IN THE EVENT, he went for the Steak Pie and Jam Roly-Poly, impassively served from behind heated counters by hard-faced women in pale blue housecoats. The vegetables suffered from that sogginess endemic to British institutional food (and rather too much British restaurant food), but otherwise the meal tasted all right. And the prices were amazingly low. Delmoleen subsidised its employees’ eating generously.
Any sneaking hope he had had that the canteen might be licensed was quickly dispelled, and, to his amazement, Charles found himself ordering a cup of tea with his lunch. It must have been the influence of the environment, and perhaps his costume, as his actor’s instinct slotted him instantly into the role he was playing. Cup of tea, dollop of gelatinous custard . . . it made him feel as if he was back in one of those early sixties plays of social realism, something like Wesker’s Chips with Everything (‘The effeteness of Charles Paris’s performance left me suspecting that the RAF would have turned him down on medical grounds’ – The Huddersfield Examiner).
Still, he thought piously, good thing not to be drinking at lunchtime – although the righteous sensation of having satisfactorily finished his day’s work deserved the reward of a quick one.
But no, it was good. Too few lunchtimes passed these days unassisted by drink. To have abstinence forced on him like this gave Charles the reassuring feeling that he wasn’t an alcoholic. He could take it or leave it . . .
He would rather take it, obviously, but at least he wasn’t chemically dependant . . .
Or probably wasn’t.
He tried to put from his mind the image of Will Parton and Griff Merricks downing glasses of wine in the Executive dining room, and comforted himself with the promise of a large Bell’s when he got back to his bedsitter in Hereford Road.
The canteen offered him the same measure of conviviality as it did of alcohol. Since he didn’t know anyone there, he had hardly expected a hearty welcome and cheery hands waving him over to join tables, but he was surprised by the positive antipathy that exuded from the Delmoleen employees.
He was recognised as an outsider – probably the unfamiliar overalls didn’t help – and as such he was suspect. While he looked around for a seat, he was first briefly scrutinised by the other diners and then pointedly ignored. Finally finding an empty table piled high with the detritus of earlier lunches, he sat down and ate his meal as quickly as possible.
He had finished inside ten minutes and it still wasn’t one o’clock. He wandered outside the canteen. Knots of Delmoleen workers stood around smoking and chatting. Over on a bit of open ground an improvised game of football was under way. The only acknowledgement Charles’s presence received was the odd deterrent stare.
He wondered at first if they could recognise him as an actor and were showing the traditional reaction to ‘bleeding fairies’. But there was no way anyone could know his profession. Maybe they suspected him of being a management spy, a time and motion consultant. But that too was nonsense. No, he finally decided that he was incurring resentment simply because he was unfamiliar.
It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, though. Charles felt tempted just to leave, catch a train, go home. Griff Merricks had said he only needed the few extra shots for editing and those were done.
On the other hand, in the pre-lunch confusion, Charles hadn’t actually been granted an official release. And directors were notorious for changing their minds after a couple of drinks. Charles had been booked for the full day and his professionalism told him that he shouldn’t leave until Griff Merricks gave him formal permission. The daily rate he was being paid was quite impressive, and Charles didn’t want to screw up the chances of further work in this lucrative area by being absent when needed.
He contemplated finding a local pub to pass the next hour. But he hadn’t seen any when he arrived at the station, and no doubt if there was one around, it would be just another outpost of the Delmoleen resentment of strangers.
Disconsolately, but vigorously, as if his movement had some purpose, Charles strode back towards the warehouse. He’d left his raincoat there, apart from anything else. And in his raincoat pocket was a potential lifesaver. Not, he reflected virtuously – if a little wistfully – a half-bottle of Bell’s, but something much more wholesome – a copy of Persuasion. He did find rereading Jane Austen every few years wonderfully therapeutic.
As he entered the warehouse, the huge space was very still.
But it was not completely silent. From somewhere in the distant stacks Charles could hear the hum of an electric motor.
He moved towards the source of the sound.
It was in the aisle they had used for the filming. Where he had left his forklift truck, a pile of loose cartons, fallen from a shelf above, lay scattered on the ground. The truck itself had moved forward and was embedded into the pile of empty pallets which stood against the wall at the end of the aisle. Its engine still protested as it pressed against the slowly splintering wood.
Charles tried to work out what could have happened. If the ignition had been left switched on and the motor running, it was just possible, given the looseness of the gear lever, that one of the falling cartons could have knocked it and engaged the engine. Then the truck would have moved forward.
But that did assume that the motor had been left running.
And Charles knew he had switched the ignition off.
It was as he had this thought that he heard the other sound.
Lower than the mechanical hum of the forklift engine, and more human.
He moved forward, suddenly panicked.
Yes, through the slats of the pallets, slumped against the foot of the wall, he could see a human shape.
The moaning was ominously low and feeble.
Charles Paris leapt into the seat of the forklift and pulled the gear lever into reverse. The truck jerked back, dragging some of the pallets with it. Others toppled noisily to the ground.
Charles disengaged the gear and switched off the ignition.
Then he tugged at the heavy pile of pallets to clear them from the wall. His hands snagged on the rough wood. He was aware of splinters digging in, but felt no pain.
As he pulled back the last obstruction, the moaning was interrupted by a little gasp, almost a sigh of pain.
Charles looked down into the space he had cleared.
The limbs lay at odd angles, unnaturally compacted against the wall.
The shallow rasp of breathing could still just be heard from the crushed body, but blood trickled from the nose and mouth, indicating severe internal injury.
It was the girl, Dayna.