by AJ Kirby
‘Guar supervisor,’ corrected Callum, but it was already too late. He was talking into a dead line.
From the starting-position on his haunches, he creaked back to half-height, feeling his belt buckle complaining at the shift in his great weight. He then craned himself upward using a concrete post in the security fence as a counter-weight. Luckily, most of it was buried like an iceberg under the surface so it could handle his bulk being pressed against it. Finally, Burr attained full-height and red-faced from the effort, he stole a quick glance about him to discern whether there had been any witnesses to his ungainly show. But there were few eyes outside the Edison’s fences and too many inside. He was safe. He felt the relief coursing through his veins.
Your part in this is almost over… The monies are about to be transferred into your account…
On his way back up to the Security Lodge, Callum whistled. His whistling was far more effective; far more practiced than Mark Birch’s had been. He could trill like a bird in the trees; he could imply a cask-matured splendour in his tune. It was the whistle of a man that believes all is well – or at least will soon be well – in the world.
He was whistling Flower of Scotland, and the armies that he was imagining sending homeward tae think again were those in the upper echelons of Edison’s Printers; those that had passed him over for promotion time and time again. Oh, and not forgetting his new boss, Jim Hunter. He was a man that Burr would certainly have to deal with. But that would be later. For now, he was free to spend money in his head.
This was money that Andrena would never know about and therefore couldn’t sting him for her fucking fifty percent. This was money that would buy him a brighter future; retirement maybe. And while she wasted away in that glorified council estate that passed for her area of west Leeds, he’d be off sunning himself somewhere hot. Somewhere like Mauritius.
Like Father Like Son
Chris Parker strolled back into work, clearly feeling the buzz of two pints and a whisky coursing through his veins. But he wasn’t unsteady on his feet. If anything, the alcohol looked to have made him feel stronger; he bounced off the balls of his feet in an un-self-conscious hard-man swagger. Walking down the road, he looked as though he was Richard Ashcroft in the Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony video; a man totally set on where he was going, and where he wanted to be. Here was a man who couldn’t be distracted or shaken off course; a man following the set path of destiny.
The alcohol had also not had any effect on his carefully constructed, carefully styled outward appearance. He looked like the kind of man that was immensely proud of his look; he probably moisturized, and definitely was a gym member. His grey suit was well-fitted, and obviously expensive; he wore his shirt without a tie and casually unbuttoned to show-off some of his muscular physique. His cuff-links sparkled in the sunlight. He was the kind of person for whom the old-fashioned term ‘well-groomed’ would still fit nicely. Even his hairstyle looked as though it had taken him a lot of time and effort. That messy look doesn’t just come about by accident, you know?
Despite his feigned nonchalance then, Chris Parker wanted a reaction. He wanted, and had grown accustomed to, people looking at him; the archetypal aspirant young professional populating Leeds City Centre; the future. And so, he bounced down
Dock Street’s charmingly quaint, but reassuringly clean cobbles with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. As he strolled past The Brasserie, he was spotted by its owner, who was outside watering his hanging baskets. As soon as he saw Chris and gave him a mock-serious salute which Chris returned before crossing to speak to him.
‘All right Maurizio,’ said Chris.
Maurizio was actually Maurice. He looked like a stereotypical Italian waiter, but was, in fact, pure-bred Yorkshireman. Pretending to be Italian was better for business, clearly.
‘Coming in tonight?’ asked Maurice, hands-on-hips, watering can forgotten.
‘No; I thought that I’d cook for myself tonight, Mo,’ said Chris, removing the Ipod earphones from his ears.
‘You’re not serious?’ asked Maurice, concerned. He play-acted waving his arms about with a dramatic flourish, looking as though he’d just found out that a family member had died.
‘Am I hell, mate; what’s the point of living above a Brasserie if I can’t come in for my dinner every night,’ laughed Chris, slapping Maurice on the shoulder with a little too much force.
‘Oh Meester Chris lives above a Brasserie and spreads the moulah by coming in here on an evening and supplementing Maurizio’s meagre income with hees tips. We is thanking you, sir,’ said Maurice, giving a mock-bow.
