by Drew Davies
‘Sure.’
‘Sure?’ Janelle smiles at him. ‘You’re going to make someone very happy one day, Dylan. Once you develop better folding skills.’
‘Ha-ha,’ he replies, deadpan. ‘Funny.’
‘Seriously, where did you learn your technique from? You just rolled that t-shirt into a ball.’
‘All your clothes are too small, there’s not enough fabric to fold them prop––’
He’s interrupted by a noise he recognises. Otis. Otis is barking. Dylan waits to see if he stops, but the barking only gets more insistent.
‘Sorry,’ Dylan says. ‘I have to check something. Is there a window out to the back?’
‘In the kitchen,’ Janelle says, pointing.
He gets up from the sofa, and hurries into the kitchen. From the kitchen window, he can make out the small brown body of Otis, tied by his leash to a post on the opposite side of the lane. Chris is nowhere to be seen.
Janelle enters the kitchen, a worried expression on her face.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘It’s Otis,’ Dylan explains. ‘I’ll just go and make sure he’s alright. He’s probably seen a cat or something. He’s scared of cats.’
‘You left him out there alone?’
‘I’ll be really quick,’ he says, ignoring her question and heading to the front door, bolting into the hallway and down the flight of stairs, cursing Chris at each step. Where is he? Dylan wonders angrily. Probably next door at the bakery, stuffing his face with cream buns.
Opening the first-floor window again (it’s quicker than exiting the front door and running all the way around), he climbs out onto the tin roof. Otis is still barking manically.
‘Quiet!’ he yells, but the stupid dog takes no notice.
It’s slippery on the roof – the downward angle making it much trickier on the return journey. Dylan takes small careful steps towards the edge, using his hands to steady himself, and when he reaches the verge, he peers over.
His first thought is, Why is Chris lying on the ground? And then he notices the way Chris’s torso is twisted across the gutter, and the peculiar angle of his arm, and the growing puddle of Ribena someone has spilt by his head.
Fifteen
Here is one of life’s great injustices – although it may be many arduous years before we find a lover, they can be whisked away again in the blink of an eye. They might simply step out at the wrong moment and get smooshed by a UPS delivery truck. There’s no way to avoid this possibility either – even if you track them with GPS (the lover, not the truck), or make them wear one of those blow-up sumo wrestler costumes, or tell them before they leave the house: be so very careful, my love. You grew up on the Continent. Remember the traffic moves in the opposite direction here, look both ways. They will smile, and say, of course, but how can you be certain? What if they shake hands with the wrong person, fresh off a transatlantic flight and get some new, insofar unknown tropical disease? What if they go sightseeing on The Shard and lean over too far? What if a metal beam drops from a crane in Canary Wharf? What if, what if, what if…? Love will always be tested, and unfortunately, nothing is more certain in life than trial by fire…
‘Wake up sleepy, sleepy!’
Adam bats away the hand. Two more minutes, he thinks groggily. He’s having a lovely dream – he and Cara are on a desert island made of actual dessert, and they’re about to skinny-dip in a lagoon filled with vanilla custard.
‘Time to wake up!’
Opening his eyes, Adam finds himself only inches away from the smiling face of Mr Maintenance. He sits bolt upright, giving his head a good smack on the underside of the desk.
Mr Maintenance makes a soothing noise, as if trying to calm a jittery horse.
‘Careful,’ he says, ‘Go slow, slow.’
Rubbing his head, Adam stares at the man.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, disorientated.
‘Builders find your house on the sixth floor,’ Mr Maintenance replies. ‘They’re watching the security tape. You have ten minutes.’
Adam scrambles out from under the desk.
‘What should I d-d-do?’
Mr Maintenance raises his palms to the sky – the international sign for not my problem. ‘What else,’ he says. ‘Run.’
