“I weel leave you with zose words in your ears so you can reflect on zem. But above all, I want you to concentrate on zis very amportant message.” Bonnaire closed his eyes and brought his palms together, as if to pray. The sighing died away and the audience leant forward, straining to hear.
“Fuck us,” he intoned solemnly. “Fuck us!” he yelled.
After a few seconds of absolute silence, a wave of un-suppressible farting guffaws cascaded across the arena. What in God’s name is that lunatic French fancy on about, I thought, an involuntary raspberry escaping my own lips. Sheryl looked down at her notepad, tears welling in her eyes as she tried to suppress her own hysteria.
Our crew-cut friend looked to his fellow guards in panic, eyes bulging. “Silence! Silence!” he whispered aggressively.
Bonnaire opened his eyes, sensing that the crowd’s mood had moved in an unexpected direction. “Er… we must… fuckus,” he faltered. Focus. We must focus, you gigantic Gallic tool. What an epic opening to the conference. This was priceless.
The farting of suppressed guffaws had given way to howls of laughter by now, and the mutiny was unstoppable. A huge bearded man three seats down was having hysterics, holding his sides and roaring with laughter. Our portly crew-cut friend barged his way down our row of seats to remonstrate with him, and as he passed I stuck out a leg, sending him sprawling to the floor, to a renewed roar of approval from the nearby seats.
Starship erupted into life once more, mid-verse and at maximum volume, only for large parts of the audience to join in enthusiastically:
Nothing’s gonna stop us now…
The music was cut abruptly and the main lights came on. The audience participation weakened and petered out. “Ladies and gentlemen,” intoned the compere, “there will be a short break before the next address, by Gatesave’s Sales Director.”
The smiles and camaraderie of the sing-along faded, draining like water into parched desert sand – and for good reason. As every colleague who had experienced the Store Walk could attest, The Director wielded the absolute power of a medieval sovereign. He had the ability to award or remove patronage on a whim. A wave of his hand could mean the closure of a factory and the end of a centuries-old business.
It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the hall. The guards were back in position, looking pleased with themselves. Our nearby tubby friend had dusted himself down and was staring at me vindictively, unsure whether I had tripped him on purpose. Suppliers looked down at their hands or up at the high ceiling. The big bear of a man a few seats down had his eyes closed, no doubt wondering whether his earlier, uncontrolled hilarity might count against him when his business was next up for tender.
There was no need for anyone to be told to quieten down, The Director was nigh. The lights faded and a new anthem burst into life on the great speakers. It was Scorpions’ ‘Wind of Change’. The eerie intro whistle and guitar chords floated across the arena. But instead of an uplifting song of liberation it sounded like a terrifying portent of disaster. The arena was pitch black as the haunting whistle played out. Then a single, pale blue spotlight illuminated The Director, already standing in the middle of the stage, head bowed.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as the lyrics began. The Director raised his blue-bathed head and stared pitilessly at the audience. The verse continued:
Blowing with the wind… of change…
The music faded out and the silence was total, thick with dread.
“The wind of change is indeed blowing.” The Director’s high, cruel voice made Sheryl start. I reached out a supportive hand and laid it on her thigh. To my delight, she put her own hand over mine and held it tightly.
“Change is everywhere. And it should be welcomed.” A huge screen behind The Director glowed into life, showing a long, curving graph of sales versus the number of Gateway suppliers. A click from The Director’s control button and a red circle appeared halfway along the graph.
“As you can see, ninety percent of our sales come from half of our suppliers.” He turned back to the audience and smiled, humourlessly. “Let me put it another way. Half of you supply just ten percent of our sales.” A murmur of concern played across the audience. Sheryl’s hand closed a little tighter on mine.
“Ladies and gentlemen. We have too many suppliers delivering too little value. The wind of change must blow.” The Director smiled again, cold in his circle of blue light. “But we will not be arbitrary or unfair in this process.” His voiced softened to a whisper. “The suppliers who will retain our business will be those most aligned with our core values. Our values of Tolerance, Respect, Understanding and Delivery.”
