The Project

Homepage
Mail the author

The fluorescent lights flickered into life, the total silence of night time punctured by the faint buzzing that accompanied the illumination.
Pushing the door shut behind him, he moved to the centre of the room, the concrete floor causing his footsteps to echo back at him, making it sound as if someone were following very close behind.
He knew it was not the case.
He was alone.
The material was laid out, just as he had left it.
He inspected what lay at his feet, nodding to himself, satisfied, before moving to the workbench on his left, retrieving his toolbox, placing it on the floor next to the materials, moving again, this time to fetch a saw.
That would do.
He had everything he needed.
For now.
Bending down, he set to work.

The days seemed long, minutes bleeding into each other, the clock on the wall of his study seeming as if it were moving backwards rather than forwards, frustrating him.
He tried to force himself not to look at it, managing for two, three minutes at most before his eyes were drawn back to the hands as they crawled around the face, more slowly than seemed plausible.
At lunchtime, she came into the room and spoke to him though, no matter how hard he tried, he could not recall her words, nor even the general sense of what they had discussed.
Five minutes she had remained.
He knew precisely.
And the time had not been spent in silence. Communication had occurred, though the nature of it was hard to define.
Not that it mattered, too much.
Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
Save for the project.
He’d be happy when it was finished, he knew.
They both would, though she failed to see it just yet, choosing instead to berate him, to tell him it was a waste of his time and of their money, but what use money if it meant living in misery? No, finish the project. It was all that mattered. Then look for work. Even if he found a job now, no way he could concentrate until it was finished, anyway.
Best get it done.
But he’d wait until she was in bed, avoiding any spiteful words.
Another minute inched by.

He enjoyed the solitude of the garage, the relative silence, even the smell. Though they had never used it for its primary function – to store a vehicle – it was clear that previous occupants had, and the heady scent of motor oil and galvanised rubber remained, as if clinging to the very substance of walls and floor. When they had first moved in, the place was filthy, and it had taken him several days to clean it to his own exacting standards, removing all trace of dirt or grime that could be seen, yet still the odour remained.
He didn’t mind that.
It reminded him of time spent with his father as a child.
Always practical, his father had taught him many skills, one of which he put to use now, as he worked.
The plane glided across the plank’s surface, the blade kept razor sharp, a curl of wood snaking in a ribbon through the directional slit, like a single lock of the blondest hair, until he brushed it aside, sweeping it to the floor, mentally noting where it fell, ensuring it would be reclaimed when he was done.
Upstairs, someone moved.

The garage door opened and she entered, wearing a mask that screamed fury.
‘What the fuck are you doing? Do you know what time it is?’
He looked her way slowly as if he hadn’t really heard her properly, her words filtered through a dreamy, otherworldly gauze so that the bile she spat was muted, pleasant even.
‘Hi , honey,’ he said, his voice slow, almost slurred.
‘Don’t ‘honey’ me,’ she barked, his odd behaviour only serving to infuriate her further. ‘I can hear that….thing…. upstairs,’ she bawled, jabbing an irritated finger at the wood plane which, though he was not even aware of it, he was still sweeping back and forth over the plank, fresh shavings drifting to the floor around his ankles.
.’I’ll try to keep it down,’ he promised, turning away from her, eyes back on the plank, keen that he not over-plane it, lest he need to start again with a fresh piece of wood.
She eyed him suspiciously.
‘Have you been taking drugs?’ she demanded.
‘Only the ones the doctor tells me to,’ he assured her, a melodious edge to his voice, as if he were about to burst into song. ‘You usually like it when I take my meds, darling,’ he continued in the same manner. ‘Makes me at peace, you say,’ he said, stopping his work, moving towards her, eyes wide, unfocused.
‘Makes me at peace,’ he crooned, singing properly, now, repeating the refrain over and over and, as she stared at him incredulously, he began to sway on the spot, in time to his own melody, before spinning round, a slow, sweeping rotation, dropping the tempo of his song so that he started and finished the flourish on first and last words respectively.
‘You need help,’ was all she said as she left him alone, once more.
Smiling, he returned to his simple tool, and continued to craft.

