PLAN B

The piano had been on the pavement for two days now. Terry Williams knew it was two days exactly because heÕd noted the time and day. Tuesday 18th May 2010 at 1500 hours. He knew the Wilkinsons, the owners of the house opposite, were away on a cruise and their son, Simon, was home from university staying in the house with friends.

Terry was 53 years old, his waist was thickening as his hair thinned. His skin and eyes were pale, he looked as if he needed to be out in the open air more. He had been made redundant from a firm of City accountants in the credit crunch and now he worked from home checking tax returns.

On that Tuesday afternoon Terry looked up from his computer when he heard someone swearing from over the road. It was Simon and his friends lifting the piano through the door. SimonÕs hair had grown since leaving home and his long curly locks fell over his face as he heaved the piano over the threshold. His friends laughed as he struggled. When they got it to the pavement Simon lifted the lid and played a boogie-woogie tune. The others made whooping noises and danced around the piano in their shabby jeans and T-shirts. Terry thought they looked a mess and might even have been drinking: his thin lips curled in disapproval.

Working from home had been tough for Terry. HeÕd been happy catching the 7:54 from Basildon to Fenchurch Street every day and thought heÕd carry on until he retired. The rituals and routine suited him: breakfast of tea, toast and marmalade, walking through the suburban streets to the station, buying the Daily Telegraph from the same shop, greeting his colleagues with the same small talk. Life was different now.

Simon had come out later and covered the piano with a blue tarpaulin. Every time he heard a diesel engine in the road, Terry looked up expecting to see a van to take it away.

TerryÕs wife, Ruth, had helped him plan this next phase of his working life. She was a practical woman, a freelance IT consultant. They discussed it and made a plan.

ÒMake a new routine Terry,Ó she said ÒI know you. You need routine. Men go all funny without routine in their lives.Ó

He had listened and he knew she was right. She usually was.

ÒImagine youÕre still doing nine to five but at home. Make the spare room into an office. Go out of the house and buy a newspaper. Come home and get down to it. Have a coffee break, go out for lunch, sit in the park, stop at five oÕclock.Ó Ruth called a spade a spade.

The blue tarpaulin had come loose in the wind. It flapped against the back of the piano. Terry was distracted by the flap, flap, flapping. He looked up from his computer in the spare room window each time, hoping Simon would come out and tighten the green washing line he had used to tie it. After a while Terry tutted every time the wind caught the tarpaulin, or when a van came up the road and did not stop outside to collect the piano.

Terry thought Ruth was wonderful. Her father had been an army man and she approached life with military precision learned the hard way from moving around the world, never settling too long anywhere. She was a good person to have around in a crisis. He thought they made a good team. She helped Terry make lists of who to contact, which agencies to phone, old colleagues to speak to. It was agreed that after three months they would review the plan, take stock, and decide how to proceed.

ÒPlan for every eventuality,Ó Ruth said Òif Plan A doesnÕt work, go to Plan B. It will be all right Terry.Ó She had straightened the papers on which theyÕd been making making notes, stood up and announced, ÒRight, now itÕs time for a drink.Ó She went to the kitchen and returned with gin and tonics. ÒA toast, to the new venture. Terry Williams: the Sequel.Ó

Terry remembered her words every morning and said to himself, ÒCome on Terry. No point moping about, get on with it. DonÕt let the side down.Ó

HeÕd been working from home for six months now. The work came in thick and fast to start with but now it was drying up. Sometimes Terry thought he was getting used to being at home, other days he felt desperate and wanted to run from the house. He and Ruth had not had children, so it was just the two of them. He had a few friends, but mostly made through work, so scattered around London at all points of the compass. Terry put on a brave face when Ruth came home.

ÒHello dear,Ó she said Òhow was your day at the office?Ó

ÒBusy day today, Jim dropped by with a new account to talk through. Bill says heÕs worried about another takeover. Oh and the rumour is that thereÕs something going on between Pauline in corporate finance with that new solicitor, the one with the Ferrari and the villa in Nice.Ó

ÒThatÕs the spirit Terry. Keep smiling. Any news?Ó

ÒWell the cat tipped the wastebin over. I ran out of paperclips. And the JehovahÕs witnesses called twice, I think IÕm on their hit list. Oh and did you notice, that bloody piano is still outside number 12?Ó

ÒI know. ItÕs beginning to be a bit of an eyesore, I wonder whatÕs going on.Ó

Ruth and Terry were watching TV later that night. Terry went over to the curtains a few times and looked out at the house opposite.

