; then picked up the letter opener we’d got in Porto and slit the top of the envelope, sliding the contents out onto the table.
And there it was: a long-handled mortise key in dull, silvery metal.