He sighed. “I found it very disappointing, however, to see those values were in short supply a little earlier, during our CEO’s presentation.” He looked down at a piece of paper. “I would like to invite some suppliers onto the stage. Mr Bennett of Kentish Beansprouts Limited, Mr Filigree of Devon Agribiz Limited and Ms Grindwell of Bagged-4-U Limited, please make yourself known to the helpers and they will guide you onto the stage. Quickly please!”
Mr Bennett, the big bearded chap in our row, emitted a little whimper. “Oh no,” he muttered, shaking his head as he rose. Our nearby crew-cut guard smiled grimly and, with a pudgy arm, gestured towards the stage. Bennett edged past us and walked towards the stage, head bowed, the helper guiding him with a fat palm in the small of his back.
The Director whistled the intro from ‘Wind of Change’ into the microphone, eyes scanning the audience, as the three suppliers were escorted to the front and up the steps to the stage. Bennett was last to arrive, joining Mr Filigree – a thin, bearded man in a tweed suit – and Ms Grindwell, a ruddy-faced lady in a plaid skirt.
The Director stopped whistling. “We have three beansprout suppliers but we only require two!” he declared in a higher-still, slightly maniacal voice. A short-skirted, red-lipsticked flunky skipped across the stage with an envelope and handed it to him, giving a wink and an air-kiss to the audience before skipping off.
The Director tore the envelope open and read the contents, smiling and pursing his own lips in mock surprise. “I’m delighted to announce that Bagged-4-U have scored the highest number of points in our internal review! Ethel Grindwell and her team have proved they live our values of Tolerance, Respect, Understanding and Delivery, every day!” He looked at Ms Grindwell, who raised a fist over her head, her face a picture of grim victory. Bennett and Filigree kept their eyes on their feet.
“Bagged-4-U will continue to supply Gatesave and can look forward to even more business in the year ahead!” boomed the compere’s disembodied voice. A smattering of applause rose from the audience. The short-skirted helper skipped back to centre-stage, linked arms with Ms Grindwell and escorted her back to the steps, where she was handed over to a less attractive colleague for her relieved walk back to her seat.
All eyes returned to The Director. “There can only be two suppliers in the bagged beansprout supply base after today.” He glanced back at his notes, shook his head, then looked up at the audience. “Both Kentish Beansprouts Limited and Devon Agribiz Limited scored exactly the same number of points in our review!” He held out his hands, palms up, in a theatrical gesture of confusion. “So we had to go to penalties! Not an actual shootout,” he added with a mirthless laugh, “but a candid assessment based on behaviours right here, today, at the conference.”
The Director gave a pointed look at the dejected, beaded duo on the stage. “One of our core values is Respect,” intoned The Director, “but there was a disappointing lack of respect earlier when Monsieur Bonnaire was giving his inspirational speech.” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “There is a time for laughter, for revelry, even for… mockery. But that time is not…” his voice rose suddenly, making poor Sheryl next to me start once again, “…is not when the CEO of your greatest, most important, most inspirational customer is addressing you from the very bottom of his heart!”
Even fifty
rows away I could see the little flecks of saliva winking in the spotlight as they were expelled at speed from The Director’s mouth. Poor old bugger, I thought, looking at Bennett, who was visibly sagging. What a show trial! I wondered if they’d actually shoot him live on stage.
“Giles Filigree of Devon Agribiz Limited, congratulations! You have retained your business with Gatesave!” Filigree’s wide eyes and ashen face remained set as he was led back to his seat by a prancing stage-hand.
Bennett remained hunched for a moment and then his legs buckled and he slumped to his knees as the spotlight on him went out. In the half-gloom I saw two burly helpers stride to centre-stage and, each taking an arm, drag our former bagged beansprout supplier to an exit at the far corner of the stage.
