Harry

By Jim Herbert

So, this is what happens when a plain chap like Harry – a history teacher and part-time art historian – walks slap-bang into turning his uncomplicated life upside down and inside out. How? He succumbs, intentionally, to super-sexy Anne, a walking, purring portrait of a woman he meets at an art exhibition.

But what follows is far from intentional. It is far beyond his history books and classroom of vacant-faced pupils. It is the seedy world of art smuggling and forgery, of his very own Catherine, Anne, Jane, Anna, Katherine and Catherine. With a first-class ticket in his hand, and in possession of a suitcase concealing a stolen Matisse, Harry is forced to admit that his life is, in fact, officially, ‘off the rails’ . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Herbert
• Release date: Apr 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916091412

Book preview

PART ONE

ONE

One eye involuntarily reacted to the dawn, springing open for a second before being re-secured by Harry’s first conscious act of a new day and a very new life.

He lay on his side facing an unfamiliar window. Although unfamiliar it was by no means unusual; a typical Edwardian sash parenthesised by draped fabrics which, together, framed a brightening sun. It was this first semiconscious recognition of his surroundings that released his recollections of the previous night. In the time taken to snap shut an eye, Harry had recalled the basic milestones of his adventures of the last twenty-four hours. It would take far more effort to plan what lay ahead.

Harry Fox was a regular thirty-four-year-old male of the now three-year-old twenty-first century. There were eccentricities, of course, but generally these were suppressed by the need to appear to be on the rails . . . and this was clearly not an on-the-rails place to be. Harry’s suppressed curiosity had crashed his train squarely into new experiences; a new world where the tracks could lead in any direction without control, planning, or even consent. His senses tingled with the anticipation of the unanticipated.

Until this point, he had engaged only in a spot of window shopping; harmless fun, cruising false marble stairs and riding aluminium escalators secretly hunting for a glimpse of excitement in a nubile passer-by. Occasionally this almost subconscious search would be rewarded by brief eye contact or the brush of an arm. Maybe it was this familiarity with the cursory flirt that had led him into a conversation with the unfamiliar woman who was now lying next to him.

What would she now look like with make-up smeared around her eyes and the alcoholic blur removed from his? And in reality, was his exit strategy anything like as important as his re-entry strategy when he got home? Did it really matter what she looked like compared to how he should feel? And why was it that the feeling, far from being one of regret and trepidation, tantalised his mind in a combined apprehension and excitement for the future?

Harry redirected his random thoughts away from the tangents and focused them on the problem to hand. Time to get the regulations back in place, he told himself, time for a dignified exit. He slowly rolled over with the precision and patience of a bomb disposal expert. Confident that she would not be disturbed, he held his breath as his limbs drifted out from under the thin sheets. Harry’s mind skipped to a grateful recognition that the summer morning would aid his escape. Thin covers were more easily removed, and the early morning light both illuminated his escape and ensured that he had woken early enough for plausible excuses to be offered at home.

Again, his mental drift had stolen him from his real purpose and he clumsily nudged a glass of water perched precariously by the side of the bed. It rocked and teetered as he grabbed it.

‘Bugger.’ Harry could not fully suppress the half-strangled expletive as he just managed to stop the water from spilling.

‘What?’ The voice came from the doorway, rather than the other half of the bed.

He turned to face the single word.

It was fair to say that the escape was not of the Houdini quality that Harry had expected of himself. The efficacy of his escape technique suddenly, however, mattered less than the impact of the image that confronted his eyes. Before him stood a most beautiful, sexy and dangerous woman. More beautiful than his unfocused eye and alcohol-infused head remembered; more sexy than his bedraggled state justified; and more dangerous in her obvious temptations than his racing imagination could yet comprehend. These realisations applied despite the tray of orange juice and croissants which preceded her into the room.

‘Hi, you’re awake.’

The words seemed to float towards him with Svengali properties which caressed the thin summer sheet back over his torso. Subconsciously assuming a comfortable body language, which lied eloquently on his behalf, he returned the greeting. ‘Hello. Breakfast?’

The inadequacy of the language, or more his inability to manipulate it, seemed to rattle in his throat as he began a reevaluation of the circumstances.

