I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday

  Listen. I can explain. There's a simple explanation.

  "Mr F," shouts Julie breathlessly as she runs down the corridor towards us. She has never looked lovelier.

  "Hi," I say. "I think I've been arrested."

  "I know," she says. "That's why we're here."

  I notice that Julie's friend Sandra is here too. She looks different, with clothes on. I must remember to ask about those tassels, it will only keep me awake otherwise.

  "Mr F. The barmaid told us where you'd gone."

  You see. I told you there was a simple explanation. You should trust me.

  CHAPTER 17

  Listen. Perhaps you think this is all getting a bit far fetched. Perhaps you think things like this don't happen in real life. Well, some pretty funny things have been happening to me lately.

  Like phone calls with noone at the other end of the line. Like a wife who isn't where she says she is sometimes. Stuff like that.

  Look. I love my wife. But I don't trust her any more. She tells me lies. That's why I have to kill her. I need to start again.

  Look. I told you I won't hurt her. Trust me. I just need to start again that's all.

  I get a bit confused sometimes. But I'll work it out.

  I wonder what day it is? I keep thinking it's Tuesday for some reason.

  Someone speaks to me, but I don't catch what is said. "Pardon?" I say.

  "Frogs," repeats the pizza boy. His name turns out to be Frank.

  "Really," I say. I don't even remember what the question was.

  "Yes," he says. "There's over eight hundred different species, you know."

  "Wow," I reply. "I never would have thought that."

  "People don't," he says. "Most of them come from the tropics of course."

  "Of course," I repeat.

  "I've only got seven different types myself, mind. My mum won't let me keep any more. I've got them in my bedroom. In tanks."

  "I had a frog once," I say. "When I was a boy. I found it."

  "Probably the common english frog, I expect," says Frank. "Did you keep it in a tank?"

  "No. Not exactly," I reply. "I put it on my notice board."

  "On your notice board?"

  "Yes. I kept it there with drawing pins."

  "Drawing pins?"

  It's happening again. People keep repeating things I say? I wonder why they do that?

  Frank looks unhappy at my revelation, and starts to examine his nails. "How long do you think we'll be here?" he asks.

  "I had it for years," I say, ignoring his question. "I used to call it Spot. Spot the frog. It was my little joke."

  "I don't think it's very funny," says Frank. "It sounds pretty cruel to me. Nailing a frog to a notice board just to make a joke."

  "I did try Blu Tak," I say. "But it kept falling off."

  Frank continues to pick his nails.

  "Of course they eat them in France, you know. Frogs and snails. That's mostly all they do eat so I believe. That's why we call them froggies, of course."

  "I know," says Frank.

  "We could have called them snailies, I suppose. Funny that. Might have changed the whole course of history."

  Frank gets up and starts to pace around the cell.

  Oh, I forgot to tell you. We ended up in the cell after all. Julie's intervention didn't save us. But I know she hasn't given up. "I won't desert you, Mr F," she said. It was very touching. I wonder if she'd stand by me if I went to jail?

  "My mum will give me hell when I get home," says Frank. He's a herpatologist, you know. When he's not delivering pizzas that is. That's what he was telling me about. About his hobby. "We've been here two hours already," he adds. "How much longer are they going to keep us?"

  "I did think about calling him Gaston," I say. "In honour of the French. I thought it might be noble to give him a french name."

  "And I'll probably lose my job," he continues miserably.

  "I wonder what the world record for frog jumping is?" I ask.

  "Over fourteen feet," replies Frank.

  "Wow," I say. "As far as that." That's clear across our cell. "Spot couldn't jump at all," I add. "He only had three legs, of course. That didn't help."

  I thought talking about frogs would cheer Frank up, but it doesn't seem to be working. I don't know why.

  "I tried putting him in a catapult once," I continue. "But it wasn't very successful. The aerodynamics were all wrong. He was too flat, I think. He used to catch the wind and flip over on his back."

  "You're sick," says Frank suddenly. He looks quite angry. "I think I might report you when we get out of here for cruelty to frogs."

