by Drew Davies
JoJo comes back to the journey at hand as they reach their destination. The cabby drops her outside The Economist building – the fare is twenty-one pounds but when he sees the scrunched-up ball of twenties, he lets her off the pound coin.
Inside, JoJo asks for Belinda but when the receptionist asks what it’s regarding, JoJo’s mind draws a blank. What was it for? She starts to feel foolish, but before she can say anything, the receptionist smiles at someone beside her.
‘Ah, Belinda, perfect timing – this woman is here to see you.’
‘Yes, hello?’ says Belinda, turning towards JoJo, ‘can I help?’
She knows me, thinks JoJo in her faraway mind, she must recognise me from a photo or have seen me from the car, and then she’s cognisant of something else. A hand – her hand – whizzing past her right ear and hitting Belinda square on the jaw with a deliciously satisfying smacking noise.
Six
Let’s pause, briefly, to talk about the weather. Oh yes, the weather, the weather, the odious weather! Sluggish jet streams are the culprit, we’re told, water vapour in the atmosphere. While rain in Paris or snow in Moscow might be romantic, the people of London take their meteorological shortcomings personally. Londoners worry that they are grey, damp, predictable and disappointing. They take refuge in dank pubs and darker pints, and behind their famous grumblings.
But lo! ’Tis a front! Yes, London is wet, but wetter still are Rome, Brisbane, New York, Tokyo and Rio de Janeiro. London might be cool, but its climes are warmer than Seattle, Toronto and (less convincingly, perhaps) Dublin. And those relentless blue Californian skies bring only wild fires. Your tropical heat? – malaria. Indeed, blank out the cities not afflicted with earthquakes and volcanoes or ten months of snow and you’ll discover something curious, something known by rich Arabs and students from the Gulf. London can be quite pleasant. Quietly, its citizens know this too, but look what happened when people discovered Spain’s agreeable weather, the place was overrun by sun-seeking holidaymakers and retirees… As a buffer then, Londoners spin climatic bleakness with the same diligence they once built defensive walls against the Romans.
* * *
That being said, October is particularly depressing, with a dissatisfying summer yielding to the beginnings of a long cold winter, and only the countdown to Christmas any less appealing.
Adam, though, is in an unseasonably good mood. He was always happier when he had a routine. There was the issue of the early starts, which he’d set as a precedent that first morning, but they were easily overcome. To begin with, he hid at a local greasy spoon, but he worried Patrick might see him (and the smell of cooked fat began to linger in his suit) so he devised a better solution. Each morning, while Patrick was still asleep, Adam threw on a robe, made a cup of tea in the kitchen and – checking twice he had his keys – exited the flat. After shutting the door with a healthy slam, he opened the hatch to the hallway cupboard under the stairs, sitting inside quite happily – sipping tea and reading The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People by candlelight – until Patrick finished his ablutions and left for work. Adam could then return to his (still cosily warm) bed for an extra few hours of contented sleep before heading to the gym, buying supplies at the supermarket and arriving at Mercer and Daggen to coincide with the post-lunch rush. The turnstiles were child’s play now – the security guard even acknowledged him with a nod. Once on the fifth floor, Adam would make his usual pit stop at the men’s bathroom and leg it up the stairs.
The top floor of the building was smaller than the ones below – about two thirds the size – owing to an area of roof space Adam imagined was once used by executives to smoke cigars, but was now strictly no access. Although its square footage was smaller, the sixth floor felt more cavernous as it was empty save for a few haphazard piles of broken furniture, old filing cabinets and shabby room dividers. The open-plan arrangement had presented a challenge to Adam, but his office – well, his day office – was a construction he was proud of. He had created a hideaway in the shape of a lean-to against the far western wall using three large desktops, layered so he could see movement from the door without being detected himself. The trick was to give the structure the appearance of a random collection of furniture rather than an organised entity (Adam would have preferred to shield himself further with filing cabinets, but this made it appear too much like a hut). After completing his new working quarters, he’d cleared the carpet of glass, nails, and mean little chips of metal, before settling inside – and just in time…
The frequency of visitors had surprised Adam: electricians testing the lights, security guards on late afternoon rounds (he now thought of them as sleepy night-time ‘Jekylls’ or brutish daytime ‘Hydes’), and most annoyingly, workers from the lower floors on their mobile phones. Imagining they were alone, these employees shouted conversations into their handsets and roamed the space, pulling at dangling wires, picking holes in the walls or perching awkwardly on bits of furniture. And what had happened to manners? Even Dian Fossey would have recoiled at the bogey wiping, bollocks scratching and crotch groping Adam was now witness to. The conversations were no less graphic: calls to drug dealers, mistresses, recruitment agents and a whole host of other seedy underworld types.