The woman who now filled his sight and senses exuded the feminine power of which women claim they are oblivious but that they are nevertheless expert at exploiting. Long dark hair, with just a hint of sleep curling the ends, framed a Mediterranean complexion formed into a long, oval face which would have made the definitive Modigliani portrait. At the centre of the image was a pair of intense, diamond-black eyes which both threatened and captivated the prey in their sights. The head was supported upon a narrow, almost fragile neck which flowed into a delta of fine, deeply coloured flesh and, in turn, grew into strong shoulders and firm breasts, obvious and inviting in a cream silk fabric wrapping.

All thoughts of escape were now extinguished, and Harry prayed that his fervour could be quelled with equal finality. He lay back against the heavily padded leather-covered headboard and manoeuvred his hands above his head in a deepening bluff of confident composure.

The temptress moved further into the room, encouraged by the relaxation he exhibited. She smiled; a smile that painted the facts into a vivid landscape, a picture of divinity, desire and domination: she knew she’d captured him from the first hello.

TWO

Two hours later Harry was in the street. He had descended two flights of stairs and made his way out into a maelstrom of early morning traffic and shop-browsing middle-aged women who, although possessing the same basic format as his erstwhile hostess, emitted an entirely different aura.

Three problems now preoccupied Harry’s racing mind. How would he explain his nocturnal absence? How would he find out where the hell he was? And finally, how would he negotiate the trip home to face the pointed inquisition of his genuinely beloved wife?

Harry felt conspicuous, as if all of the street’s activities were somehow responding to his own gravitational pull. Every hint of eye contact seemed to insinuate knowledge of his infidelity; every shout seemed to proclaim his guilt. He decided to walk rather than stand drawing judgement from the anonymous jury. The time was just after 8.30am. Familiar drifts of coffee vapour and diesel fumes replaced her perfume, but still left him feeling isolated from the world around him. Landmarks and signage which would normally provide clues to help him divine his location seemed to have no register in his mind with which to compare. Coffee shops and flats merged with charity shops, which in turn blended into bars as he progressed without focus through the emerging bustle of a normal Saturday morning. Harry realised, of course, that this was no normal Saturday for him, and that mental agility and physical credibility would be at a premium if he were to hope to retain any semblance of normality in the future. It was still early. He had time. Time to think. The smell of coffee tempted him into a small branded café, thinking time and the potential to clarify excuses and actions would be an investment.

He was accompanied to a table in the darkest corner of the café by a large black coffee. The early hour guaranteed a peak time gathering which, in one sense increased the anonymity of the place but, in another, emphasised the proximity of human scrutiny. He manoeuvred past two chairs which seemed to have been positioned to prevent easy access to the corner table which he had selected. One of the chairs was pushed tight under another table which abutted a concrete pillar painted with climbing ivy; the other was equally secured, but this time it was pinned by a generous overhang of flesh which flowed around it like a human valance, and despite the best efforts of the seated customer, the chair would only rock forward a few inches. Harry challenged his stomach, squeezed through the space provided, and readjusted himself into the available corner space.

He took off the light denim jacket that he had worn to emphasise what youthful rebellion still resided in his moderated personality. From the top pocket, he extracted a small pen, like the ones you get in betting shops. Harry being Harry, however, this particular pen was from Argos. The other chest pocket produced a blue square of snooker chalk and a bus ticket.

‘Jeepers, when was the last time I wore this jacket?’ Harry more breathed than said the words. In reality, he should have added the question, ‘And why the hell am I wearing it now?’ Next, a survey of the side pockets produced a packet of Wrigley’s Extra, a small round tin of Menthol Snuff (which had inexplicably been carried around since his teen years), a petrol receipt, and the wrinkled invitation that had taken him into the opening of the exhibition the night before. Writing materials secured, he inscribed the first note of his recovery plan: Evidence and excuses.

He checked his clothing for any signs of the woman; an errant long brown hair would potentially evidence his guilt. The inspection continued. His shirt, although more creased than seemed appropriate, bore no obvious rips or marks, and the cliché of lipstick on the collar was not in evidence.

The jeans (slightly darker than the jacket) had evidence of spilt beer. Suggestions of a boisterous night were, however, consistent with the purpose of his excuse: I stayed out for a few drinks after the exhibition. I had not seen a couple of the guys for ages . . . you know how it is. Well, you know Rob was there. I guess we slipped into the old student habits . . .

