Free This is the Life by Joseph O'Neill Page B

mixed biscuits, a mixed biscuit-box
, Donovan said twice. Then he said,
Red lorry, yellow lorry, red lorry, yellow lorry, red lorry, yellow lorry
at rapid speed, without hesitation or slip-up.
    Tongue-twisters! He was rattling off tongue-twisters!
    The sixth sheikh’s sixth sheep’s sick
, Donovan said clearly.
The sixth sheikh’s sixth sheep’s sick.
He paused.
She sells seashells on the seashore, but the seashells that she sells are not seashells I’m sure.
    Donovan, the voice on the tape, started laughing. He laughed for about three seconds, then abruptly stopped the recording, cutting himself off in mid-cackle. I did not get it. What was so funny? I asked myself. Where was the meaning in any of this?
    How was I to know then that, in all probability, Donovan was not drunk, or out of his mind, but simply happy? That he was laughing from simple joy? Like I have said, when it comes to cryptic clues, to inklings, I am a numbskull at the best of times. I need data, lots of data, and I need a systematic overview – my mind is not designed to take short cuts or frog-leaps. Step by step, that is how I like it, one thing at a time,
a
and then
b
followed by c. Of course I should have worked out what was going on in no time at all, I do not dispute that. I should have cracked the problem right away. But that is not my method, and besides, I was exhausted and nervous; I felt ill at ease in that house, doing what I was doing – I felt like a trespasser. It was cold and dark, my clothes were still damp, and the sound of Donovan’s voice echoing in the silence made me jumpy. The dripwater was no help either, tapping and ticking on the window-pane like drumming fingers. I started hearing noises – slamming car doors and scratching sounds like the sounds of door locks turning. What would I say if Donovan came in now?
    Suddenly I became overcome with guilt. What did I think I was I doing, poking and peeping around Donovan’s private belongings? Had I gone mad? Feeling slightly sick, I covered my tracks as best I could, watering the Bushmills in the bottle and putting the tapes back in their rack. All I wanted to do was leave, quickly. When I had finished, I stood still for a moment and made myself think: was there anything else? Had I forgotten anything? No, but I did need to visit the lavatory, badly.
    The lavatory was large and comfortable, with a mahogany seat and an interesting variety of illustrated magazines within easy reach; some embroidered prayers were pinned to the wall. As there are few things more tranquillizing and inducive of meditation than an easeful spell in a soundproof cubicle, I found their presence entirely congruous. I sat down with a sigh of relief and rose five minutes later feeling infinitely better – freer, less oppressed. I helped myself to a generous portion of paper and it was not until I tugged the chain that things began to go wrong: a feeble dribble of water flushed down, barely enough to soak the paper I had used. I pulled up my trousers, fastened my belt and waited for a few moments for the tank to replenish itself. There was no need to panic, a second flush would do the trick. But when I pulled the chain the gushing cataract I was hoping for did not arrive: in its place came an ineffectual trickle which made no impact whatsoeveron the brown and white mound in the pool at the bottom of the basin.
    The water: Donovan had switched off the water supply before he left.
    This was a disaster. I had to do something, or Donovan would come home to a pile of faeces, my faeces. I ran down the stairs to the basement in a sweat. A switch, or a tap, there had to be one somewhere. Walking down a steep and rickety wooden staircase, I came into a room like a refinery, full of gurgling boilers, tanks and mechanisms. As there was not the slightest prospect of pinpointing the water tap, I activated the likeliest looking appliances that I could see. Then I ran back up the stairs.
    Nothing. Not the smallest