this to happen why did I keep thinking up ways of killing her,’
he thought at two o’clock. ‘Sane people don’t go for walks with a Labrador and devise schemes
for murdering their wives when they can just as easily divorce them.’ There was probably
some foul psychological reason for it. Wilt could think of several himself, rather too
many in fact to be able to decide which was the most likely one. In any case a
psychological explanation demanded a degree of self-knowledge which Wilt, who wasn’t
at all sure he had a self to know, felt was denied him. Ten years of Plasterers Two and
Exposure to Barbarism had at least given him the insight to know that there was an answer
for every question and it didn’t much matter what answer you gave so long as you gave it
convincingly. In the fourteenth century they would have said the devil put such thoughts
into his head, now in a post Freduian world it had to be a complex or, to be really up to
date, a chemical imbalance. In a hundred years they would have come up with some
completely different explanation. With the comforting thought that the truths of one
age were the absurdities of another and that it didn’t much matter what you thought so
long as you did the right thing, and in his view he did, Wilt finally fell asleep.
At seven he was woken by the alarm clock and by half past eight had parked his car in the
parking lot behind the Tech. He walked past the building site where the workmen were
already at work. Then he went up to the Staff Room and looked out of the window. The square
of plywood was still in place covering the hole but the pile-boring machine had been
backed away. They had evidently finished with it.
At five to nine he collected twenty-five copies of Shane from the cupboard and took
them across to Motor Mechanics Three. Shane was the ideal soporific. It would keep the
brutes quiet while he sat and watched what happened down below. Room 593 in the
Engineering block gave him a grandstand view. Wilt filled in the register and handed out
copies of Shane and told the class to get on with it. He said it with a good deal more vigour
than was usual even for a Monday morning and the class settled down to consider the
plight of the homesteaders while Wilt stared out of the window, absorbed in a more
immediate drama.
A lorry with a revolving drum filled with liquid concrete had arrived on the site and
was backing slowly towards the plywood square. It stopped and there was an agonising wait
while the driver climbed down from the cab and lit a cigarette. Another man, evidently the
foreman, came out of a wooden hut and wandered across to the lorry and presently a little
group was gathered round the hole. Wilt got up from his desk and went over to the window. Why
the hell didn’t they get a move on? Finally the driver got back into his cab and two men
removed the plywood. The foreman signalled to the driver. The chute for the concrete was
swung into position. Another signal. The drums began to tilt. The concrete was coming.
Wilt watched as it began to pour down the chute and just at that moment the foreman looked
down the hole. So did one of the workmen. The next instant all hell had broken loose. There
were frantic signals and shouts from the foreman. Through the window Wilt watched the open
mouths and the gesticulations but still the concrete came. Wilt shut his eyes and
shuddered. They had found that fucking doll.
Outside on the building site the, air was chick with misunderstanding.
‘What’s that? I’m pouring as fast as I can.’ shouted the driver, misconstruing the
frenzied signals of the foreman. He pulled the lever still further and the concrete flood
increased. The next moment he was aware that he had made some sort of mistake. The foreman
was wrenching at the door of the cab and screaming blue murder.
‘Stop, for God’s sake stop,’ he shouted. ‘There’s a woman down
he thought at two o’clock. ‘Sane people don’t go for walks with a Labrador and devise schemes
for murdering their wives when they can just as easily divorce them.’ There was probably
some foul psychological reason for it. Wilt could think of several himself, rather too
many in fact to be able to decide which was the most likely one. In any case a
psychological explanation demanded a degree of self-knowledge which Wilt, who wasn’t
at all sure he had a self to know, felt was denied him. Ten years of Plasterers Two and
Exposure to Barbarism had at least given him the insight to know that there was an answer
for every question and it didn’t much matter what answer you gave so long as you gave it
convincingly. In the fourteenth century they would have said the devil put such thoughts
into his head, now in a post Freduian world it had to be a complex or, to be really up to
date, a chemical imbalance. In a hundred years they would have come up with some
completely different explanation. With the comforting thought that the truths of one
age were the absurdities of another and that it didn’t much matter what you thought so
long as you did the right thing, and in his view he did, Wilt finally fell asleep.
At seven he was woken by the alarm clock and by half past eight had parked his car in the
parking lot behind the Tech. He walked past the building site where the workmen were
already at work. Then he went up to the Staff Room and looked out of the window. The square
of plywood was still in place covering the hole but the pile-boring machine had been
backed away. They had evidently finished with it.
At five to nine he collected twenty-five copies of Shane from the cupboard and took
them across to Motor Mechanics Three. Shane was the ideal soporific. It would keep the
brutes quiet while he sat and watched what happened down below. Room 593 in the
Engineering block gave him a grandstand view. Wilt filled in the register and handed out
copies of Shane and told the class to get on with it. He said it with a good deal more vigour
than was usual even for a Monday morning and the class settled down to consider the
plight of the homesteaders while Wilt stared out of the window, absorbed in a more
immediate drama.
A lorry with a revolving drum filled with liquid concrete had arrived on the site and
was backing slowly towards the plywood square. It stopped and there was an agonising wait
while the driver climbed down from the cab and lit a cigarette. Another man, evidently the
foreman, came out of a wooden hut and wandered across to the lorry and presently a little
group was gathered round the hole. Wilt got up from his desk and went over to the window. Why
the hell didn’t they get a move on? Finally the driver got back into his cab and two men
removed the plywood. The foreman signalled to the driver. The chute for the concrete was
swung into position. Another signal. The drums began to tilt. The concrete was coming.
Wilt watched as it began to pour down the chute and just at that moment the foreman looked
down the hole. So did one of the workmen. The next instant all hell had broken loose. There
were frantic signals and shouts from the foreman. Through the window Wilt watched the open
mouths and the gesticulations but still the concrete came. Wilt shut his eyes and
shuddered. They had found that fucking doll.
Outside on the building site the, air was chick with misunderstanding.
‘What’s that? I’m pouring as fast as I can.’ shouted the driver, misconstruing the
frenzied signals of the foreman. He pulled the lever still further and the concrete flood
increased. The next moment he was aware that he had made some sort of mistake. The foreman
was wrenching at the door of the cab and screaming blue murder.
‘Stop, for God’s sake stop,’ he shouted. ‘There’s a woman down
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