  I'm somewhat taken aback. I didn't think of it as cruel. In fact I thought of Gaston/Spot as my friend. I didn't have many friends. And my mother wouldn't let me have a dog. She wouldn't let me have any pets at all. "I was very careful with him," I say somewhat defensively. "I even varnished him so he wouldn't spoil."

  I think Frank might be going to be sick. He's a funny boy. Seems very small for his age. Very thin legs.

  "I didn't know what else to do with him," I say. "I suppose I could have put him in an album, but I liked having him on display."

  "You should have released him back into the wild if you weren't going to look after him properly," says Frank. "You should have put him in some long grass and let him go."

  "He just fell to bits eventually," I reply. "Couldn't even glue him back together. I think he must have just got vacuumed up in the end."

  "Well I hope you're proud of yourself," says Frank. "Killing a frog like that."

  "Oh I didn't kill him," I say. "He was already dead when I found him. All dried out and flat. I just peeled him off the road."

  "Oh," says Frank.

  "You thought....," I say.

  "Yes," he says.

  "Do I look like a killer?" I ask.

  Frank just looks at me and doesn't answer. We sit in silence for a while. Actually I am a killer, of course. Well, nearly. Well, I will be if I can work out a way. If I ever get out of here. I wonder what Julie is doing? Calling International Rescue I hope. Or the AA. I've always found them very good. I still don't know why we're here. Unless it's a case of mistaken identity, of course. Yes, perhaps they think I'm someone else. Now that I think about it, I did hear one of them talking about 'The Jackal'. That must be it. They must think I'm 'The Jackal'.

  "Have you ever heard of 'The Jackal'?" I ask Frank.

  "What, a wild dog?" he replies.

  "No. No. 'The Jackal'. Frederick Forsyth. 'Day of the Jackal'. You must have heard of it."

  He looks blank and shrugs. I narrow my eyes and put on my mean and smouldering look. Yes, I reckon that's it. They've mistaken me for 'The Jackal'. I can almost feel the bulge of the gun in my shoulder holster. I pat it for reassurance. Frank just watches and says nothing.

  "I suppose you don't know where I could get a gun?" I ask.

  "What sort of a gun?"

  "Just a gun sort of a gun."

  He shrugs. "I only know about frogs," he says.

  "And pizzas," I add. "You know about pizzas."

  He nods in agreement.

  "Actually a bow and arrow would probably do," I continue. Though I must admit I can't imagine The Jackal with a bow and arrow. "Make a bit of a bulge under the suit though," I say.

  "Eh?"

  "A bow and arrow. It would make a bulge under your jacket."

  "I suppose it would."

  We lapse back into silence.

  "Did you know that the indians in South America tip their arrows with poison from a frog?" asks Frank suddenly.

  "No," I say. "I didn't even know frogs were poisonous."

  "This one is. There's enough poison in it to put on over a thousand arrows."

  "Wow," I say. "A thousand." This is even better than Poinsettia.

  "It's called the poison arrow frog," he adds.

  "A good name for it," I reply.

  I wonder where I could get one of those? I bet they
're not in Exchange and Mart either.

  "How much longer do you reckon we'll be here?" asks Frank again. To tell the truth I'm wondering this myself. Maybe they've forgotten us. Perhaps we should try to escape.

  "I saw this film once," I begin.

  "Escape from Alcatraz," says Frank.

  "How did you know?" I ask.

  "Just a guess," he says.

  The door of the cell is suddenly unlocked, and one of my kidnappers steps in. He motions to us to leave. I try to look cool. A cross between 'The Jackal' and Clint Eastwood. I screw up my eyes to narrow slits, and try to walk on the balls of my feet.

  "Do you need the bogg?" asks my jailer.

  I throw him a long, contemptuous glance. "'The Jackal' never drops his pants for anyone but a beautiful woman," I say.

  "Just thought you needed the bogg, that's all, from the way you were walking and screwing up your face," replies the guard.

  We follow him back up to big ear's office. When we arrive he's in conversation with a short, balding man of about fifty.

  "Haven't done a full check, of course," the man is saying, "but it all looks pretty innocuous. The jacket seems to be soaked in starch, lemon scented. And the pine trees are just normal air fresheners. Traces of spirit gum on the tassels. Nothing else."