Chris laughed: ‘Don’t be stupid; I saw that Beamer you’re driving now. That’s what I’m paying for, with my bloody tips.’
‘Meester Chris is like a bumbling-bee pollinating all of the flowers around here; the gym and the pubs and the clubs and the ladeez.’
‘I can’t take you seriously when you do that voice, Mo. And by the way, the reason I go to the gym is so I can work off the excess calories from your cooking every night. The amount of cream you put in that goddamn lasagne sauce last night… Bloody hell.’
‘Bloody hell is right mate,’ said Maurice, suddenly reverting to his Leeds accent. ‘That cream was imported from the sheepses on the mountains of northern Italy and…’
‘I’ve just come back from northern Italy’s slopes and there were no bloody sheep up there,’ grinned Chris. ‘You buy the cream and the meat and the rest of your crap off Leeds market or off someone like – hold on; you don’t buy it from my father, do you?’
The mere mention of his father caused Chris’s face to cloud over.
‘Not after what you told me about him,’ said Maurice.
‘Good… good; I can still frequent your Brasserie then.’
‘Where you off anyways?’ asked Maurice.
‘Back into work; you know the score. Gotta show face…’
‘Want any of those cream-a-cakes like-a you took back last time?’ asked Maurice as Maurizio again.
‘You know what; yeah. I reckon that’ll endear me to those fuckers once again. You know what I’d like to do with it though; shove it in their pale, vegetarian faces and watch it congeal like animal fat.’
‘Still not any happier there?’ asked Maurice, leading the way into the Brasserie and to his usual seat at the counter. Chris hated sitting anywhere else in the place; it was all too pristine and clean in the main dining area; at least there was a bit of action at the bar… And some of the waitresses and bar-girls they had on were usually quite tasty too.
‘Not really,’ mused Chris, picking out a sugar sachet from a bowl and tearing off the end, watching the sugar granules glisten on the smooth wooden bar. In fact, everything in Maurice’s Brasserie either glistened or was made of smooth wood. It was like a show-restaurant or something off the telly. ‘There’s just no excitement in it any more. At first it was quite funny getting paid to just fanny about and pretend I was being creative, but now it’s just boring.’
‘Pays the bills though,’ said Maurice, carefully tying a dainty ribbon around the fragile-looking box into which he’d deposited the dietician’s-nightmare cakes.
‘Yeah, s’pose. And the extortionate rent that investor charges for the flat.’
‘Why do you still rent? Surely you can buy some plush pad somewhere by now…’
‘Who are you; my father? I know that it is dead money, but I prefer renting to a mortgage because it gives me the freedom to escape if the fancy takes me.’
‘You have lots of disposable cash, and that’s exactly what you’re good at; disposing of it,’ laughed Maurice, sprinkling a little confetti-type stuff into the clear plastic bag which held the be-ribboned box which contained the elaborate cakes. ‘You dispose of it into the designer clothes shops, into the cash register at countless bars and clubs, into the ringing tills of the travel agents to pay for your frequent holidays.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Chris, already turning away. ‘Li
ve for the moment; see you tonight…oh, shit; just remembered mate. Talking of dear daddy; I’m supposed to be going round there. I don’t think I can come in later. It’ll have to be tomorrow.’
‘Okay Chris, I’ll have your favourite table for you tomorrow then,’ said Maurice, clearly disappointed; crestfallen.
‘I don’t think you realize that I’m not missing out on coming through choice, Mo. All I’ve got to look forward to is the constant digs from my father; you know the type of thing: when I was your age, I’d been married twice, and had a son’.
‘Want to have a quick drink now? You can sit on my psychiatrist’s couch?’
Maurice gestured towards a pale brown leather chaise long which was propped against the exposed brickwork of the far wall.
‘Did you really buy that thing from a shrink?’
‘Yes, and he’d tell you the same thing as me,’ said Maurice, stroking his moustache. ‘Have a drink; enjoy yourself.’