Clothes inspection completed. Body? His wife was not Quincey, so he could probably wash off any evidence which was not completely obvious to the naked eye. A cursory mirror-check should clear his concerns for the slim chance of adolescent signs such as love bites. But did she scratch? Harry’s brain slipped through its automatic gearbox to the P for Panic. How could he check his back, his arms? Maybe even his neck could be marked? Pathetically, he swung his head from side to side trying to peer down between shirt collar and shoulder blade. He pulled his slip of paper towards him, the words Clothes shop were added to the fledgling list.

A further hit of caffeine reinforced his concentration. As this calmer mood reassured him he instantly added two more items to the list. Resolve / water were scribbled in partnership as his headache suddenly cut into play. It was, he reasoned, best to replace hangover symptoms with a clear head, even if he would later need to feign the ailment to reinforce the story.

Physical checks completed, or allowed for, the second half of the colossal coffee mug would be dedicated to plausible stories. Patting his shirt pockets, he identified the crumpled remains of a packet of cigarettes. This was a habit that had been largely controlled but which re-emerged occasionally when fuelled by alcohol and peer pressure. Right now, tobacco and caffeine seemed like a good refuge, and lighting a now sickle-shaped cheroot calmed him again. The first puff, however, induced a deep cough which strained his throat, chest and eyes, attracting unwanted attention from the gathered clientele. No problem. The second inhalation restored him to a state of fuzziness consistent with his current circumstances.

A line was drawn across his improvised reference pad and the pen poised as if the act itself would inspire a solution to his predicament. How would he approach this? Nineteen years of partnership, of history and, potentially, he hoped, far more years in the future were the gamble. He had no reference point for the discussion and no knowledge of how intuition on Catherine’s part would affect his story.

The first and simplest option was to tell the truth. But although this seemed a positive approach demonstrating depth of character and honesty, it mixed less positively with dishonour and naivety. It would be the option of the brave and courageous; the action of a real man. After all, the crime was now committed . . . weren’t guilty pleas supposed to generate more lenient sentences? In addition, he genuinely had no other offences to ask to be taken into account.

The positives would certainly be laudable; the consequences in parallel no doubt lamentable. Harry was not a betting man, but if he were, he would anticipate that his reward would entail a week of living in the car before he mustered the courage to tell his mother and eventually a return to his childhood bedroom would seal his punishment. He had long accepted that he was a coward. His inability to be honest was simply a re-affirmation of that weakness.

The second route would sacrifice the last vestiges of his personal morality. It was, however, a little late to concern himself with his conscience; passing the blame had always been a plausible alternative to admitting it. He even had an obvious candidate to shoulder the responsibility. His errant friend Rob had spent many nights AWOL. Nights of drifting through iniquity, of cruising the territory where masculine legends were constructed – or more likely imagined. Rob had always prevailed, never been seriously held to account. A potentially significant difference here, though, was that Rob, despite his thirty-three years on the planet, still lived with his sister and her husband, who possibly constituted a more lenient audience than the one that Harry would face. Still, all Harry had to do was insinuate that he had been a victim of spiked drinks or absent taxis, maybe a small friendly scuffle leading to a knock to the head. He could feel the insincerity oozing from his pores. Catherine would not require Torquemada for the subsequent inquisition; her favourite teddy would be quite able of extracting the truth. Despite Rob’s obvious potential for villainy, Harry would have to work this alone.

A third, yet more devious way would have to be created. Rather than prostrating himself with flimsy excuses, or the even flimsier truth, Harry was capable of constructing a ruse so complex that even Catherine would not be able to unravel the truth. With only a few sips of his extra-large coffee bucket remaining, he checked his watch. It was 9.15. He looked at the time piece as if the hands were somehow responsible for the passing of the minutes and the deepening of his jeopardy. Another coffee would be needed to assist in the construction of the perfect alibi.

He made sure his jacket was still draped over the back of the chair to ensure that his table was secured. Joining the queue for the counter, he stood alongside a rack of only slightly soiled newspapers. The morning press may yet be his saviour. Leafing beneath the top two rungs which supported a couple of welcoming red tops, he found his intended quarry: the local paper was placed just beneath them. It would have sufficient coverage of the tragedies of the previous night. He passed the journal under his arm and ordered a second, now half price, refill of coffee.