  "Spirit Gum?" I repeat. "Well I suppose that's one mystery solved at least."

  "The only puzzling item was the foil packet," the man continues. "Just contained some rubber like substance. No idea what, but not narcotic."

  I am about to explain, but 'The Jackal' plays it cool and stays silent.

  Big ears looks disappointed. He turns to me. "I don't know what your game is," he says, "but I guess you think you're pretty smart."

  "Mistaken identity," I say. "You think I'm someone else, don't you?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he says. "Mistaken for who?"

  "Don't be a tease. I heard you. You think I'm him, don't you. You know." I'm still trying to play this cool. My turn to make him sweat now.

  "Who?" he repeats.

  I don't see why I should make it easy for him. "Wild dog," I say.

  "Wild dog?" he repeats.

  "Why do you do that?" I ask. "Why do you repeat everything I say?"

  "Repeat everything you say? I don't."

  "There."

  "There, what?"

  "You just did it?"

  "Just did what?"

  "You did it again."

  This could go on all night, but just then someone comes through the door. Someone I'm very pleased to see.

  "Hello, Mr F," she says. She looks tired. Still lovely, but tired.

  "Mistaken identity," I say.

  "No it isn't Mr F. I know it's you. I recognise you."

  "'Jackal'," I say. They think I'm 'The Jackal'. That's why they've arrested me."

  "No they don't, Mr F. They know you're you. I've explained everything. You can come home now."

  Big ears pushes a box of things over the desk to me. It's my wallet and my jacket and the air fresheners. There are two silver tassels on top. "Just routine enquiries, sir," says big ears. "Thankyou for your cooperation."

  "But what about 'The Jackal'?"

  "In the box with the other things, sir. I should get it dry cleaned if I were you. Come up as good as new it will."

  It's my turn to be mystified now.

  "Your jacket, sir," says big ears. "It's in the box."

  Frank has been standing quietly through all this up to now. "What about the pizza?" he asks. "Who's going to pay for that?"

  I look about for someone to answer, but I think I already know. As I hand over the money big ears clears his throat and says "The boys in forensic said to thank you for the pizza, sir. Very thoughtful they said."

  When we are in the car again there is a question I have to ask Julie.

  "How do you think they stay on?" I ask.

  "What, Mr F?" she replies.

  "It's been bothering me," I say. "Do you think she uses glue?"

  ***

  Geoffrey pulled into the layby in front of the pharmacy and carefully locked the driver's door after climbing from the car. Inside the shop he asked the woman behind the counter for a disposable camera.

  "Twenty four or thirty six?" she asked.

  "Thirty six, I think," he replied. "Yes, a thirty six please, and I need one with a flash."

  ***

  CHAPTER 18

  When I get home Gail is in the kitchen. She bobs her head towards me so that I can kiss her cheek. Why won't she ever kiss me on the lips any more? When did that stop?

  "You're late," she says. "Busy day?"

  "So, so," I reply. "About average."

  "There's a pizza in the oven," she adds. "It won't be long."

  "How did you know?" I ask in surprise.

  "Know what?"

  "About the pizza."

  "I put it there, of course. Who else?"

  She's wearing a skinny red jumper and a straight black skirt over sleek black tights. Even in the kitchen she turns me on.

  I still love her. But I think I love Julie, too. Sometimes life seems very complicated. If I had a gun maybe it would be simpler. Or a bow and arrow.

  "Did you know that there was a frog called the poison arrow frog?" I ask. Now why did I say that? I think I must have gone into brain slip again.

  "Mm," she replies. "That's nice." She's preparing a salad over the kitchen sink.

  "Not that I want one, of course," I continue. I must change the subject somehow. "Wouldn't know where to find one, even if I did. Probably not even in Exchange and Mart."

  "Have you looked on the coffee table?" she asks absent mindedly.

  "The coffee table?" I say. Now why would there be a frog on the coffee table?

  "Yes," she says, shaking lettuce leaves all over the floor. "I tidied it earlier. Didn't notice one though."

  Is she serious? I thought I was the one who was confused. "I don't think you get them around here," I say. "Except in zoos perhaps."