The Director was calm once more, the only illuminated presence on the stage. A flunky delivered another envelope. “The household category!” he declared, and Sheryl gave a sharp intake of breath.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered, “I won’t let them take any business away from you.” A complete lie of course, I had absolutely no say in the matter whatsoever.
“Thank you,” she whispered back, her lips just brushing my ear and her hand tightening on my thigh. I felt the familiar rush of blood down below and congratulated myself on my powers of empathy.
“Specifically, pest control for home, garden and pet,” continued The Director.
Sheryl gave a little sigh of relief.
Somewhere from the back of the arena, behind the closed doors, I heard some muffled bumps and raised voices. I wondered if Bennett was raising merry hell before his final ejection from the arena. Good for him, I thought. He was a big chap and I bet he could knock a few of those brown-shirts over before they finally bundled him out.
“We have no fewer than ten suppliers of fly spray, ant powder and deworming tablets,” declared The Director, shaking his head in mock horror. “We only need five. I wonder who will be eradicated today!” he declared with a cynical giggle, to two thousand sickened faces.
The banging and crashing outside became louder, and I heard a couple of screams among the shouts. A few people turned in their seats, but there was nothing to be seen. Maybe Bennett had grabbed a couple of shotguns and was going out in style, I thought idly. That would make it a conference to remember.
I scanned the side aisle of the arena noting the position of the emergency exits, just in case. I’m a big chap, and years of blasting through the opposition’s forwards with a rugby ball under my arm has given me plenty of practice for when things turn gnarly. The commotion was still only audible to the back half of the audience – The Director was oblivious.
“Helpers, please escort to the stage the following suppliers – Mr Peridew of Ants In Your Pants Control Incorporated…”
There was quite a cacophony of thumping by now, and the shouting was accompanied by the sound of smashing glass. A few of the guards, including our crew-cut friend, moved towards the back of the hall, brows furrowed.
“Mr Whelkshell of Tring Worming Limited!”
A sound of splintering wood was followed by a long low moan.
“Sounds as though the Weightwatchers conference has broken for half time” muttered a wag behind me, to a few uncharitable titters.
“Mrs McTavish of Spray It And Slay It Limited!”
There was a series of almighty crashes as the swing doors at the back of the arena were battered open. I jumped to my feet and turned, along with the rest of the audience, but it was dark and impossible to see over the sea of heads, so I leapt onto my chair for a better look and got the surprise of my life.
With a bellow of angry moans and the clattering of heavy hooves, a herd of huge cows barged into the arena, like some middle-management version of the Pamplona bull run. Within seconds the beasts had reached the back rows of the audience and there was a crescendo of yells and screams as people leapt onto their seats, or clambered over to the row in front of them. The cows themselves snorted and tossed their heads, some of them careening into the back row in a tangle of limbs and upturned seats.
Behind the animals, a group of angry rural types shouted and flicked long whips over their heads. Increasingly panicked by the mass of squealing humans, the herd surged forward, splitting into two lanes as they charged down the aisles.
“Mr Singh of Bolton Fleas and Worms Limited…” tailed off The Director, eyes rising from the paper, his eyes and mouth widening in horror as an avalanche of panicked beef hurtled down the aisles toward him.
A tinny, amplified voice with an angry Welsh lilt erupted from the back of the room. “Here’s a little present from Pembrokeshire Dairies, Mr Director!” I spotted a dark-haired giant of a man with hairy forearms, a megaphone in one hand and a whip in the other. “Do you remember me Mr Director? You delisted me last year, so you did. Fair ruined me you did!”
The Director stood on the stage, eyes goggling, mouth opening and closing wordlessly.
“So here’s me and the girls to tell you what we think of your bloody conference!” roared the farmer.
The foremost animals had broken into a gallop by this time and had covered the full length of the arena. The stage itself was some four feet above the ground and I winced in anticipation of the beasts colliding with the solid platform. To my astonishment, the lead cow leapt into the air like a prize steeplechaser and belly flopped rather inelegantly right in front of The Director, who took a couple of steps backwards, transfixed in horror.