Adam doesn’t need to be told twice. After hastily dressing, he crouches by the window and parts the blinds with his fingers. Mr Maintenance has gone (slipping away while Adam tied his shoelaces) and the rest of the office is empty, almost eerily so. Adam checks his phone – it’s 9.26 a.m. The cleaners would have usually woken him up with their vacuuming by now – they were so reliable, he didn’t even set an alarm anymore. On Saturdays, a couple of M&D early risers – dressed in tight-fitting running gear and clutching huge coffees – came in to check the weekly stats, but there’s no sign of them at their desks this morning either. Could the security guards be watching through the cameras right now? Adam wonders. One thing’s for certain, he can’t stay here.
Summoning all his courage, Adam picks up his bag and makes a direct course for the elevators, acutely aware of any movement in his periphery. He’s about to push the button to call the elevator, when he hears a voice from behind him.
‘No lift!’
Adam jumps a full three inches into the air, and turns to find Mr Maintenance grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘In emergency, please use stairs,’ he says, pointing to the fire exit.
‘Why are you helping m-me?’ Adam practically shouts, trying to regain his composure.
Mr Maintenance winks.
‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’
Adam’s eyes light up.
‘So, the cleaners are s-stealing sugar for you!’
The man’s toothy smile disappears.
‘Stealing, no, no. Stealing is a very bad word.’
‘I’ve seen the cleaners p-putting sugar cubes in their aprons.’
‘They are cleaning, it’s their job.’
‘But they take sugar out of the packets, sugar that hasn’t been used yet.’
‘Yes.’
‘What would you call that then?’ asks Adam, baffled.
Mr Maintenance’s smile returns, bigger and brighter.
‘We call this recycling.’
‘And what happens to the sugar they… recycle?’
‘It goes back to the supplier. Office equipment. Paper. Anything not in use.’
‘So, you’re selling b-back supplies to the supplier?’
‘Yes – recycling!’
‘And what about the phone calls?’ Adam asks.
Mr Maintenance’s brow furrows.
‘The cleaners do not make much money,’ he says solemnly. ‘They have families in England, families overseas. All they do is borrow phones. Like you do.’ He beams again. ‘Borrow food, borrow water, borrow electricity, nice white man, you borrow everything. Now they come,’ he pushes open the fire door and slaps Adam on on the shoulder, ‘you must go.’
Tentatively, Adam enters the stairwell and the door immediately closes behind him. He doesn’t know if he should trust Mr Maintenance – what if he’s leading him into a trap? – but despite his misgivings, he starts down the stairs. He only manages to make it down one flight of steps, however, when he hears the cheeps of a walkie-talkie coming from below, and turning on his heels, Adam leaps up the stairs, three at a time. His impulse is to run all the way to the top, but the builders have started work on the sixth floor, he remembers, and so he rushes into the fifth floor instead.
‘Hide!’ every molecule in his being screams. He sprints down the corridor of meeting rooms, but everything here is too open and exposed. Finally, in the last meeting room, Adam finds a storage cupboard. He flings open the door; inside it’s stuffed with chair cushions, a projector and a nest of cables – there’s barely room to squeeze a child in, much less a fully-grown man – but he’s running out of options. Piling the cupboard contents onto the floor, he climbs into the space – it requires him to s
quat and twist his body, but with the help of a couple of cushions, he manages to squeeze in.
Adam has only just closed the cupboard door again when his phone beeps. He shifts the weight off his right hand, so he can take the phone from out of his pocket – in his crouched position, this takes some doing. When he eventually retrieves the phone, he finds a message from Patrick:
Hi mate, didn’t want to do this by text, but heads-up I’m moving out in a month. Didn’t count on living on my own so much – I’m going nutty! Found a place in Angel with two Kiwi girls I know through work. Thought you could probably take on the whole place by yourself now you’re such a high-flyer. Sorry about the shitty early text. Would have preferred to do this face to face. Laterz.