Two more days and nights past, the tension in the house oppressive during the day, conversation between the pair of them muted, at best.
He did not mind, for he lived for the night, when he could venture once more into the garage and continue with his project.
She’s lost her temper, that was all, he said to himself as he worked, knowing that, once complete, both of their lives would be better.
She’d see.
She’d come round to his way of things, eventually.
One way or the other.

The fluorescent lights flickered into life, the total silence of night time punctured by the faint buzzing that accompanied the illumination.
Pushing the door shut behind him, he moved to the centre of the room, the concrete floor causing his footsteps to echo back at him, making it sound as if someone were following very close behind.
He knew it was not the case.
He was alone.
The project neared completion, as the main construction phase was at an end. Now, all that remained was to proof the construct against the rigours of time.
The varnish had been purchased earlier in the day, and he reached for it, plucking it from the workbench, reaching into his back pocket for a suitable key, digging the pointy end under the rim of the lid, easing it off, careful not to spill. Selecting a small brush from his arrangement, he began to work.
Two hours later, all was ready.
The project was over.
‘Go to bed’ he told himself. ‘Give it time to dry.’
Dropping the paint brush into the pre-prepared jar of white spirit, he turned from his creation, flicked off the lights, and retreated from the room.

He heard her movement along the hallway, not bothering to move himself, knowing from the fleetness of foot that another argument was imminent.
He sipped coffee, too hot, from a mug.
The kitchen door swung inward, and she stood before him, a brown envelope clutched in her hand, which she brandished in his direction, as though it were a weapon which, in a way, he thought, it was.
‘Another one,’ she hissed, eyes narrowed to slits; accusatory.
‘I can see that.’ Non-committal.
‘That all you got to say?’ she demanded.
‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked, keeping his tone even, without any real effort.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, sarcasm dripping from the tongue as her eyes rolled dramatically. ‘Maybe some kind of acknowledgement. Some indication that you are aware of our predicament.’
‘I know the situation,’ he said.
‘Do you? Do you really? Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it.’ She planted her hands on her hips, now, every bit the cliché, the brown envelope still palmed so that it became scrunched up in her grip.
‘Do you want me to throw a hissy fit like you? Would that help?’
He knew his words were provocative, had been unable to contain himself, despite his best intentions, and his statement had the expected effect, as her cheeks reddened, and fury boiled in her eyes. She threw the envelope at him, scurrying across the kitchen and, for a moment, he feared she may have been going for a knife but, instead, she reached behind the bread bin, pulling out a fresh pile of envelopes, all brown, all opened, though read by only one of them.
‘Hissy fit?’ she demanded. ‘Like this?’
She balled one of the letters up tightly and launched it at him, striking his cheek before he had time to swat it away.
‘Like this?’
Another one came his way, though this time he was ready, brushing the projectile aside.
‘Is this what you mean?’ she screeched, hurling another.
‘Pack it in,’ he said, exasperated, now.
‘I’ll pack it in when you get a fucking job,’ she bellowed, ‘When you start providing for this household. That’s when I’ll pack it in, you idle piece of shit.’
He clambered from his stool, and wandered from the kitchen, her continued jibes nought but background noise.

He put a shoulder firmly against the wooden edge, pushing, pushing, but nothing moved.
Irritated, he tutted, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, forced to change strategy, placing hands, palms flat, on the top wooden surface, dragging down, pivoting left, dragging down, pivoting right, walking the damned thing along the concrete flooring of the garage, too stubborn to ask for help, refusing the opportunity for more taunts such a request would present.
Sweating but undaunted, he continued the steady procession.