Returning to his safeguarded position, he pulled his jacket over his shoulders and lit a second cigarette. Steam was rising from the coffee, and he realised with a sudden jolting shock of concern that it was not, however, steaming his glasses. Bugger, where were his glasses? He did not have a major sight difficulty; but had been delighted to learn from the optician two years earlier that he had a slightly weak left eye. He had always thought that glasses would make him look more responsible; somehow provide him with the gravitas that he so often felt he lacked. Now he wished that he had avoided this false vanity. Maybe it was just a sophisticated signal from above; maybe his current predicament was a symptom of the same vanity and the absence of the glasses merely a reminder. The glasses must be with the diamond-black-eyed woman, or maybe in the gallery or the pub? No, damn it, he recalled taking them off when they got back to her flat. Jesus! He would just have to weave the loss of the glasses into the story sufficiently to ensure that he did not lose his testicles as well as his spectacles.

Harry surveyed the front page of the paper. Nothing initially leapt out to fortify his deceit. The standard content of daily gossip did little to provide inspiration. As he turned each page he sank a little deeper into both his chair and his depression. After reading the front page, he then routinely turned to the back to work through the paper. The penultimate leaf, however, provided salvation, an excuse, a reason, an explanation: a small fire, the night before, bus station, cancelations. Salvation! His handwritten list reappeared and a simple three-syllable word was added: Camouflage.

Leaving the café and most of his second coffee, Harry headed along the street – which now suddenly seemed vaguely familiar. After less than one hundred yards, he came across a small but adequately equipped newsagent from which he purchased a renewal of his cigarettes. Fuelling his old habit ferociously, Harry inhaled deeply as if reinforced by the transgression. His luck was turning, his stride lengthened, and the corners of his mouth defied the gravity of his situation as they sneaked up his face in a perverse enjoyment of his espionage. He walked under a red circular sign, which proclaimed his location: Angel. Taking the piss, Harry thought, but at least a potential escape route would now include the Tube. Despite his strong desire to descend into the station, he continued past the sign.

He was not a keen shopper, but he hoped his retro denim look would pass as conscious fashion rather than subconscious nostalgia as he walked into the trendy boutique. This was the sort of place where t-shirts with a pre-worn shabbiness retailed for £49.99 and looked out of place unless the wearer could pronounce Porsche with an overly pronounced e.

His actual choice of item was irrelevant, so he randomly selected a shirt with a dragon logo looped around from back to front, and a brand name which he didn’t recognise on the right shoulder. He proceeded up some steps past a youth sporting a woolly growth of facial hair and a head which undulated to the rhythm of some unrecognisable beat. The head seemed to nod an acknowledgment that Harry wanted to try on the garment. Pushing through a curtain at the back of the shop, he removed his jacket and undid his shirt. Tentatively baring his left shoulder, he caught his image on three sides of the small cubicle. So far, no scratches. The second half of the shirt was removed with still no visible signs of molestation. Fine, there was opportunity yet for salvation.

After fastening his shirt, he lifted the dragon, which had not been removed from its hanger, and handed it to the shop person . . . it would have been inappropriate to call him an assistant because he didn’t. More nods elicited a shake from Harry and sufficient communication had occurred. Back on the street, Harry turned away from the Tube and headed further along in search of the other items on his list. He walked across a square and into a chemist. The retail experience offered by the chain store could not have been more different from his previous experience, which was civil, but somehow sterile. His target was a simple bottle of water. It was not, however, to be a simple task thanks to the marketing frenzy surrounding even this most basic of commodities. In the same way that a car is no longer red but desert sunset, a bottle of water was now flavoured with red current and wild summer fruit or other needlessly exotic fragrances. Harry lifted a bottle of blueberry and lime water and headed towards the Remedies shelves. He picked up a five-pack of Resolve and approached the checkout.

