The Other Side

THE OTHER SIDE

by

Albert Woods

 

“Get out of here, will you.”

“What's that Sarge?”

“I said, get out.”

“But Sarge, I haven't finished the vacuuming.”

“Finish it later. We've got work to do.”

Thorpie switches off the industrial cleaner; the heavy armature comes to a slow halt and the whining ceases. “It's not right you know,” he moans. “I'm expected to get these rooms done by eleven. The foreman'll...”

“You tell him I chucked you out. If he got you blokes in here earlier, we wouldn't have this trouble, would we.”

“I'm only a part-timer. Just do what I'm told.”

“Exactly; so get out.”

Thorpie wheels the cleaner out into the corridor. The station is a busy place with ‘uniformed kids', as he calls them, rushing up and down; some with clutches of what he imagines to be urgent papers in their hands - others just rushing because everybody else does.

“Now what?”

“Sorry Sarge, but I left my dusters.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake; take them and go.”

“Yes Sarge... Sarge?”

“Huh?”

“What’s that for?”

“What's what for?”

“That. That mirror. What's it for?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Dun'no really. It's just that I was told to keep cleaning it, and make sure it’s spotless. Why do you have a mirror in here?”

“It's a two-way mirror.”

“Oh, I've read about those. You can see right through to the other side, can't you.”

“Yes; now let me get on, please.”

“OK.”

“Hello Thorpie,” says the tea lady in the corridor. “Whad’ya fancy?”

He forms his mouth into a suggestive pout and groans, gutterally.

“Dirty old sod,” she winks. “Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee and a chocolate biscuit.”

“Here you are luv. Twenty-four p.”

“This way please,” a passing constable says to somebody.

“That's the one with the strangled daughter,” says the tea lady.

Thorpie turns to look, but only catches sight of a woman's coat-tail disappearing into the interview room. “They've got one of those two-way mirrors,” he says.

The tea lady nods. “Course they have. So what?”

“Daft name. How can they be two-way mirrors?”

“Well, on one side, you can see right through to the other side.”

“I know. That's exactly what I mean.”

“I'm not with you, luv.”

He bites off a chunk of biscuit. “If you look in one side, you see yourself – and that's a mirror. But if you look in the other, that's not a mirror. So how can it be a two-way mirror? It's only a one-way mirror, surely?” A one-way mirror and a one-way window.”

“See you Thorpie,” the old girl looks skywards, and moves on.

 

“I wish you boys wouldn't do this,” Thorpie complains to a cadet.

“Now what's your trouble?”

“These dog ends in the pissers. Can't you people use ashtrays?”

“Don't look at me. I don't smoke.”

“Well it's not on. I'd like to get hold of the bugger who does it. I'd put a match to his dick.”

“Could be the super. He does; like a chimney.”

“I couldn't care if it’s the chief super. When they come in here they're just the same as you or me...”

“I heard that!” a voice booms from an engaged trap.

“S'cuse me Thorpie,” whispers the cadet, and leaves the toilet.

Thorpie pinches his nostrils for nasal effect. “Will you be long? I've got to swab the place out.”

He gets no answer.

 

“Anyone in there?” Thorpie stops a policewoman emerging from the Ladies.

“No,” she says.

He enters. “What a mess!” Somebody – that one, he imagines - has left a stack of used tissues all over the shelf behind the sinks. They are covered in makeup. And the mirror is spattered with liquid soap. Thorpie sprays it with window polish, humming as he does so. Wouldn't it be funny, he thinks, if this was a so-called two-way mirror? It is mounted on the back wall of the men’s urinals. What a sight that would be. Or maybe not, come to think of it.

 Another policewoman comes in. “Oh my God!” she blurts.

“It's all right. I'm only cleaning. I'll wait outside until you're finished.”

He hangs about for several minutes. The place is heavy with cheap perfume when he goes back in. Now the pans. The women are worse than the men.

 

Eleven o'clock, and the foreman catches up with Thorpie by the dustbins. “I thought I said I wanted you finished inside by now,” he scolds.

“Not my fault boss. Sergeant whatnot threw me out. He's using the room. Says you should have us in earlier in the mornings.”

“I should cocoa, at the money they pay. Anyway, you’re not available til ten, are you.”

“Half-nine,” Thorpie mouths to nobody – the foreman having walked off.

The station litter is always interesting. A lot of it is torn up forms and polystyrene cups. But there’s usually some dirt. Today, Thorpie finds a sex magazine. It looks seedy enough, with the big black 'X' printed across the cover. Here is not the place to read it. He stuffs it into the deepest pocket of his overalls.

“Hello Shagnasty,” says the window cleaner. “Bit old for that sort of thing aren't you?”

“Hello Ratbag,” Thorpie grins. “And not so much of the old. I remember you being a class or two above me at Faraday Junior.”

“See they've got that poor woman in there.”

“What woman?”

“The sex case mother. Anything in the bins about it?”

Thorpie shakes his head. “Haven't noticed. Help yourself.”

“You stand lookout then.”

“Right you are.”

 

Lunchtime sandwiches are eaten in the boiler room. “Anything fruity?” the window cleaner is curious to know.

“No,” Thorpie puts down the magazine. “It's full of homos.”

“Look at this,” a badly scrunched-up statement sheet is offered for perusal. “This'll make your hair curl.”

Thorpie takes a gummy bite on his marmalade sandwich. “Ain't got my reading glasses,” he says. “You read it for me.”