It was in place in his study and, as he lugged the final cardboard box up the stairs, dropping it with the other four already retrieved, he stood back to admire his handiwork.
Six feet in length, five feet in height, the bookcase fit perfectly against the far wall, the pine varnish finish complementing the wallpaper perfectly, just as he had planned.
He opened up the nearest cardboard box, scooping inside, retrieving three books, stepping forward, pushing them into place on the top shelf of six. No need to worry about organising them into alphabetical order just yet, that could be a job for another day, a way to fill the void of time that yawned before him, seemingly without end. More books were pulled from the box, slotted into place and, as he worked, the endless time which seemed to serve as punishment for his employment status mellowed, fuzzed at the edges, became blurry and, just as when he had been constructing the bookcase in the garage, he felt an inner calm, a peace and sense of well-being that, for so long, had eluded him.
‘Is this it?’
He had been so absorbed, he had not heard her approach, her voice startling him, plucking him from that zone of tranquillity back into the all too painful now.
‘Yeah. What do you think?’
He stood upright, crossed his arms, nodded his head involuntarily, admiring the product of his labours proudly, certain that, now that she saw it, she, too, would be pleased.
‘What a waste of fucking time.’
For a moment, the words did not fully register, so in contrast to the expected response were they.
‘But…’ he struggled to formulate a coherent sentence. ‘But….it’ll make our lives better.’
‘What?’ Consternation and anger; fused.
‘Don’t you see? We can organise. We can put things how they should be: just right.’
‘Is this really what you’ve been doing?’
‘Just say you like it. Please. It’ll be better if you do.’
His voice sounded pathetic to his ears, pleading almost, but he need not have worried.
It was as if she had not heard him at all.
You should have been looking for work, you lazy bastard, not making this…this….thing.’
As she finished the sentence, she struck out a foot, kicking at the side of the bookcase.
‘Don’t do that. Please.’
He spoke softly, the words barely above a whisper, and felt a slight spasm just above his left eye.
‘It doesn’t even look right,’ she said, a sneer to her tone, now, the foot lashing out once more, leather striking wood.
‘I asked you not to do that,’ he said.
‘Look how deep the shelves are,’ she mocked, grabbing at one of the books on the top shelf, pulling it back and forth, back and forth, illustrating the five or six inches of extra wood in front of the books, even as they were lined up, in position.
‘You’ve fucked it up,’ she said, and there was laughter in her voice, now. ‘You can’t even make a bookshelf? What kind of man are you?’
Still she had not released the book she had been holding, sliding it to the edge of the shelf, then back into position over and over again.
‘I knew I should have married your brother,’ she spat, at the same time sweeping an arm across the shelf, the force sufficient to propel the books that had been positioned outwards, off the shelf, scattering left and right, some landing correct side up, others flapping open as they fell, landing awkwardly, pages creasing.
‘You bitch.’
She stared at him, open mouthed at his defiance.
‘What did you call me?’ she demanded, but she never heard the reply.
The blow landed before she even saw it, his clenched fist connecting with her left temple, her legs giving out instantly, knees turned to mush, unable to support her weight, reddened saliva spraying from where her tongue had mashed between her teeth and, as she fell, her head snapped to the right.
Still conscious as her body struck the floor.
Still conscious as she felt his weight clamber on top of her.
Still conscious as the next two blows found her face.
Not conscious after that.

Total darkness..
Her head throbbed and, on her tongue, a copper-metallic taste.
She tried to move, but found her hands and feet were bound savagely, so tight that any attempt to move them caused pain in ankles and wrists.
She blinked her eyes, twice, three times, proving that they were truly open, despite the lack of stimulus.
She tried to swing upwards, from the waist, but her head struck something hard, a couple of inches above her.
She tried to scream, but the gag prevented her.

He felt the movement, as he knew he must, but took no action, continuing to munch slowly, thoughtfully on his cheese sandwich.
He wondered how long it would take.
Wondered how long she would struggle for.
The project had worked out perfectly.
The bookcase was not too wide at all. In fact, the bookcase was just right.
Exactly as planned.
Removable shelves.
A depth sufficient to meet his needs.
If only she could have seen it his way.
Still, he was pleased.
He chewed his sandwich.
Stood.
Moving quickly, he placed the four full cardboard boxes on top of the bookcase.
From within, sounds of movement continued but, externally, nothing shifted.
He sat down to wait, a ghost of a smile teasing at his lips.

© Ian Stevens (2012)
Mail me