Outside Harry chose a bench at which to sit and execute the next stage of his plan. Opening a sachet of the hangover remedy he poured the contents into his hand and licked his palm clean of the powder. Combining it with the blueberry and lime water caused a pyrotechnic fizz in his mouth, and the corners of his lips began to leak a rabid froth. A young girl, trailing her mother through the small park, veered obviously to avoid any form of interaction with the strange foaming man on the bench. Harry felt momentarily conspicuous but could not reassure her with anything other than his eyes which made, conversely, for an even more surreal appearance. The frothing abated, allowing Harry to swallow the last of the cure and move towards the final element of his preparation. This would be more difficult.

Moving further along the street, he found a side road which provided service entrances to a number of restaurants and cafés fronting the street from which he had entered. The alley provided the normal assortment of commercial wheelie bins, and the other flotsam and jetsam of the catering industry. It was quiet, and seemed largely uninhabited, and so made for a perfect base for the final twist in his devious groundwork when he was able to muster enough dry card and paper for his purpose.

Hovering over the small mound of combustible material, he pulled his lighter from the pocket of his jacket. He struck the flint and applied the flame. A breeze blew slowly down the alleyway and extinguished the brief blaze. On the third attempt, his cupped hands provided enough shelter to allow the flame to grab a smouldering hold on the cartons. Stooping still further, Harry reflected on the survival techniques that he had seen on countless television programs, and he breathed gently onto the embers and they began to glow. Shortly there was enough of a conflagration to slightly startle and yet bring a smile to his face. Fleeting images of himself as a Cold War insurgent flickered with the flames. He was finding it all too easy to forget his predicament and allow the adrenaline of his espionage to carry him through the valuable minutes of the rapidly ebbing morning.

He stood and conspicuously surveyed the slim corridor of buildings which surrounded him. He was still alone – great. Treading flames always looked easy when James Bond had occasion to extinguish top secret documents coveted by assorted enemies of the state . . . but it was not that simple. With flames licking his jeans, Harry was more likely to soon resemble Joan of Arc than Pierce Brosnan. To his relief, the conflagration died with only the corners of the paper glowing. He took off his jacket and finally killed off the remaining smoulder by rubbing it over the embers. With the garment suitably coated in the aroma of smoke and the stains of the fire, he picked up the cooled remains of the packaging and covered his trousers, shirt and visible body parts with a thin layer of soot. This was also rubbed into his skin so as to leave a dramatic odour but not an obvious discolouration.

The plot was set. Looking remarkably dishevelled, Harry now finally turned back toward the Tube station and descended the stairs. A reassuring space developed around him as he stood in the corner of the carriage and, as the wagon rattled south, he was able to reflect on the madness of the previous night, and the even greater nonsense of the morning.

Was this just a ridiculous attempt to make a personal and very private statement to himself of his continuing virility? Was it a symbol of an atavistic need to replicate his genes? Or was it just that he fancied a liaison with a beautiful lady who would not make a sarcastic comment about the length of the grass or the state of the car as soon as she woke up in the morning? At this stage, it had not really occurred to him that his first infidelity was actually the sign of a deep underlying concern about his relationship, or an indication of how unfulfilled he may be feeling. After all, blokes normally only reached these types of conclusions when they picked up the wife’s copy of Cosmopolitan from the bathroom floor and found the tick box survey entitled Does he still do it for you?.

He exited the subterranean tunnels that had seemed so comfortable containing him and his fellow rats. After a short walk and transfer onto the DLR, his station eventually loomed . . . and it was only now that Harry realised he would really have to face this. He walked along the platform and into the bright mid-morning sunshine. He had rehearsed his alibi until he even believed himself. With this degree of preparation, he would be able to withstand a lie detector test. Making as dramatic an entrance as possible he swung open the door and coughed his arrival into the hallway. He was ready for flying objects, but none arched through the air towards him. He was ready for abuse and accusations, but none split the atmosphere as he called out her name. He was ready for tears, but no sobs could be heard. He staggered further into the flat, still clutching his chest, but he was not challenged. Catherine had gone out.

THREE

The selfish bitch! Harry – curiously and unreservedly – felt more anger than relief. He had been so convinced of his story that he felt that Catherine should have been there for the return of her wounded soldier. The kettle was beginning to boil before he began to reappraise the situation and pull out of his unjustified indignation. This was a whole different scenario, with many potential twists lurking to absolve, persecute or impose retribution on him for the previous night. Preparing for histrionics had allowed him to focus; without them his misdemeanour now simply felt like a sordid interlude in their personal history. But, where was she?