He listens. The lurid details cause the window man to pause for breath more than once. Now, Thorpie is on his browning banana.

“I can't read out the last bit,” says the man. “It’s sick. The nonce ought to have his balls cut off.”

“Best get on,” says Thorpie, wincing at the very notion. “I'll burn the rubbish.”

Whenever there's any burning to be done, Thorpie's mind always goes back to his days in the Boy Scouts, when they would light fires on the waste ground behind the hut and sing campfire songs. “Oh the bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mouneeeeeentain... to see what he could see; and all that he could see, and all that he could see was... the other side of the mountain, the other side of the...”

“Get back inside!”

“Yes boss.”

The odd little room is free for cleaning now.

I suppose it is a sort of mirror on this side, Thorpie has to concede. You get your reflection in the dark glass, until…

Click! A light goes on in the adjoining room.

Now it's a window. The sergeant and the woman are back, and she has moist eyes, Thorpie notices. Women never look so attractive when they've been crying. Crying is a function that betrays grief. A woman can't grieve and be horny at the same time; and Thorpie likes them horny.

He gets on with his cleaning all of a sudden. The sergeant has left the room and might come in here. He doesn't; so Thorpie stops again to study the woman. She’s alone, sitting down with her legs crossed. They're not bad legs, he thinks. She must feel hollow, what with the product of her belly lying cold on a slab. Maybe she'll have another one day. She's not too old. There's no sign of a husband. Perhaps he's dead too. Or maybe they're divorced. Thorpie wouldn't mind refilling her belly for her; but not while she's grieving; not with the salty water on her cheeks.

What a surprise that the window cleaner should have been upset by the report. It was quite rude, apart from the killing bit. The girl didn't even struggle. She must have enjoyed it. Like daughter, like mother, maybe? Thorpie notices that the woman’s eyes have dried, and she’s lighting a cigarette. Her hand shakes a little, but not too much. And she's rummaging through her handbag for something. A tissue? Mascara? No, a gold compact. She looks at her face in the small mirror. Her bottom lip is pushed forward by her tongue, a long fingernail picking at it. Tobacco on the lip, no doubt. She examines the nail then clicks the compact shut. All she does now is smoke. Still, she's hardly likely to do much else in this place.

The odd little room is clean now, and Thorpie can get away. This afternoon, he will go for one of his walks. The route - which he likes to consider at the last possible moment - will ultimately lead him to the Loughbury Road girls' school. It always does; and always around home time. Thorpie likes women, but he much prefers girls. Girls were made to be spoilt; pampered and thoroughly spoiled; and he can forgive them their greed. In fact, greedy girls are the best of all. He melts when their tongues hang out; when they gag for the treats he offers them. Stuffing their mouths is a function that betrays greed; and the more they stuff, the greedier they are - and vice versa.

“Hold on there Thorpie,” the station sergeant stops him at the door. “Spare us a few minutes, will you.”

“I don't know,” Thorpie frowns, looking at his watch. “Why?”

“We're doing an identity parade. We need a couple of extra bodies. Would you mind?”

“I'd rather not.”

“Oh, come on. It won't take long.”

“I read about this once. Some bloke was asked to stand in a line up. It was in America, I think. Anyway, this bloke's a completely innocent passer-by, and the witness picks him out. I don't want to risk that.”

“Don't be daft. We all know you.”

“I'm not so sure you do.”

“Oh, come on.”

Thorpie and the others stand on the mirror side of the two-way mirror. “It's a two-way mirror,” he tells them. A bright light comes on and everybody squints until their eyes adjust. Then the light dims, and somebody opens the door. “Thank you gentlemen,” they say.

“You stay here please, Mister Thorpe,” the officer demands more than requests. They brighten the light again, this time leaving the intercom switched on. “That's definitely him,” he hears a woman's voice accusing.

 

It is four o'clock. Outside the school, a blind newspaper vendor is already crowing about the arrest. “Loughbury girl murder latest!”

The tidal wave of navy blue gymslips breaches the double doors and surges towards the main gate.

“Read all about it! Read all about it!”

Two particularly greedy girls mean to indulge themselves. One, a pretty brunette with a freckled face, tucks the waist of her skirt under the belt so that her legs are exposed right up to the thighs. The other, a blonde, unbuttons the top of her blouse.

“Police holding suspect! Police holding suspect!”

There’s a small shed near the gate. The girls giggle and run inside it. The blonde, who is the greedier of the two, already has her hand under her gymslip. The brunette looks out of the window at the man hanging about in the busy road. She can see out, but he can’t see in.

“Loughbury murder latest! Loughbury murder latest!”

The girls are satisfying themselves when the man opens the shed door. He’s holding a lollipop.

“Christ beanpole!” the brunette jumps. “You frightened the shit out of us.”

“Don't swear. And put out those fags.”

The blonde returns the Marlborough pack to her garter. “Like a bit of thigh, don't you.”

“Yes, on a woman. Now come on...”

“Girl's mother arrested! Girl's mother arrested!”

“...and hurry up. You’re always the last; and I'm not standing out there all night.”

“OK, you old spoilsport,” the brunette pokes out her tongue, defiantly. “Anyone’d think we were kids the way you treat us. See us across your bloody road if you must. Got any sweeties?”

“Possibly;” Thorpie teases, “but you're not getting any until I’ve got you safe on the other side.”

 

 

** ** **

 

© Albert Woods (2013)