Mostly, however, Adam was left in peace. When he arrived for the day, he took off his shoes (he left his jacket on – there was no central heating on the sixth floor) and scooted inside the hideaway. He no longer felt claustrophobic in the slightest. The only issue was how to get comfortable: the angle of the lean-to meant he couldn’t sit upright, and his feet poked out if he lay on his stomach, so he had to sit slightly hunched to one side against the wall, swapping position every half hour to avoid neck pain. Sometimes he worried all the time spent in enclosed spaces might be affecting him psychologically (would he develop into some type of mole-person, for example, and become sensitive to light?), but his afternoons were busy, what with all the documents to read for his master plan, and he felt cheerful enough.
At roughly seven o’clock – as the sun was setting – Adam would pack up his things and begin the journey downstairs. Once on the stairwell, he would crouch on the third step, listening. He had discovered he could tell how many people were in the building by the frequency of the elevator cars. If both lifts were motionless, the left one would respond to a call first, making a slightly different sound (a raspier whirring). Using this aural cue, Adam was able to keep a mental running narrative as the building emptied out: ‘Lefty on two, Righty on three. Long delay on two [the accountants were chronic door holders]. Righty on ground, now on four for a quick pick-up [the doors shutting almost as soon as they opened meant a single passenger, entering quickly and jabbing the ‘close’ button].’ When the lifts had all but stopped for the day, Adam would amble down the stairwell, giving the elevator shaft one final pat for luck and feeling quite proud of his new skill, until he realised that being an ‘elevator whisperer’ was never going to win him a girlfriend, and perhaps explained why he didn’t already have one.
17:41 Daisy has logged on
* * *
17:47 Daisy has logged off
* * *
21:52 Daisy has logged on
* * *
21:54 Daisy: hi
* * *
21:54 Daisy: :)
* * *
21:55 Daisy: Could we talk?
* * *
22:16 Daisy has logged off
* * *
22:30 Daisy has logged on
* * *
22:33 Daisy: *waves*
* * *
22:33 Daisy: ok how about a joke?
* * *
22:33 Daisy: Why did the scarecrow win a Nobel Prize?
* * *
22:34 Daisy: He was out standing in his field
* * *
22:38 Daisy: ?
* * *
23:04 Daisy: tough crowd :/
* * *
23:38 Daisy: So
* * *
23:39 Daisy:
Night
* * *
23:51 Daisy has logged off
The daytime occupant of the corner office – the one Adam slept in on the night he found the security card – exhibited three agreeable habits. First, he regularly travelled overseas (Adam found the boarding stubs in the wastepaper basket). Secondly, when he was in London, he liked to vacate the office by seven, and finally, before departing for the day, he closed the blinds and left the door unlocked. That meant Adam only had the stragglers working at their cubicles to get past, but so cocooned were they behind headphones and monitors, he could’ve cartwheeled naked down the aisles without attracting much attention.
The smell of well-worn leather, furniture polish and aftershave greeted Adam as he entered the corner office. Keeping the lights off, he would adjust the blinds to allow him to see movement from the workstations outside, before taking his place behind the desk. He was vigilant not to disturb anything as he settled himself – even a stapler pointing in the wrong direction could alert someone to his presence. There was another reason he was so careful: he felt a connection to the daytime occupant – a kinship even. Out of respect, Adam left the drawers of the desk unopened; the cupboard next to the windows untouched.
He couldn’t resist a little snooping, but he kept it to a minimum: only personal effects on public display. Of these, there were few. Except for a passport-sized photo of a smiling blonde girl of about ten tucked into a framed letter above the desk, the walls were bare. On the desk sat a giant screen attached to a bulky system unit by a clutch of cables (someone had helpfully written ‘Push this too’ on a white sticker above the monitor button) and next to it, a pen holder containing a small battery powered fan with a hot pink propeller and sixteen pencils, all ferociously sharp.
The only discovery of any intrigue was a box of Hawaiian girl figurines, tucked away on the shelf like a dirty (hip-swaying) secret. The hula girls were different shapes and sizes – a few brazenly bare breasted – but all were engraved on their base with a date in six-digit form, ranging the past twenty years. Adam wondered what the dates signified – promotions perhaps, or to mark some office tomfoolery? – as one of the figurines sprang to life, gyrating and singing ‘Rock-a-hula Baby’, prompting a girly cry from Adam and ten minutes under the desk in case anyone came to investigate.
Each night, at nine o’clock, after he’d snooped and studied sufficiently (Adam tried to go home as late as possible so that he wouldn’t have to spend the evening making up lies to Patrick), he’d wander around the cubicles, or if he was feeling bold, he might visit one of the lower floors.
It was on one of these expeditions, while making a cup of tea in the first-floor kitchenette, that Adam happened upon someone he recognised.
‘Hello,’ said the pretty woman, as Adam’s panicked brain scrambled to remember how he knew her. The woman casually filled the kettle, switched it on and leant her hip against the counter, examining the red painted nails on her left hand.
‘I’m Cara, I work downstairs,’ she said, glancing up when she noticed Adam staring at her. ‘On reception.’
‘Yes, of course! I didn’t recognise you out of c-context. Of the r-reception.’
‘And I’ve dyed my hair blonde.’
