Chapter 12

Wednesday, Karl is not in work again but there is a message on Tom’s phone from him, an angry message. He insists that he doesn’t have Tom’s watch and warns him to stop leaving voice messages.

Tom rings Karl to clarify things but his call is unanswered.

He considers where the watch might be if Karl doesn’t have it.

Ticka-ticka-ticka

In the nightclub maybe?

Tom retrieves the number for the Alpha Bar from the telephone directory in the staff area and rings.

‘Hello, Manhattan Hotel,’ a woman answers. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for a watch,’ Tom says. ‘I mean, I was in your hotel last Friday night. Not the hotel part. I was in the nightclub.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I lost a watch. I was wondering if anybody has found it.’

‘The Manhattan Hotel can’t be held responsible for lost or damaged property, sir,’ she says.

‘I don’t care about any of that. I just want the watch back. Maybe it was handed in or something?’

‘It could have been,’ she says.

‘Could you check please?’ Tom asks.

‘Of course, hold on a second and I’ll get one of the porters to check.’

There is a short crackle on the line and then music begins to play. The volume drifts up and down, disappears at times. Tom wonders how this is even possible. He pictures a woman bracing herself against a wild, whipping breeze, a telephone in her hand held up in front of an outdoor orchestra.

‘Hello, sir,’ the woman returns.

‘The porter is checking for your watch. While you’re waiting I’d just like to let you know that there are special business discounts on our conference rooms for the rest of the month.’ She speaks in a tone usually used by a child who is reading something mind-numbingly boring in class. ‘There is also twenty-five percent off bed and board. Wi-fi is available in all rooms and our restaurant, Bongos, has a fine à la carte menu.’

‘Yes,’ Tom mutters. ‘Very good.’

‘And if you are planning a weekend break with the family you might be interested in our special aquarium deal. Half-price aquarium passes for you, your wife and two children when you stay two nights at the Manhattan.’

‘I don’t have any kids,’ Tom says.

‘Of course, the same applies for you and a partner. Half-price passes.’

‘I don’t have a partner. I have nobody.’

‘Well we have a,’ she coughs. ‘There’s a,’ she clears her throat and a lengthy silence follows.

Tom taps his index finger against the top of the phone for a moment.

‘That’s what’s after getting me into this bloody mess in the first place,’ he says. ‘I don’t even like going to nightclubs. But you know when someone says something to you and you just do it without really considering what could go wrong? It was like that, the power of suggestion, that’s what it was.’

‘Okay sir.’ There is the sound of shuffling paper on the line. ‘Oh here comes the porter now,’ she sounds relieved. ‘Hold on a second.’

The breezy music returns. Tom taps his finger quickly until she speaks again.

‘There are no watches in the Lost and Found at the moment.’

‘Yes, none.’

‘Can I leave my number? You can ring me if it turns up.’

‘You can ring again tomorrow but if it hasn’t turned up by now there is a good chance that it won’t turn up at all. Can I help you with anything else, sir?’

‘No, I’m okay.’

‘Goodbye and thank you for choosing Manhattan Hotels.’

Tom hears a buzzing. Even after the line has gone dead.

He decides to go to the library after work.

Tom thinks of loyalty on the way to the library and how he could use it in his form. When he does this he thinks of a dog. The two are entwined, canines and loyalty, and this gives him the idea that there are specific levels of loyalty relating to different animals. Every so often he slows his walking pace, removes his notebook and writes down the name of an animal under one of two headings, loyal or disloyal. Just before he enters the library he writes the word ‘elephant’ and the image of the animal’s trunk brings his mind around to the task in hand and to a question which he directs at the librarian on duty.

‘Noses?’ Ell asks from behind the counter.

‘The human nose in particular,’ Tom says.

‘I don’t know. I can’t imagine there are too many books about noses. I suppose you could check the biology section.’

‘I’m not really interested in how they work.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What else would you need to know about noses?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Tom shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘I was hoping that I might see something interesting.’

Ell moves over to the computer and types in what Tom can only assume to be the word ‘nose’.

‘Here, Nigel, do you know any good books about noses?’ she asks her colleague, who is rustling through some papers on the opposite end of the counter.

‘What’s the computer say?’ Nigel strolls over to her.

‘There are two books with “nose” in the title but they’re both fiction.’

‘The Nose of Bradley Hughes,’ Nigel taps his pen against his bottom teeth. ‘Never heard of it. What does he want to know about noses?’

‘Not sure,’ she shakes her head.

Nigel sidles over to Tom.

‘What do you want to know about noses?’ he asks.