ÒItÕs still sitting there, that damned tarpaulin flapping away.Ó

ÒRelax darling. IÕm sure the Wilkinsons have organised for a van. Simon has probably put it out on the wrong day.Ó

Later that night, as Terry was trying to sleep, the wind grew stronger and the flapping got worse. Before he knew it Terry was out in the street in his burgundy dressing gown. He marched across to the piano, wrestled with the unruly tarpaulin and tried to pull the plastic washing line tight. His efforts were in vain. The line was tangled under the piano and it was impossible to keep hold of the tarpaulin in the gusting wind.

Terry stalked back to his house, his thinning hair flapping around his head, dressing gown flying in the wind like a Roman centurionÕs cloak, his face screwed tight. He fetched a Stanley knife from the toolbox and returned to do battle with the tarpaulin.

He cut through the plastic outer layer of the washing line, but the Stanley knife was useless against the coiled wire inside. Terry tried to hack through it but the knife slipped and he winced as he felt the blade slice deep into his left hand. In the dark he felt his hand quickly become wet and sticky with blood. Nursing the injured hand in a fold of the dressing gown, he retreated to the house.

Ruth was waiting for him in the kitchen. ÒMy God, what have you done? Let me see.Ó

ÒI was trying to tie up that damned tarpaulin. The knife slipped.Ó

Ruth wrapped the wound in cotton wool and held it tight to staunch the flow of blood.

ÒGirl Guide First Aid,Ó she said Òelevate and apply pressure. Hold tight soldier.Ó

Terry let her take over.

ÒIÕll go over and tell Simon to sort it out,Ó Ruth said. ÒItÕs his bloody piano.Ó

Ruth put on her coat and left the house. Applying pressure, as instructed, Terry enclosed the cut with an iron fist and thought about strangling Simon.

A few minutes later Ruth returned. ÒThereÕs no reply,Ó she said straightening her hair and taking off her coat. ÒItÕs wild out there. HowÕs the finger?Ó

ÒI think itÕs stopped bleeding, youÕd better put a dressing on.Ó Ruth dressed the wound with gauze and tape and pecked him on the cheek.

ÒCome on, Mr. Angry, back to bed. IÕll change that field dressing in the morning and we can sort out Simon and the piano.Ó

Terry did not sleep much. He drifted off once or twice and dreamed of playing the piano while blood poured out of his hands over the keys. In the morning his jaw ached from grinding his teeth.

When he went downstairs in the morning Ruth was in the kitchen with her coat on, drinking the last of her coffee. ÒIÕve been round again but I donÕt think Simon is there,Ó she said ÒletÕs change that dressing then IÕll have to be off. At least the wind has died down.Ó

Terry had just one tax return to complete that morning. He was half way through when the sound of music and laughter came through the open window. Terry looked outside.

Gathered around the piano, a group of people was watching Simon play a tune. No boogie-woogie this time, he was playing his heart out. A stirring victory march, or so it sounded to Terry. SimonÕs head shook in time, his shoulder length curly hair tossing around his face. His friends looking on admiringly. TerryÕs brow tightened and he closed the window.

The tax return was half finished on TerryÕs computer screen. He entered some figures and looked up again at the scene outside. They were chatting now while Simon idled with the keys. Terry drummed on the desk with the fingers of his right hand, softly at first then an increasingly harsh tattoo. The cut on his left hand throbbed.

Then he was on his feet and marching down the stairs. Plucking his keys from the hook without breaking his stride, he strode through the front door, slamming it behind him with a firm push of his right arm.