Clutching his freshly made instant coffee, he considered his options. He needed a shower but realised this would damage his carefully constructed story. He moved through to the bathroom and began to shed the outer skin, his clothes, which had been so carefully manipulated. He had performed the act of disrobing for the shower on countless occasions; he was now, however, strangely sensitised to the presence of Catherine like never before. The bathroom was littered with evidence of her occupation. Tubes, tubs and shrubs covered the bathroom window sill; the toilet seat was in place, and a strange jellyfish-like compression of fabric hung from the shower head. Harry had guessed that this may be a kind of artificial sponge but had never evidenced its use. The bathroom was a museum to womankind: magazine cover gift bags that contained make-up, plastic ducks lined the tub in ascending order of size, and the toothpaste tube was squeezed from the middle.

Shrugging off the mortal reminders of his relationship, Harry pushed his soiled clothes to the corner of the room and turned the shower regulator to a cool temperature which reflected the warm weather rather than his hardiness. Climbing under the stream of water, he examined the vocabulary of his thoughts. He seemed to be considering his relationship in a kind of past tense, despite the fact that Catherine had probably simply walked to the corner shop for milk. And this time he would not need a lifestyle questionnaire to help him interpret his thoughts and realise that this past tense framework was not a positive relationship feature.

Harry slowly increased the water temperature until his skin inevitably assumed a pale pink hue. He could not shift the surreal sensation of anti-climax, and yet this was, so far at least, a pretty agreeable outcome. He climbed out of the shower noticing a slight stiffness in his calves, a very specific tension he had not felt for many years, but otherwise refreshed, he slipped into Catherine’s dressing gown, which hung on the back of the bathroom door. It felt soft, and the fragrance of the woman seemed to permeate his senses as if she was standing right next to him. For the first time, he was visited by the joint spectres of guilt and remorse. Strangely, this did not extend to regret, however, and despite his increasing sense of self-reproach, he could not temper the sensation of adventure which argued against the balance of his conscience. His lips once more curled upwards in the memory of his exploits. This would make for a great story when he saw Rob; but he hoped that the pride of conquest would be quelled before hubris compelled him to bring Rob, or anyone else, into his confidence.

He moved into the bedroom and swapped the dressing gown for jogging bottoms, t-shirt and slippers. He stood, momentarily unable to identify why his most comfortable clothes should feel so uncomfortable. The slippers suddenly felt like a cliché of middle-age contentment; the pants were an indication of his Marks & Spencer lifestyle. He felt an urge to strip them off and return to the trendy surf shop for a makeover with the nodding moron, and involuntarily his head began to nod in mimicry of the young, seemingly absent-minded shop assistant. Harry had not anticipated ever being unfaithful to Catherine, but it seemed now that a deep change in his personality had overtaken him. He now associated a type of clothing with a premature conformity, and a young man who would have graced the parcel shelf of any car better than a plastic dog, as an icon of his future sartorial aspirations and lifestyle choices.

There was, however, a here and now to address, and the immediacy of his predicament suddenly accelerated through his mind. Harry took off the clothes and hung them up again, neatly filed in the exact positions from where they had just been removed. He kicked his slippers into the back of the wardrobe – and automatically followed them with his hands to ensure that they too were correctly aligned. As he stooped, naked, he was seized by an overwhelming desire to leave them looking back at him in their rebellious, kicked in, discarded and dysfunctionally liberated position. He stood slowly and surveyed the ordered single wardrobe which contained his various garments. He was, he realised, wearing the same clothes with which he had started his first new life, and they added to the subconscious symbolism of what would now be his emergence into his second.

It was as if the removal of his middle-aged, middle-class, middle-market clothes had been comparable to emerging from a chrysalis for which he no longer had any use; but he was not, however, reborn as a winged and beautiful butterfly ready to regale the world with his incandescence. He swung the wardrobe door shut and surveyed himself in the full-length mirror attached to the door as standard Schreiber issue. Feeling naked felt good, but his caterpillar had clearly feasted far too much on lager and chicken jalfrezi rather than more wholesome nutrition, and he realised that regardless of his enjoyment of his physical liberation from clothes, he would clearly need to cover his body with something. He opened the door again and selected a pair of combat trousers from their hanger, put them on, and then pulled a t-shirt, with only a few faded emulsion stains, over his head. Rummaging to the bottom of his shoe pile, he discovered an old pair of trainers which had been tainted by the green hue of freshly cut, damp grass. They would do for now.

