Hemingway’s Chair

today, Martin.’
    Martin’s
pain was now almost completely gone and he was beginning to think more clearly.
‘I’m sorry about all that.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t feel at all well this
morning, Nick. I’ve not been myself for a few days.’
    ‘So
I hear,’ Nick smiled darkly. ‘You’ve been the organiser of a campaign.’
    ‘Campaign?’
    ‘What’s
it called, Mart? “STOP”? Is that it? Very clever.’
    ‘That
was a grass-roots campaign, set up by others, Nick.’
    ‘Not
what I heard. Not what I believed either. Eighty-year-olds don’t go printing
stuff like that, calling themselves names like STOP.’
    ‘They
do if they feel strongly enough, and he wasn’t alone. There’s plenty of people
out there who think like him. We don’t want to lose a post office that worked
perfectly well.’
    ‘So
it was “we”.’
    ‘All
right, I happen to agree with them. But that doesn’t mean I ran the campaign.’
    ‘Stop
lying, Mart. It doesn’t suit you. I was told by an impeccable source. Someone
who knows you very well.’
    Martin
nodded grimly. ‘Someone who used to know me well, but who now knows you a lot better from what I hear. And you’re welcome. At least the Elaine Rudge I
used to know didn’t betray friends.’
    ‘Elaine’s
not the traitor, Martin. You are. A decision was taken for the best interests
of the post office in Theston. You are an employee of that post office. ’
    As
he spoke the side of Marshall’s mouth began slowly but surely to flicker into
life. He rushed a handkerchief to the danger area. ‘Or were.’
    From
his pocket he produced an official-looking white envelope which he handed to
Martin. ‘When you get home, read this,’ he said.
    Martin
tore the envelope open. There was a folded sheet inside, embossed with the
Peterborough-designed company logo. Martin read what it said quite quickly. He
looked up. Nick Marshall was staring intently at the wall, as if looking for
barely visible life-forms.
    Martin
concentrated hard on keeping his voice from shaking. ‘You can’t do this. I’ve
been sixteen years with the Post Office. You can’t do this.’
    Marshall
turned to the door. ‘It’s a month’s notice. Full pension.’
    ‘For
what? For wanting to help the customers?’
    ‘That’s
the way you see it, Mart. The Post Office sees it as industrial sabotage, and
that could cost more than your job.’
    Martin
gasped in disbelief. ‘Industrial sabotage? For helping collect a few names? I
mean, what are we coming to?’
    Marshall
produced something else from his pocket and held it up. It was a bicycle clip.
‘I expect you were wondering where this had got to. I know how much clips mean
to you, Martin.’
    ‘So
what, it’s a bicycle clip. You find bicycle clips all over the place.’
    ‘Not
often on scaffolding, fifty feet above the ground.’
    ‘You
can’t prove anything.’
    ‘We
could try though, Mart, and if we did, you would lose more than your job.’
    Marshall
became brisk. He didn’t want to be in this small airless room doing this. He
was a scientist, an engineer, an inventor. He had done his best to learn about
human behaviour but it was a slippery, awkward, time-consuming thing, unstable,
irrational, unquantifiable. He moved past Sproale and reached for the door.
    ‘By
all means stay the full month,’ he said, ‘but I should tell you that as from
Monday morning Ms Rudge will be my Assistant Manager.’

Thirty-two
     
     
     
    At
lunchtime that day, John Devereux and Nick Marshall met at Nick’s flat for one of their regular briefings.
    ‘Nicholas,
my lad, I sometimes think there’s someone Up There working for us.’
    The
loss of the tarpaulin covering on the old post office was one of several bits
of good news for Devereux that morning.
    Geraldine
served them coffee then opened up her notepad and sat ready.
    Marshall
checked some notes. ‘The surveyor reckons there’s a couple of thousand pounds
worth of direct damage, replacement of materials etc. plus another thousand in
man hours lost — drying out the timbers, that sort of thing.’ He handed the
notes across to Devereux. it looks very rosy.’
    ‘Negligence?’
    ‘Of
course, and just at the right time. Crispin was cheap and did as he was told,
but now Nordkom have bought the building they’ll need someone who knows what
they’re doing.’
    He
broke off and turned to Geraldine. ‘Don’t write that down.’
    She
drew a line through the last sentence.
    Marshall
held his