Terry approached the group, ÒHello Simon, whatÕs going on here?Ó
ÒHi Mr. Williams,Ó said Simon, ÒitÕs a project for my art course. A community art installation. We leave the piano on the pavement and film what happens when people walk past.Ó He pointed up at one of the bedroom windows where Terry could see another friend of SimonÕs with a camcorder on a tripod. A flashing red light on the front of the camera indicated that it was recording. ÒNot much luck yet. But now the wind has died down we should get a bit more action.Ó

Terry was confused, expecting to get the apology and instant action his status deserved, now he was unsure of his ground. ÒLook Simon, IÕm working from home now and I canÕt concentrate. Do you think you could give it a break?Ó

ÒItÕs only for today Mr. Williams. Now the sun is out we should get plenty of passers-by.Ó

ÒBut I canÕt work with the noise,Ó said Terry, his voice rising in volume with each word and the furrows on his brow deepening. ÒI really think you shouldnÕt be disturbing the neighbourhood like this.Ó Terry looked straight at Simon and their eyes met. The wound on TerryÕs left hand pulsed under the bandage and his eyes cut into SimonÕs.

ÒOK Mr. Williams. WeÕll take a break for a while.Ó

SimonÕs friends were looking at Terry while this exchange went on. They all seemed to have the same long hair and shabby jeans as Simon. One was leaning on the piano. Terry noticed another smirking and looking up at the window.

ÒThanks Simon,Ó Terry said ÒI donÕt want to spoil your fun, but other people live round here too you know.Ó He turned and walked back across the street, trying to keep his shoulders high and chest out. Behind him it was quiet.

When Terry returned to his desk, he looked through the window. They were still there, muttering now in a little group, but the lid of the piano was closed and Terry pursed his thin lips in grim triumph.

That evening he told Ruth what had happened while they sat at the kitchen table with their gin and tonics. ÒOh Terry well done. My little hero. YouÕd better watch out they donÕt put you on YouTube though with that camera trained on you. Hey, I wonder if they have.Ó She went to the hall and returned with her laptop.

After a couple of minutes she called him over, there was a note of hesitation in her voice, ÒTerry, darling, youÕre not going to like this.Ó He stood next to her where she sat at the kitchen table. Ruth played him the clip. The caption read ÔTension on the Streets: Suburban Stuffed Shirt Sees RedÕ. Terry watched himself in the small square of screen. He didnÕt recognise the pinched face of the man in the clip, but he knew it was him. He could hear his own voice sounding odd, like someone impersonating him as he heard his words from earlier, ÒBut I canÕt work with the noise.Ó His jaw clamped like a vice. He watched as this other self shrank as he walked away from the camera.

ÒOh Terry, how funny. YouÕre on the web, fame beckons." She looked up at him and saw his eyes narrow and his face darken. ÒNow Terry, donÕt go off half cock. Keep a firm hand on the tiller. You are not to go over there. I forbid it.Ó

ÒYou must take this on the chin,Ó she went on. ÒItÕs just high spirits. In our day they would have just written your name on a toilet wall.Ó

ÒThe little bastards,Ó he said through barely parting lips Òthe scruffy little student bastards. Who do they think they are?Ó

Ruth patted him on the leg. ÒOh come on Terry, you did the right thing. They stopped didnÕt they? This is just their cowardly revenge. DonÕt let it rile you.Ó
Terry forced his lips into a colourless smile, ÒYes. YouÕre right. Of course darling.Ó

Again sleep did not come easy to Terry. He was eventually drifting off when the piano started again. He glanced at the red digital numbers on the alarm clock, 02:43. He pulled on his dressing gown and slippers and raced downstairs.

Unlocking the back door, he went straight to the shed then marched down the side of the house and into the street. The weight of the axe felt good held across his body. The night air was cold and his breath snorted out in steaming clouds. Swinging the axe high above his head, the first blow smashed into the top of the piano.

The students scattered, ÒShit heÕs gone mental, phone the police, quick, get inside.Ó Simon was slowest to react. Perhaps he had drunk more than the others. Or maybe he was more determined to wind Terry up by playing on. He was still playing when the second blow hit him between his shoulder and neck. Blood shot out from a severed artery, splattering the white keys.

Terry stood with the axe across his chest. To his left he could hear Ruth screaming. To his right he saw the red light of the camcorder flashing through the clouds of his warm breath.