Perhaps he gave her the idea for the Chair?
The Index does not tell us whether we will know how she conceived of the idea to put him in the Chair. We will not be told with whom she conceived Martin John. It’s none of your business, she’d reply to both them questions. (That would be a them situation. Them asking what’s not theirs to know.)
(From the doctor’s notes:)
The patient believes external forces are putting him “in the chair.”
There are whispers. Three times a whisper. What they don’t know, what they know and what they can’t know because Martin John doesn’t tell them
He is whispering now. You may find it hard to hear him. Lean in. Try to breathe quietly. You may kick the leaves between the whispers.
What Martin John doesn’t tell the doctors, doesn’t tell mam, doesn’t tell a soulful sinner, wouldn’t tell you, except for this Meddler letting you know, is his knowledge Baldy Conscience is after him FULL-TIME, OVERTIME AND DOUBLE TIME. The man is dedicating his life to humiliating and eviscerating Martin John. He must patrol his home, as well as his work, from which he is presently barred, but this has not deterred his patrols. Security will report on the presence of the non-desired former security guard. You can suspend him, tell him he has no job, but you cannot stop Martin John from patrolling. HE MUST GIVE THEM SOMETHING TO DO. HE MUST BE ALERT. The moment Baldy Conscience has plotted will unroll. He is determined to be a witness to this plot. THE MAN IS COMING FOR HIM. THE MAN IS HERE. ALMOST.
He put me in the Chair, he will eventually tell them when they find him. He will be pointing upwards at the roof when he says it. What will follow is howling protest about the pain in his knee as the firemen try to lift him.
Technically it was mam who gave him a full bladder.
The full bladder thing. That pressure thing.
The pressure from the full bladder thing.
That full bladder pressure that he liked the sensation of. That he never wanted to empty.
That becomes a sexual turn-on.
That forces him to walk even more circuits on the job.
The actual reason he is walking circuits.
To avoid going to the toilet.
To keep his bladder full.
His bricked up bubble.
Right above his exit hose.
The power in the discipline that such control provided: the agony and high of harbour. Every twinge. Each pressure a pleasure. Each demand he piss — refused. Sent to the back of the line. Then, when he eventually did piss — it wouldn’t come out. Gah the beauty in that! His bladder’s refusal to perform until finally it gave way to an aaah. Sometimes when it would not come out, he would hold it longer. If he could have held ’til it came back up his throat, he would have tried.
After came cramps. He welcomed them. Like he had boiled the pan dry and waited to hear crackled confirmation.
IF MAM TOLD HIM TO DO IT
IT WAS RIGHT
RIGHT?
He was forever not listening to her. He had failed to latch. She told him that. You didn’t latch on then and you don’t latch on now.
Now he had listened.
STOP going upstairs, she said.
She was right.
He liked his bladder full.
Steaming full. Ah Ah Ah Full. Up that hill full. Further full. Further. Further. Further.
His bladder would be plenty full if he never went upstairs. If he never went upstairs then he never went to the toilet.
Eventually he would have to let it out because of the other thing, but even the other thing can be kept at bay he has discovered.
You know, the fella at work said.
You know, the fella at work who had just caught Martin John with his pants down to his ankles claiming he’d spilled a bottle of HP sauce on them said.
You know, the fella at work, who returned to the toilet, claiming he’d left an umbrella said.
— That’s a serious spill. How did it happen? I’m keen to avoid it.
The man is seeking an explanation as to why he, not five minutes ago, found Martin John with his trousers not just down, but very, very down with his dangles dehors the usual standard Y-fronts that housed them.
It’s drying out, Martin John had said calmly. I have to keep it out until it’s dry. Once it is dry I will pack it all back up.
— You know, the man said, I don’t understand how it soaked all the way through to your skin when there is a double layer of cloth. He is indicating Martin John’s hands, which surround-pound his member and make little effort in the supposed quest of mopping up a complete absence of any sauce spill whatsoever.
Umbrella man was lying. Umbrella man was digging. A digger. Martin John knew the signals. What none of this lot knew was he was living with Baldy Conscience, the sneakiest pig on this earth, so there was nothing that could travel past Martin John. He was Baldy Conscience trained. BC Certified. He wasn’t fooled. This was no Innocent Inquiry. It was in his arse. He was angry. Rain will fall, he told himself.
Rain will fall was what he said when he was angry. Rain will fall, he told the fella.
He, misplaced umbrella man, moved away with a look that Martin John trusted even less. Rain will fall, Martin John shouted after him.
I was in the men’s toilet, how would Sarah have seen me so? Is she there often? How would she imagine she’d come upon me if she had to go in and clean? We never work the same shifts.
In reply to the question by the Manager fella, Martin John assured him he was not in the habit of spilling a bottle of sauce on himself, so it was unlikely to be a regular occurrence.
But, he added, in the event the Manager fella might be having concerns about him, what would the Manager fella propose he, Martin John, do if, say, his access to bathing facilities was temporarily or for a period of time unavailable? Such as was the case in this circumstance.
The Manager fella would go to the sports centre. London is full of them. Look at the state of people after they play squash. Martin John has his answer and his solution and would hold the Manager fella in ever-rising regard. The man was a ringmaster of solution.
He could see him (the Manager fella) lassoing Baldy Conscience and making him ride stood up on a horse ’til his face turned green and his eyes popped as he surrendered Martin John’s front door keys. He imagined eating Christmas dinner with the Manager fella and his family. He felt they understood each other. The Manager fella clattered him on the back and reminded Martin John he was the most punctual person who’d ever worked for him, but there was only so much he could turn a blind eye to. Martin John assured him militarily that whatever had concerned him would only get worse. There was a blank pause where both men nodded and neither man addressed the puzzling adjective. It went the way such meetings always went. For Martin John, any new information, even if it were robust criticism, was a victory. For the Manager fella, worried Martin John was increasingly unhinged, but still he appreciated a reliable worker. Plus the woman who complained about this Irish man also complained about every other man in the place. It was a mistake to hire a woman in these circumstances, but the equal opportunities person had rung and threatened she’d turn his twisties if he didn’t do something about the sorrowful state of the workforce on that site. He had deliberately hired the fattest woman he could find because he felt fat women were the right people to sort out problems. It had proven true. He now realized he was a manager who did not want to sort out problems. Just wanted staff to behave so he could be at home by 8 pm and the phone would not keep ringing.