Page 72 of Undefined Terms

I eat the biscuit. Go back to the site.

The drill on the east wall, the new lad on the scaffold, the morning that keeps being morning.

I don’t know if that’s enough.

Evening, flat. Celyn’s not here, restaurant shift, and the portacabin’s still in my head. Spoon going round. Digestive. Those four words.

I text Celyn. Don’t know why, just need the thread open.

gaz came to the bar last night. saw us.

Three dots, ten seconds.

I know. I saw him see us.

I look at the screen. The message.

he asked today, at site. said “none of my business”

The dots. Longer this time.

That’s better than most people manage, Ron. Most people make it their business.

The phone on the counter. The mug, one mug, the blue one. The other one’s in the cupboard where I put it before Mum came and never took it back out. I reach into the cupboard. Celyn’s mug. The chip on the rim. The stain inside from six-minute tea.

I put it on the counter. Next to mine.

Two mugs. Where anyone can see them. Where Gaz could see them. Where Mum could.

The flat’s full of other people’s things.

Dave asked today, on the site. Dave doesn’t ask, he states and then walks. He was checking the pour on Block C and I was level-checking and he said: ‘You look like someone who’s made a decision.’ I said ‘about what’ and he said ‘don’t know, you tell me’ and then he left. Just the statement, the implication, the leaving. Dave doesn’t fish. Dave just puts the bait in the water and waits to see what surfaces.

Gaz knew before I did. Or he worked it out. Same thing. He saw the painted nails at the bar and he did the maths and he didn’t say anything which is the tradesman’s code, you keep what you worked out to yourself unless someone asks you to speak. Nobody asked Gaz. He kept it, put it somewhere safe.

Mum’s going to ask. She’s going to see Celyn’s mug and the second toothbrush and how Celyn says my place when talking about my flat like it’s not my place anymore, it’s, something else. The flat’s already changed shape. It’s smaller now, or the same size with more in it. The walls don’t feel close anymore. They feel, held.

Where I want them seen.

Mine, not Gaz’s. Gaz can keep his drawer shut if he wants. Mine’s open.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The pour goes wrong.

The pump clogs at the coupling and the mix backs up and half an hour of work turns into two hours of clearing, hosing, resetting. Dave goes purple. The crane operator radios down to ask if we need a break and Dave tells him where to put the break and the line goes dead.

I’m on the hose, Dean on the coupling, Gaz holding the light because the clouds came in at noon and the third floor’s got no electricals yet. Thomas’s somewhere. Probably the portacabin, probably his phone, probably skiving.

The thing about concrete is: you can’t stop it. Once it’s mixed it’s setting. You’ve got four hours, maybe five, and the clock doesn’t care about your pump or your coupling or Dave’s blood pressure. So you move, you fix. You clear the line and you re-prime and you pour and by the time the mix is in the forms and the vibrator’s running the air pockets out, your shoulders are done and your hands are raw and the light’s going.

I screed the surface with the trowel flat, wrist turning, the same motion every time. The surface goes smooth, good, solid. A surface you’d trust tomorrow.

‘Alright?’ Dean says. Next to me. Both of us on our knees on the boards, the screed between us, the grey surface catching the last of the light.

‘Alright.’

We look at the pour. Two blokes on their knees looking at concrete. The wind picks up. Somewhere below, Dave’s still swearing at the pump.