‘Daddy-dear had his own business and worked every hour God sends to ensure it was a success,’ continued Chris. ‘Do you know; I heard that particular line so often as a child that I built up a picture of a bearded Santa-like God popping special certificates in the post allocating extra hours as a reward which the hard worker could then hand in to the post office who would change their clocks in return.
‘You have a vivid imagination. You should be a writer or something.’
‘Another thing Daddy-dear wouldn’t have approved of. No; he had paid through the nose to put us through a public school education which would iron out all such deficiencies. The only thing that place was there for was to teach us was that our supposed rightful place in the world was to be surrounded by piles of cash.’
‘Come on; have a drink,’ pleaded Maurice.
‘I can’t; work. Don’t worry though; you’re still my favourite restaurant,’ beamed Chris through his whiter-than-white smile.
The offices of Peach Marketing Agency were situated in a refurbished red-brick warehouse which backed onto the River Aire. Much of the brickwork round the back had been replaced by huge floor-to-ceiling tinted windows, and a new, great glass elevator shaft which made the passenger think that they were floating in the air above the river. It was the kind of architectural marriage between the traditional and the modern which so characterised the redevelopment work which had overtaken the riverside section of Leeds City Centre.
With a resigned sigh, Chris entered the expansive reception area and sneered at the atmosphere of ostentatious wealth. The place was all about first-impressions, and the Peach reception was supposed to indicate success and creativity. There was an artfully-arranged seating area overlooking the river which looked more like a bar than a waiting room. In every corner, setting off the ubiquitous exposed brickwork very well, were sets of sticks. Sticks? Were they intended to be firewood?
In fact, the only aspects of the reception area which gave away anything about the nature of the business were the occasional copies of some of their adverts. Chris spotted some of his own designs up there; work that he knew hadn’t demanded much time and effort on his part, but which had been deemed by the company to have been a success.
He approached the vast reception desk, wincing once more at his own photograph being given pride of place on the wall behind it. The picture portrayed why he’d been such a success in the world of marketing far more effectively than the examples of his actual work had done. For the photograph captured his magnetic, film-star-esque aura acutely. From his dashing good looks and sparkling eyes, to his whitened teeth, everything spoke of his attractiveness. Male colleagues and clients were not jealous of his good looks, but instead felt fortunate when he deigned to grace them with his presence; women adored his adventurous spirit, and the wistful look which would cross his eyes when he thought nobody was looking.
Gemma, the receptionist, suddenly reddened when Chris approached her. He was so tall; so self-assured. She fiddled nervously with her telephone headset its microphone which protruded across her face as though she was part-machine.
And part-machine she was; even in his brief, wistful walk through the reception area, he’d heard her robotic voice successfully answer, and then transfer three calls. She handled each of the calls both swiftly and effectively; and on each occasion, she’d always conveyed the same grateful subservience, as though that particular call was the most important call she’d ever taken in her life. But, of course, there was still that human part of her which remained, and as he stood at the reception desk, waiting for her to deal with the last of the calls, Chris could have played a juvenile game with himself; trying to recognize the outlines of animals in the fierce crimson patches which covered her cheeks. She looked like an apple-cheeked farm girl, completely out of her depth wallowing in the cynicism of the city.
To her face, Chris was all cheeky winks and joviality. When she transferred the call, he flashed his famous, knee-trembling smile.
‘Any calls for me?’
‘Mr. Parker, sir, ummm; where have you been? The veggies have been looking for you…’ If anything, the poor girl had become even more ruddy-cheeked. ‘How am I supposed to make up an excuse for you if you don’t tell me where you are?’
Chris nonchalantly leaned on the desk and began to fondle the awful pink teddy bear she’d placed by her computer. For a terrifying moment, he couldn’t remember whether he’d bought the bear for her as recompense for some excuse she’d had to invent to explain his absence. He touched the fur and tried to discern whether it felt expensive. Maybe once he’d been trying to get into her knickers. He couldn’t remember. Or maybe it was simply another example of his being so generous, just like the cream-a-cakes and the constant rounds he shouted in the pub and the ‘loans’ that he habitually doled out to chancers like Danny.