With a mighty low, her legs scrabbling to get purchase on the shiny stage, the great black and white Friesian scrambled to her feet and trundled straight at The Director. As the charging animal’s forehead made contact with his chest, he wrapped his arms around her neck, winded face contorted with pain. As she pushed him to the back of the stage he gradually lost his grip and slipped until he was trailing under her hooves. He screamed a single, high, piercing note whereupon, with a bellow of rage, the cow stamped her huge hooves all over his flailing, pathetic body.
“Oh shit!” lilted the Welsh farmer into his megaphone. “That wasn’t supposed to happen!”
The arena was in utter chaos by this time, the rich smell of sweat and animal dung filling the air. Cows at the back of the herd were attempting to nose their way along some of the rows of seats, their bells clanking loudly as they herded the shrieking delegates into bunches. The back exit was now blocked by livid Welshmen cracking whips, while the side exits were jammed by cattle.
I looked at the stage once more. A pair of flunkies were attempting to ward off the cow with chairs but the beast was having none of it, snorting and tossing its head, still raking the Director with her hooves. His limp body was bent into a series of improbable angles. I suspected he’d need a fair bit of physio before he recovered from that little episode.
From my vantage point I spotted a gap in the herd and jumped to the ground. I wrapped a protective arm around Sheryl, my hand quite accidentally finding itself cupping a generous breast. “Time to evacuate,” I declared in my smoothest emergency services voice. As I pushed my way to the exit I passed our crew-cut guard cowering in an alcove, attempting to fend off an irritated animal with a small laptop bag. In an attempt to be helpful, I slapped the creature’s behind and shouted “Banzai!” Gratifyingly, it lowed menacingly and lurched forward, butting our guard in the chest and flinging him hard against the wall.
We reached the somewhat crowded emergency exit and I shouldered my way through the smaller, less assertive delegates, my body shielding Sheryl from the tumbling, panicked crowd. Stamping the cow shit from my shoes and gallantly removing Sheryl’s for her, we climbed into one of the waiting row of black taxis, just outside the arena. “I suspect the after-show party may be cancelled. May I escort you back to your hotel?”
“It’s the Hilton Metropole in Curdworth,” she said to the driver, breathlessly.
“Righto,” answered the driver and he had barely put the taxi into gear before Sheryl’s grateful lips closed over mine. Well, you don�
��t become the Sales Director of a Wigan-based hardware company without a degree of assertiveness, and if there’s one thing I like it’s a woman who knows what she wants.
The following morning, like a true gentleman, I made two cups of tea and retrieved the paper from underneath Sheryl’s hotel room door. ‘Cowmageddon!’ screamed the headline. ‘Gatesave’s posh supplier conference invaded by cattle class!’
I returned to bed and pointed the TV remote. As Sheryl’s sleepy head nuzzled against my chest, I flicked through the channels to the news. I soon found what I was looking for. A solemn looking reporter was interviewing a worker outside the Birmingham Arena. There was a smart corporate photograph of The Director in the corner of the screen, smiling benignly, but it was the caption that caught my attention:
Executive killed, forty-three injured in cattle stampede. Farmers arrested for manslaughter, breach of the peace, multiple counts of animal cruelty.
So there it was – The Director was no more. Never mind, I thought, I’m sure his funeral will be a jolly good send off, packed to the rafters with suppliers anxious to demonstrate their grief and loyalty to the remaining Gatesave board members. And, like any ambitious young buck, my next thought was – who will replace him? There was bound to be a whole cascade of management changes. In short, what might it mean for me?
The answer, of course, was a lot. More than I could have possibly imagined.
5.1
Goods Received
The standard lamp flickered briefly then brightened again. I paused to check my audience were still with me. I definitely had their attention, although they did look a bit stunned. I turned and saw the big man was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the door.
“I think you’ve drunk too much,” commented the woman.
There was nothing left in the bottle, it was true, but I still had a full glass before me. “Wouldn’t you prefer me to drink, officers? Surely it makes me looser-tongued?”
Corkscrew Page 26