Remembering to switch the phone onto sleep mode, Adam returns it to his pocket and contemplates the series of unfortunate events that have led to him being wedged in a supply cupboard with not even a flatmate to call his own. An idea dawns on him, seductively: surrender is an option. He imagines hot running water, a proper mattress, a cooked meal – even the most basic of police cells would feel like the Shangri-La.
Adam realises he needs to pee. Shifting most of his weight to his left leg, he tries to alleviate some of the pressure on his bladder, but this only makes the cupboard lurch worryingly, and he stops. How long should he stay hidden? he wonders. The security guards are probably doing a rigorous sweep of the building, checking every floor. They’re bound to examine any potential hiding place. Thinking logically, the cupboard is much too obvious – it’s the sort of place the youngest child would choose in their first game of hide and seek. Perhaps he should try the stairwell again and make a break for it before…?
Two men approach, talking loudly and jovially – one is quite posh, the other has an Italian accent. Don’t come in here, don’t come in here, Adam pleads silently, as he holds his breath.
‘Let’s go in here,’ suggests the one with the posh voice. ‘This room has bottled water.’
Adam hears the chink of glasses and general chit-chat about the weather – they’re not security guards at least, but this does nothing to calm his nerves.
‘Apologies for getting you in on a Saturday,’ the posh voice says once they’ve settled, ‘but I thought it was time for a proper sit-down.’
‘It’s no problem,’ says the Italian.
‘Things are still highly sensitive round here – especially after what happened last time. But with the new project off the ground, it’s an opportunity we can’t miss.’
‘I agree – the timing couldn’t be better. I don’t want to say, er… “smokescreen” – but yes, we have a smokescreen.’ The Italian clears his throat. ‘In terms of size, what are we talking here?’
‘Everything.’
‘All fifty thousand?’
‘Can your guys handle it?’
‘This is more than I was expecting,’ the Italian says, ‘but I’m sure we can make this work, yes.’
‘Good,’ posh voice says. ‘Because my balls are literally on the line here. No one should realise what’s happening until it’s practically in the bag.’
‘Don’t worry,’ says the Italian. ‘We can strip the place down with careful phasing, they won’t notice a thing.’
‘And timescales?’
‘A large transaction like this – six weeks, from start to finish? Mostly during evenings and weekends, for obvious reasons. But, er – what about Frank?’
Adam’s ears prick up.
‘You know what it’s like with these old boys… Frank considers himself a champion of the people, but he has his priorities all wrong. He’s been stalling me for months.’
‘Won’t he be concerned we haven’t followed due process?’
‘By the time we have all the templates and cost models to make him happy, the opportunity will have passed. It’s a small amount of pain for a lot of gain. We’d be stupid not to bend the rules.’
Adam’s right leg is starting to cramp. And now he really needs a wee.
‘We’ll move forward with other parts of the business,’ posh voice continues. ‘By the time it’s on Frank’s doorstep, he won’t be able to stop a thing.’
And then it happens – Adam’s phone begins to ring. Not vibrate silently – ring. In the enclosed space of the cupboard, the noise is deafening. How can this be happening? he thinks hysterically. I turned it onto silent! Wrenching the phone from his pocket, he sees the name on the screen reads ‘Patrick’ – and Adam remembers: Patrick is on his favourites list, which means his calls are set to automatically override the sleep mode settings: the jig is officially up.
Adam nudges open the cupboard door, and peers up at the two astonished men.
‘What the…?’ begins the posh one, and Adam scrambles out of the cupboard. As he runs past the table, Adam’s foot clips a chair leg, and he smashes shoulder first into the wall. Except it’s not really a wall, it’s more of a semi-loose partition dividing the meeting rooms, and as he makes contact, it produces an incredible banging noise, shaking several ceiling tiles onto the incredulous men.
‘Whoops,’ Adam says, picking himself up. ‘Sorry!’