Closing the door again, he appraised his modified appearance, which was hardly impressive, but appropriate for his mood regardless. As he turned away, however, his eyes remained fixed on the mirror. This was not vanity, though, as his current mood could not conjure any feeling of pride in his appearance. He stopped, turned his shoulders so that they formed a line of symmetry with his reflection and again pulled open the door. Without tearing at its contents with passion, but with an overwhelming sense of purpose, he removed a blue shirt and transferred it further along the rail until it hung between a pair of chinos and his grey cords. With considered application, he then mingled his colours and mixed his top and bottom half raiment until there was no residual order to the assembled fabrics. Closing the door for the final time in this bizarre episode, he again squared to the mirror – and this time winked in a way which suggested you are either a film star or a complete arse, and headed for the hall.

Moving through the flat, he collected his cigarettes and a lunchtime can of lager.

‘Hair of the dog,’ he muttered to himself, as if it were both funny and meaningful, and headed for the plastic patio suite.

FOUR

The combats felt heavy in the early afternoon heat. Harry reclined, eyes closed so that the veiled orange glare of the sun could be more felt than seen through his eyelids. His right hand reached out without visual guidance and located the hole in the uppermost surface of his lager tin, and as he moved the container to his lips he flicked ash nonchalantly onto the uneven hexagonal slabs which constituted a patio. He had never been able to understand how Mediterranean relaxation could be achieved through the arrangement of a few slices of shaped and coloured concrete which inevitably generated more weeds than atmosphere, but he accepted that friends could not fall out at barbecues without this provision.

He and Catherine had met at school, generating envy from the girls who were fascinated by their early sexual exploration, and contempt from the boys who were fascinated by their early sexual exploration. They had been the perfect teenage couple, becoming a symbol of early adulthood amongst the jungle of developing hormones around them. Harry’s earliest memory seemed to be the all-enveloping peer expectation of his and Catherine’s; their faultless progression into a committed future. If the school magazine were entitled OK High, then photographs of them in front of an implausibly large and ornate marble fire surround would be the centre-spread.

Catherine’s parents were German and seemed somehow more relaxed than their English counterparts. They were allowed to spend evenings in her room listening to Duran Duran, The Police and Paul Young without constant interruptions from her parents. His parents had become close friends with Catherine’s. Both sets of adults had been raised in the memory of post-war conditions of suspicion and, to them, it was as if the inevitable partnership of Harry and Catherine would, in some small way, help to heal the rift between the two nations; as if they could do something to assist a state of detente between countries driven apart by the years of war.

Catherine’s blonde hair and blue eyes testified to her lineage. Harry was barely an inch taller; but broad shoulders and a confident manner ensured that the match raised the eyebrows of their parents and the jealousy of their peers. They had progressed through A levels and on to Polytechnic with constant and unerring grading symmetry, moving then to their PGCE courses with more paired precision than Torvill and Dean could, at the time, muster on the ice-rink. The environment they evolved within provided impetus to the inevitable jobs at the same school which fortunately offered both primary career opportunities, Catherine’s choice, and secondary reflecting Harry’s preference.

Early salaries were not great, but they were sufficient to establish them adequately in their small ground floor flat and leave enough dreaming space for them to, one day, aspire to a house of their own. Harry had become a teacher of history; his passion was the history of art. This would, however, prove to be simply a pre-occupation rather than an occupation, with the call for his particular speciality being rare in public sector secondary teaching. His only defining moment of success had been a prize-winning thesis detailing a movement and trend in art popularised in the early twentieth century and, to his mind, defining the evolution of painting and sculpture for the one hundred years that followed it. The thesis had been published initially in summary form by the Association of Art Historians. A subsequent award from the same body and relatively significant, although niche, media interest had given him a fleeting but noteworthy profile within the art community.

Long school holidays facilitated a certain amount