‘I guess I want to know what makes a good nose.’

‘One that works,’ Nigel nods slowly.

‘Aesthetically, I mean.’

Nigel hums an upward, curious sound.

‘Back in Roman times,’ Tom says, ‘the nose was used as an indicator of character. One that stood out, usually a good long one, meant that the person was thought to be powerful or intelligent.’

‘Yeah?’ Ell joins him in front of Tom. ‘What would my nose say about me?’

She arches her head forward.

‘It’s not very big,’ Nigel says.

‘So you wouldn’t be considered strong or intelligent,’ Tom says.

‘Average, I guess.’

‘Average,’ she repeats quietly before folding her arms.

‘Your best bet is to check the online journals on one of the PCs,’ Nigel says. ‘I think we have a subscription to some of the cosmetic ones. You might find something there.’

Tom thanks them and moves to the computer area adjacent to the back of the counter. The machines in here are quicker than the computers in work. Tom checks his email first. There is nothing of any interest. He logs on to the Find Them website, only to see that the status under Sarah McCarthy says In progress. He stares at the status for a time, hoping that it will change to Found while he is looking. He thinks about how amazing it would be if Sarah had her hand resting on a mouse too, Tom Stacey in dark-green font on a computer screen in front of her, In progress next to his name.

It isn’t the first time he has tried to find Sarah. Over the years he has been overwhelmed with memories of her, so vivid that it seems as if he has always had her in his life and that the lost years were only lost minutes. It is easy to think that he is young again at these times, easy to think that he has a grip on his life, easy to think it is not merely sliding away from him. But they have been short-lived searches, rarely moving beyond the point of wishful intentions. Tom reluctantly closes down the website and begins a search of the online cosmetic journals.

Tom reads articles on facial expressions and cosmetics, on the history of phrenology and on symmetry. He comes across a study on toddlers which found that children prefer to look at symmetrical faces longer than at asymmetrical faces. This makes Tom consider ugliness and its place in mankind. He looks at his reflection in the glass panel that separates computer sections, at the crooked apex of his nose, at the eyelid that has a tendency to droop when he concentrates. If the world is weighted towards the beautiful then why does ugliness even exist?

Tom comes across numerous articles relating to noses. He begins to make a list of his findings in his notebook.

Blind people cannot detect odours better than sighted people.

He reads articles comparing people’s differing perceptions of odour.

A Dutch wine-maker once insured his nose for 8 million dollars.

He reads how people each have their own distinguishing odour identity and the effect this has on the opposite sex.

Humans can detect over 10,000 smells.

Eventually he hits the jackpot, in aesthetic nose terms at least. He reads how a survey carried out in the Journal of Craniofacial Surgery identified that there are fourteen human nose shapes. The article not only lists the types but there are pictures as well. Tom studies each one, the upturned nose, the straight nose, aquiline, snub and Nubian. He lists them all and then eliminates his least favourite one by one. Eventually he is left with the thin pointed nose. He gathers a number of images of this type of nose from the web and prints them out on the library printer, in colour, at a cost of twenty-five cents per page.

This research is going to break the bank, he thinks as he leaves the library.

There is a newsagents on the main street, O’Reilly’s, a shop swamped with cheap toys and racks of magazines. The place is a nightmare for Tom, aisles that seem too small, nets draped from the ceiling bulging with coloured balls, electronic toys rattling and whizzing in displays and a system of queuing where a person is served by being in the right place at the right time. Towards the back there are shelves cluttered with toothpaste with foreign script on the boxes and dodgy bubble bath in human-shaped bottles, items similar to popular brands sold in supermarkets but with packaging the wrong shade or size, the boxes opened or damaged so they look like they literally fell off the back of a lorry.

Tom stands next to the rack of magazines. There are children’s ones at the bottom with free gifts taped to the front, luminous whistles and plastic ducks, bright cartoon animals on the covers, the right height for sticky little fingers to grab. The shelf above is for music and cars and the two shelves above those are the women’s magazines, about twenty varieties. Tom chooses three by the cover alone, two of which are glossy and one that looks like a magazine which might come free with a Sunday tabloid. He pays for them and brings them back to his neighbours’ bed-sit.

Tom trawls through the magazines, his Stanley knife in hand, carefully cutting out any characteristic that seems interesting. The non-glossy magazine contains mostly small pictures, the kind of ones taken from a distance with little detail and where the target doesn’t seem particularly aware that they are even a target. There are captions under the photographs commenting on hair and weight, references to gym use, plastic surgery and cellulite. Some pictures contain a close-up of different parts of the target, showing a rip in a pair of tights, runny mascara, a spot.