He races into the corridor, past the reception area, and into the stairwell again, barrelling down the stairs. This time, he makes it all the way to the ground floor, but he’s careful to tread lightly as he approaches the last flight, and listens attentively at the fire door at the bottom. It’s lucky he does – in the foyer he can hear at least two security guards, waiting in ambush outside the elevators. So, this is it, he thinks. The inevitability of what’s to come is almost reassuring.
Brushing the ceiling plaster off his shoulders and shaking the dust from his hair, Adam considers his options. If he has to give himself up, he wants to bow out with grace and quiet dignity – like Nelson Mandela, Gandhi or Martha Stewart. Adam recalls one of the zanier job interviews he went to, shortly before his Mercer and Daggen days, where an interviewer asked which superpower he’d rather have – flight or invisibility? Flight, he’d said, without hesitation. Didn’t everyone choose that? The memory feels like a long, long time ago now.
Bracing himself for whatever might happen next, Adam is about to pull open the fire door when he realises there is another option – one that could make everything worthwhile, a final act of valour. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier?
He dashes back up the stairwell, running all the way to the fourth floor and into the corner office again, switching on the computer at the desk.
‘Come on, come on,’ he says, still catching his breath, as the machine powers up. When the computer’s ready, Adam brings up Frank’s Excel spreadsheet and clicks on their shared tab, frantically scrolling to the bottom of the page. He finds their most recent exchange:
* * *
Good to make your acquaintance, Adam. I’m Frank.
* * *
Likewise.
* * *
So, what’s your advice for a foolish old man with love problems?
* * *
You’re asking the wrong guy. The girl I like doesn’t even know I exist. My only recommendation is don’t wait to tell them how you feel. You might not get another chance.
* * *
Selecting ‘bold’ and the colour red, Adam begins to type:
* * *
Frank. There are enemies inside your gates. Don’t trust the man with the posh voice and short brown hair. I know that probably doesn’t narrow it down round here, but it’s all I have to go on. He means to undermine you – I’m not sure how, but it sounds like it will have a major impact on Mercer and Daggen. Acquisition? Merger? Or shadier dealings?
Have eyes in the back of your head.
Good luck.
Adam.
* * *
As he saves the changes and closes the Excel doc, Adam has one more thing to do. Hearing an approaching noise from the main office, he launches Frank’s email service – he doesn’t like intruding into Frank’s email, but desperate times call for desperat
e measures.
Creating a new email, he types:
Cara, my name’s Adam. We’ve talked a few times at reception and once on the first floor – I’m the evil twin guy – but you probably don’t remember me. I’m sorry we didn’t have a proper chance to get to know each other, sometimes lives connect and sometimes they only…
The door flies open with a crash. Frenziedly, Adam clicks the empty address box as two security guards bear over him.
‘Step away from the computer!’ booms the biggest of the pair.
‘I’ll b-be with you in a second,’ yelps Adam as he types: ‘cara.wilson@’.
‘Sir, I’m going to ask you again to step away from the device.’
‘Nearly d-done!’ he trills, manically typing: ‘mercerandda…’
He’s about to hit the ‘send’ button when one of the security guards launches himself at Adam. As things start to move in slow motion, Adam is surprised to find it’s the smaller of the two security guards – the older, shaggier man, one of the daytime Jekylls – who’s made such an aggressive tackle. Pens and pencils scatter into the air, the computer crashes to the floor, and Adam is slammed against the wall, not once, but twice. The guard’s not finished with him yet though – he picks up Adam again, and flings him down onto the desk. There’s an almighty cracking sound as the table gives way, and everything goes dark.
* * *
When Adam comes to, he’s lying on his stomach on what appears to be a stretcher, with a male paramedic hovering over him.
‘Good, you’re awake,’ says the paramedic, cheerfully. ‘I can give you something for the pain.’
What pain? Adam wonders. And what happened? It’s as if a tornado has ripped through the corner office. He feels it then – a sharp searing sensation that starts below his left calf and goes all the way up the side of his body. He tries to turn over onto his back, but the paramedic – his name badge reads ‘Terry’ – shakes his head.