  "I thought I saw you reading it the other evening."

  Now I know she's confused. I thought I understood her once, but now we might as well be speaking urdu to one another.

  "It was an Exchange and Mart you were looking for wasn't it?" she asks. "What is it you're thinking of buying?"

  "Oh, nothing." Not even a peephole bra, I think to myself.

  We lapse into silence. We've been apart a whole day, and now seem to have exhausted all communication in under a minute. Do all marriages go this way? I finish laying up the table for the meal. The aroma of pizza fills the kitchen.

  "Do you still want to go to the zoo this weekend?" she asks suddenly.

  "The zoo?"

  "Yes. The other evening you were talking about elephants. It was when you were reading Exchange and Mart I think. You said you'd like to go to the zoo again. We could go tomorrow if you want. The forecast is good."

  Later, when we go to bed, I find Sandra's silver tassels in my pocket. Gail is undressing on her side of the bedroom. She takes off her skinny red jumper to reveal a cream coloured thermal vest, and below that a no nonsense white cotton bra. I finger the two tassels as I watch her. I wonder if.....?

  "You look deep in thought," she says. "What's bugging you?"

  "Have you ever thought about being a dancer?" I ask.

  "I used to go to ballet lessons when I was small," she replies. "Why do you ask?"

  "Just a thought," I say. "No particular reason."

  As I go to sleep, I tell my brain to dream about Julie, but the message obviously doesn't get through. I spend a restless night being chased by pizza flavoured condoms, or condom flavoured pizzas. It's a very confusing dream.

  Listen. Did you know that topologically speaking you are more closely related to a donut than a pizza? I read that somewhere once. That donut shape is called a torus.

  It's funny that.

  Listen. I'm not making this up. Mathematically you are just a long t
ube. A piece of meat with a hole through it. In topology any solid shape with one surface and a hole through it is a torus. Like a hose pipe, or a wedding ring for example.

  Hey, I've just realised. I'm more closely related to a hosepipe than to my underpants.

  Because my underpants have two holes, silly. Look, if you aren't going to concentrate I shan't tell you this stuff. It could be important one day.

  I don't know why. It just could be. Do you want to stay ignorant for ever?

  I feel a great empathy for donuts. I never eat the kind with a hole through the middle. It would be like eating my brother.

  It's the same with peppermints. I can only eat the solid ones.

  Look. I worry about these things. I can't help it. It's just the way I am.

  We arrive at the zoo just a few minutes after it opens. There aren't many people about yet, but the forecast was right. It's going to be a nice day.

  "Do you have frogs?" I ask as I pay for the tickets.

  "Dunno luv," says the girl who takes the money. "I only work ere. I spec they ave. They've got most things. Lions an that. I should ask someone if I was you."

  "If I were you," I correct.

  "Sorry luv?" she replies.

  "If I were you," I repeat. "Not if I was you. If takes the subjunctive."

  "Why don't you piss off, creep," she says, raising two fingers to me through the glass partition.

  I think of her as a donut. It helps sometimes.

  There are a few other donuts passing through the opposite turnstile. Big ones and little ones. A uniformed donut is leading an elephant across to a sign which says donut rides. Queue here. The elephant is a donut too. But I struggle to see it as an elephant. It flickers between elephant and donut for a while, but finally it stabilises as an elephant. The other donuts slowly resolve themselves into people and keepers. I thought I'd gone for a moment. Hardly worth paying if you see everything as a donut. Might as well go and stand in front of the bread shop.

  "Where shall we go first?" asks Gail. She is studying the guide book which she bought from a kiosk just inside the entrance when I was having my donut attack. I never see her as a donut. Funny that. I never noticed that before.

  "Don't mind," I reply. "Whichever way you like." But I am already walking over towards the elephant. It's skin is hanging off it in great wrinkled folds. They're never as fat as you expect. Their skin always looks two sizes too big.

  It turns it's head towards me and reaches out with it's trunk. I suddenly remember the elephant in the paper with the ping pong balls. The one that choked. I should have brought some with me. Not to choke it with, you understand. But maybe I could have used it to shoot Gail.