‘A spot, Shatner. A fuckin’ spot. Christ sake.’

The only useful thing he finds is an advert for hair dye and he makes a note of this in his notebook.

Hair colour. O’Reillys.

He flicks through the other magazines. There are some nice shots of pretty women with trendy haircuts. Eccentric seems to be in. And punk. There are a lot of punk haircuts, shaved sides, tall, messy, strong dyed hair, more like bright brushstrokes than hairstyles. Most of the women are skinny and some have boyish haircuts. Tom is drawn to the long and straight type of hair. He finds that a fringe frames the face and he likes this. It is neat and purposeful and it makes him think of squares, a very appealing shape in his mind. Most of the other cuts seem a bit unbalanced, some downright weird.

The majority of the models have soft faces, beautiful to glance at but not very memorable. That’s the thing about faces, Tom thinks. Some haunt you long after you’ve seen them. Others just melt away. The same can be said for hair.

‘Take blonde, Shatner,’ Tom says. ‘In a group of dark-haired women it certainly stands out. But if there is more than one blonde in a group they cancel each other out. I’m just not a blonde type of man.’

He couldn’t really explain what type of man usually goes for blondes. He just knows that it isn’t him. Red is beautiful but it comes in too many shades. And, after examining a group of photos of the same model in one of the glossy magazines, he realises that red has a tendency to change a lot depending on the light. This inconsistency is a complication that he doesn’t need in his life.

Dark brown hair seems to be his type.

He writes a list of pros and cons just to be sure.

	PROS		CONS
	It is common		It is common
	Subtle		May mask dirt
	Contrasts nicely with the face		It is harder to see in the dark
	Will highlight a dandruff problem easily

‘Dark brown it is,’ he says and fetches the Yellow Pages. He flicks through until he finds sellers of wigs, and rings a couple, enquires about the cheapest wig. It turns out to be too expensive for him. He moves to where the telephone directory is kept and to the magazines and free ad papers underneath. Tom sorts the ad papers by date and checks the latest edition for wigs. He methodically works his way down every column so he doesn’t miss a thing. When he finishes the latest edition without success he tries the previous edition. When he has finished this he works on the one before. He’s not sure how long he does this for. At one point he looks at his wrist but his watch is still missing.

Ticka-ticka-ticka

He returns his focus to the paper.

The week before.

Three weeks before.

There are no headings for wigs but he checks the edition from cover to cover.

Under the heading ‘miscellaneous’.

Bag of Wigs from stage productions. 10 euro. Contact Frank Mundy.

Tom writes the name and number in his notebook and rings on his neighbour’s phone. The call is answered by a man.

‘Hello,’ Tom says. ‘I’m looking for Frank Mundy.’

‘Bastards,’ the man hisses.

‘You mean Grundy.’

‘No,’ Tom says. ‘Frank Mundy.’

‘My name is Grundy.’

‘I must have the wrong number. Sorry about that.’

‘No you don’t,’ the man corrects. ‘You’re looking for me.’

‘You’re Frank Mundy?’

‘No, I’m Frank Grundy. You’re calling about the ad, aren’t you? Christ, I put that in weeks ago. There’s a typo in the paper ye see. The bastards. It should read “Grundy” with a “G” and an “R”, not with an “M”. You got that?’

‘You should write it down maybe.’

‘I will,’ Tom amends the name on his notebook.

‘I wouldn’t mind. I could have sworn that I said “Grundy” on the phone to those people. I certainly didn’t lose any letters. I’m able to spell me own name. They probably put these mistakes in on purpose so ye have to get on to them again.’ He coughs, a loose, rattling cough that lasts for a good fifteen seconds. ‘Statistics,’ he says when finished. ‘It’s probably something to do with statistics. They get paid more if they get more phone calls or something, so ye have some young upstart putting the names in wrong. Some fella from Kilbarrack or something, some fella who drives a Polo or something with a muffler on it, ye have him putting the names in wrong on purpose. Isn’t that always the case?’

Tom hesitantly agrees.

‘But there was this fat woman in the post office behind me when I was making the phone call,’ he pauses. ‘Sorry, you’re not fat are you?’

‘Thank God for that. That could have been a bit embarrassing. What was I saying? Yes, the fat woman. There was this fat woman standing behind me and she kept tutting. I don’t know why. I was just making a phone call. And I couldn’t talk properly then. It’s a bit like peeing in a public urinal, if you’d pardon my comparison. But that’s exactly what it’s like. But you’re getting off the point a bit here, mister. What can Frank Grundy do for you?’