‘So you have,’ Adam said. ‘It’s very nice.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Cara replied. ‘Everyone keeps giving me funny looks.’
‘They probably think you’re the evil twin.’ At that, Cara gave Adam a funny look, but not the usual one people gave him when they noticed his stutter, which was refreshing. ‘You know – on the soaps,’ he elaborated, feeling less confident as he went on, ‘the evil twin is always identical except for something like an eye patch or different coloured hair… Or a g-goatee…’
‘I just thought blonde is maybe not my colour – makes me look washed out.’
‘Or it could be that.’
The kettle boiled – it was still hot from Adam’s tea – and Cara poured water into her cup.
‘You’re Canadian?’
‘What gave it away?’
‘Well, er, um… The accent m-mostly.’
‘Most people think I’m American.’
‘I’m not, um… I mean, I’m not… most p-people,’ Adam replied, fluffing the line completely. ‘You’re working late tonight?’ he said, trying to cover, taking a sip from his own cup and instantly burning his mouth.
‘One of the night staff is sick, so I’m covering until they find someone.’
Adam nodded, and sucked air into his mouth to try and cool down his burning tongue. Soon, Cara would finish making her coffee and the interaction would be over. That was always how it seemed to play out with girls – Adam just couldn’t keep up the momentum. He’d had two girlfriends in his life – one called Paige at university, a tall, serious molecular biology student to whom he’d lost his virginity on a bar crawl; and Elle, a girl he’d met at a networking event, who drank four litres of diet coke every day and talked a lot – but both relationships had petered out after a couple of months. Adam had lasered the tufts of hair on his shoulders, bleached his teeth white, even bought some Viagra off the Internet, but nothing seemed to tip the scales when it came to him finding and keeping a girlfriend.
The receptionist picked up her cup.
‘Bye then,’ she said. ‘Guess I’ll see you about’ (the ‘about’ a drawn-out ‘aboot’ sound).
‘B-bye,’ Adam replied, lamely. She’d be gone in three seconds, two…
‘I guess I should go check my twin is still tied up.’
Adam thought he’d misheard, so he replayed the sentence over in his head. ‘My twin is still tied up.’ My twin! Cara had lobbed a ball back to him! She’d thrown him a bone!
‘Ha, yes!’ he’d called after her jubilantly, much too loud for someone who was supposed to be keeping a very low profile.
The letter arrived on 20 October:
Hi Chris,
It’s me again. I know you’re angry and not replying to my calls or emails – and you’ve a right to be. I just want a chance to explain. I went slightly crazy, I’m sorry. I blew things out of proportion in my head. It all made sense at the time, but two weeks later, it makes no sense at all. Usually I’d bow out ungracefully, but I’d feel terrible if I never had a chance to see you again, even if it’s only to apologise. Sorry about my stupid handwriting too. I hadn’t realised how messy it’d become. I can’t even do cursive anymore! And my Ss are like 8s. I’m rambling. This is my third attempt, so I’m just going to plow (spelling?) on.
Where was I? Yes, I’m sorry and I’m stupid, and I just want to see you again. I miss you, I really do. Crap, now I’ve cried on the paper. That wasn’t intentional, by the way, my tears are not designed to tug at your heart strings. Ugh, it’s making the ink run! I don’t think I can do another version. Each time it makes me sadder and sadder. This is ridiculous. I’m going to end now before I self-combust with my own miserableness.
Please call me, or email me, or stand on a hill and fire off a flare or something. Anything. Text me even. I know we said we shouldn’t use text messages, but I think I would overlook the rule just this once.
Love,
Daisy xox
Patrick was always in bed when Adam arrived back, so it came as a surprise the night he opened the door to find his flatmate still wide awake on the sofa.
‘Yo stranger!’ bellowed Patrick, yawning and stretching his arms out into a ‘V’ shape. ‘Long time, no see!’
‘You’re up late,’ said Adam, shutting the door again and glancing up at the kitchen clock – it was half past midnight. ‘What are you w-watching?’
‘A Predator marathon. I have a seven thirty meeting,’ Patrick said with another yawn, ‘but what can you do? How’s it all going, anyway? Haven’t seen you in for ever!’
Adam moved to the toaster, picking up the small stack of mail beside it.
‘I don’t want to interrupt your movie marathon.’
‘Not to worry, mate, it’s only
Alien vs. Predator. Diminishing returns. I should be in bed anyway.’
Yes, why aren’t you? thought Adam.
Patrick waited expectantly.
‘Not m-much to tell,’ Adam said as he sorted through the letters – junk mail and a packet addressed to an old tenant. ‘You know how it is, the first few weeks are sink or swim. I’m p-picking things up, but it’s a much bigger job than I realised.’
‘You’ve been putting in the hours.’
Adam didn’t know if it was a statement or a question – sometimes Patrick’s inflection was hard to read.
‘I’m the newbie,’ shrugged Adam. ‘It p-pays to be k-keen. I’m making some inroads, but I’m still in my probation period – one slip up and it could all be over.’