‘Just make anything up,’ he said. ‘In fact; always tell them that I am in my creative-thinking place. Those guys know nothing about creativity, so they’ll just have to leave me to it. Just like I leave them to their tofu.’
‘There’s been a call for you,’ murmured Gemma. ‘They wanted to leave a message on your voicemail. They wouldn’t say who it was, just that it was personal, and I didn’t want to pry.’
‘Thanks Gem; you’re a gem. Oh, and by the way; where are the veggies at the moment? Schmoozing with clients? They surely can’t be doing any work?’
‘They’re all in a meeting,’ whispered Gemma. ‘Like you say; “why work when you can have a meeting?’”
‘You’re catching on quick,’ said Chris, doffing an imaginary cap to her. Then he produced the clear plastic bag which contained the fragile box of cream-a-cakes and he stepped back and gave the same mock-bow that Maurice had given. There’s nothing like originality, and Chris’s bow was nothing like originality.
‘Oh Chris!’ gushed Gemma. ‘You shouldn’t have. What is it?’
Perhaps she assumed that underneath all of the bows and ribbons and shimmering foil there was a goddamn engagement ring or something.
‘Open it up… But don’t get too excited, Gem; it’s only something small.’
Oh God no; not something small. Not something precious and sparkling like a ring. Don’t tell her that; her head’ll explode.
Gingerly, she unwrapped the box and unveiled the cakes. She did look a little disappointed for a moment, but masked it well.
‘I really shouldn’t, what with my… I need to watch my figure.’
Chris knew compliments were being fished-for. She’d cast her line right over that desk; to fail to take the bait now would be to shatter the poor farm-girl’s illusions forever.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be watching your figure. And a very nice figure it is,’ he said, winking.
Gemma took the smallest of the Alpine range of cakes from the box and mousily nibbled into the corner.
‘Mmmm,’ she said. ‘They’re lovely.’
‘Keep the box on the counter. If anyone special comes in, offer them one. If not, take them home and enjoy th
em to your heart’s content.’
Finally Chris stepped away and stalked toward the lift and his office. As the lift doors closed behind him, Chris shot a quick look back at the reception desk and was sure that he saw Gemma quickly return the cake she’d nibbled from into the box again. Another unwanted gesture, he thought. It was like his father giving a cut to charity; it was all for show, and probably tax purposes.
When the lift doors closed, Chris rested his head against the cold steel in the universal gesture which read, I cannot take much more of this.
‘What the hell am I doing in this place?’ he asked out loud. ‘Where’s all the excitement? Where’s the challenge? Life is just too easy. I need to change something, do something radical, or I’m just going to end up like Daddy-dear.’
Anyone on the river spying into the lift shaft would have seen the broad, slumped shoulders of a man who wanted to be anywhere in the world but where he was. They would have noted the way he shook, but not through the vibrations of the smooth lifting mechanism; no, this man’s shaking was the uncontrollable fear of growing up, of responsibility, and of the sham world of business.
Chris’s office was on the top floor; nearest the lift on a corridor of power which led right up to the office of the Managing Director. The corridor represented the physical manifestation of Chris’s perceived aspirations in life. His goal was supposed to be to move up the office food-chain, step-by-step, by replacing the man who currently held each of the three offices which separated his own and that of the Managing Director. As the lift doors opened, a waft of a familiar smell drifted past; the whole of the top floor smelled like a health food store. It was a grainy yet somehow oily smell which clung to the clothes and spoke of healthy conviction. As usual, Chris fiddled with his cigarette pack as though he were about to light up in unhealthy defiance. Luckily, as usual, he didn’t have a lighter with him.
Chris had a quick peek through the blinds to check whether his direct superior was in, and then sneaked into the sanctuary which was his own little office. He’d decorated the walls with various graphs and charts, all of which showed startling upward curves, but then, you can make statistics say anything can’t you? Well, perhaps, but what statistics couldn’t voice was the jovial banter which was evidently missing from the entire Peach Marketing Agency workplace. It had a head-down, mind-your-own-business policy from top to bottom. Every individual’s office door was closed, and the blinds shut. The place was a warren of secrets.