‘I’m ringing up about the wigs. I just need one really. It’s for a project, kind of like scientific research. Do you still have them?’

‘Scientific research?’ Mr Grundy asks, drawing out the word ‘scientific’ as if he is giving it a lot of consideration.

‘You’re not going to use the wigs for experiments are ye?’

‘It’s kind of an experiment.’

‘It won’t involve mice or anything. I don’t want these wigs being used to harm mice.’

Tom has this sudden image of little mice running around a cage with tiny wigs on.

‘No, it’s more at the research end of things. I’m just going to stick one on a model.’

‘Of course you are. Sure why else would you be wanting the wigs? Don’t be minding me. Well, I’ll tell you what I told the last three people that rang. I don’t know how many wigs are in the bag or what state they’re in. All I know is that the bag is a bit melted because it was too close to the water heater in the attic and that they smell a bit. After that, well Jaysus, sure it’s up to you.’

‘That sounds good to me,’ Tom says. ‘And you’re looking for a tenner?’

‘A tenner indeed.’

‘And there’s definitely more than one wig in the bag?’

‘I can count past one if that’s what you’re thinking. I have the certificate to prove it. Well I don’t really have a certificate. I don’t think they give out certificates for things like that. But if Frank Grundy says something is the truth then it is the truth. Ask me anything and I’ll give you an honest answer.’

‘I believe you Mr Grundy.’

‘Let me prove it. Ask away. Anything you want.’

‘I can’t really think of something to ask.’

‘Please mister. I won’t rest easy till you ask.’

‘I don’t know,’ Tom thinks for a moment. ‘Do you have any kids?’

‘I don’t have any kids mister. We did have a Gobshite though.’

‘Gobshite, that was the name of me dog. He’s the closest thing to a child I’ve ever had. I know what’s going on in that head of yours. You’re thinking to yourself, what’s this daft old mentaller doing giving his dog a name like “Gobshite”. Well, you’d be right in thinking that. I am a bit of a mentaller. But only when I don’t take me tablets. That being said, it’s a long time since I forgot me tablets. I have a note to remind me. I stick it to me glasses before I go to bed. That way I see it as soon as I put on me glasses. And if you’re thinking to yourself, what if the old mentaller forgets to put on his glasses? Well, I’ll tell you mister. If that happened then Frank Grundy wouldn’t be able to see a damned thing. Now, what did I ring you for again?’

‘I rang about the wigs.’

‘Jaysus, of course ye did. Sure half the buttons are missing from this phone. I wouldn’t even be able to ring ye if I wanted to. Yes, you were asking about the dog. Gobshite really was a Gobshite. I’ll tell ye what I told everyone else. There was something seriously wrong with that mutt. I mean in the head compartment. Ye hear about these things with humans, ye know, someone thinking that they’re Napoleon Bonaparte or Cleopatra or some other fecker who just happened to be on the television the evening before. Ye hear about it with humans all right but I’d never heard of it with animals until I met Gobshite. The dumb bastard thought he was a bird.’

‘Look, Mr Grundy,’ Tom interrupts. ‘If I could just get your address I’ll drop over and get the wigs.’

‘The dog would drag everything in the garden into the corner,’ Grundy ignores him. ‘Exactly like a nest. Then he’d sit right down on his fat behind and start howling. I’d swear the thing was trying to sing. Of course the vet didn’t agree with me. She says it’s impossible for a dog to think it’s a bird. She said that their brains aren’t wired up the same as humans. She said that if she was being honest, dogs don’t even know that they’re dogs. They don’t analyse themselves like us. They just do things by instinct. I says to her, sure could he not instinctively do things like a bird? She couldn’t answer that one. But it wasn’t even just the nest and the singing. Gobshite had a tendency to jump off the wall. And I’m telling you this for a fact, he’d be trying to wiggle those hairy legs of his on the way down. Answer me that Mrs Big-shot vet, I said. Answer me bloody that.’

‘Can I get your address Mr Grundy?’

‘Of course,’ he rattles off another cough and then gives Tom the address. ‘The afternoon suits me,’ he says.

‘Grand,’ Tom mutters, knowing that he will have to ask for a half-day in work.

‘Just a word of warning. Don’t use the bell. I hooked it up to the mains a few months ago and it did something with the bell tone.’

‘Grand Mr Grundy.’

‘Just use the knocker.’

‘Give it a good bang now.’

‘A good bang.’

‘Bye,’ Tom hangs up the phone.