by Danny King
Of course that was just during office hours. Once we’d all gone home they could’ve been doing it anywhere. Now this I really found unsettling and it wrinkled my nose every time I arrived in the morning to find my keyboard and stationery all over the place. Again, I couldn’t be certain, it might’ve just been the cleaners (having sex on my desk) but it all added to the whole crapness of my job.
And this is the way it looked like continuing, possibly for the rest of my life, until one glorious morning I came to work to find Godfrey and Elenor weren’t talking. They sat there in ear-splitting silence until lunchtime came along and Elenor rushed off to leave Godfrey confused and indecisive. He looked at me and then out of the window then he got his coat and sat back down.
He waited like a dog, staring at the door for Elenor to return, but she didn’t, not until two o’clock, and when she did she was laughing and joking gaily with Clive, our cor-blimey full-on Cockney Group Ad Manager.
This stumped Godfrey good and proper and he spent the rest of the afternoon chewing his lip before finally attempting to talk to Elenor last thing. But Elenor wasn’t interested: she was “… going out with friends tonight. We’re going on the pull. We’re right sluts when we get going we are”.
I could well believe it and by the look on Godfrey’s face so could he. This was no idle bluff either but a genuine open-handed smack right across the chops to knock him for six and Godfrey felt the full force.
He stumbled about almost punch-drunk for a full thirty seconds before collecting his coat, his bag and his wits and heading for the door.
He was late the next day and his eyes were bloodshot and full of booze. Elenor frothed and bubbled with excitement in the seat between us and while she didn’t tell us anything directly, we got to hear the whole story as she burned up the company phone bill.
It went something like this:
“Oh no, I can’t say anything at the moment. (pause) No I can’t. (pause) Oh stop it, behave. Ha ha ha, what are you like! (pause) Now that would be telling. (pause) Hahaha, you dirty bitch, no, I can’t. I can’t! (pause) Steve. (pause) A kick boxing instructor. (pause) You can say that again, hahahah. (pause) I’ll tell you later. (pause) No, I said later. (pause) Because I can’t, I’m at work. (pause) Oh, no one special. (pause) Because I… (pause) Ha ha Stacey, you utter tramp, what are you like! (pause) Yeah. (pause) Yeah. (pause with some additional sniggering and a whiney little squeal that built into a screeching crescendo). You know I did, ha ha ha! (pause) His place. (pause) You know what I mean! (pause) Three times. (pause) Ha ha ha, you dirty bitch, of course I did. (pause) Up the arse and in the gob.”
Maybe my memory had added that last snippet of detail but either way it was horrible to watch and I had to watch it six times as that’s how many girlfriends Elenor chose to phone up in order not to say anything. Godfrey looked absolutely devastated and used up so much energy simply trying to hold it together that by the afternoon his shadow was calling the shots.
“Godfrey, do you want to do me a favour? Can you get some money for a Travelcard from accounts and go around all the WHSmiths in central London to see who’s stocking our magazine?” I asked, inventing a job just to rescue him from an afternoon of hell.
Godfrey gratefully accepted and drew a tenner from accounts before heading for the nearest pub. Naturally, this also called time on all of Elenor’s phone calls and I was able to enjoy a few hours of peace and productivity – a rare treat for me.
Godfrey called in sick the next day and went AWOL the day after that so that it wasn’t until Monday when we saw him again, by which time he’d been exposed to a whole weekend of pub advice.
“What’s this?” I asked looking at the envelope he’d just handed me.
“My notice, effective immediately,” he informed me.
“Your notice? Why are you giving me your notice?” Godfrey shrugged, though his shrug was surprisingly descriptive. “Have you got another job?”
“No.”
“Then what are you going to do?” I asked. Godfrey looked around the office in a way that suggested this particular question hadn’t come up on Saturday night.
“I don’t know,” he said, after some thought.
“Then perhaps you should think about it,” I suggested, handing him back his envelope.
“I’ll just go on the dole,” Godfrey informed me.
“What a loser!” Elenor muttered under her breath to no one in particular.
Godfrey scowled at her for a few intense moments before I got his attention when I told him he wouldn’t be able to claim dole for up to six months if he quit of his own accord.
“Have you got enough savings to see you through six months?”
Godfrey didn’t. In fact, he didn’t have enough savings to buy himself lunch.
“Then what are you going to do? Seriously, think about it. You can’t go around handing in your notice when you’ve got nowhere else to go because that’s the sort of thing that can land a man on the street, or worse still back at his parents’.”
“I can get another job,” Godfrey eventually replied.
“Then get one, and give me this back when you do. In the mean time… why don’t we have a cup of coffee? Godfrey?”
Godfrey thought about it for some time then replied “no sugar” and reluctantly retook his seat. Elenor waited for me to ask her if she wanted coffee and when I did, she beamed with glee and told me she took it dark and strong. “Just like my men,” she added unnecessarily.
This was four weeks ago and a lot of coffee had passed under the bridge since then, although none of it had been made by Elenor. See Elenor never made coffee. This was just a fact.
She never made coffee. Never never never.
Until today.
When she made a cup for me.
Sally’s Diary: December 8th
Carol’s really excited because the school board say they might be able to find a role for her after she retires. She won’t be able to stay on as Head Teacher but they say she’ll probably be able to come back on a part-time basis and help out for a few hours a week, maybe even provide sick and holiday cover. Carol’s really pleased because she’ll be able to get back to actual teaching and forget about all the time-consuming admin that comes with “the nice office”. She even said she’d recommend me for the position of Deputy Head if Jenny got her job (as is expected) but I’m not sure I want the extra work and responsibility right now. I’ll be thirty-four next year and I’m thinking that perhaps it’s time I sat Andrew down and pointed out to him that there are still only two of us in this family.
But you know what, suddenly that particular conversation doesn’t seem so daunting.
By some miracle he’s no longer slitting his wrists every time I ask him about work. The word “fine” seems to have replaced “just fucking awful” and he’s even humming again – always a sure sign of Spring.
I don’t know what has happened to bring about this transformation, but then again I never really got to the bottom of what was making his job so terrible in the first place. Andrew’s not really one of life’s great communicators. All I hope is that whatever it is, it continues for a while and Andrew stays in a good mood for… well, I was going to say the next few months but if I’m wishing for miracles I might as well go for broke and ask for the rest of his life (or at least the rest of mine).
If I didn’t know him so well, I’d almost be tempted to venture that he’d been gripped by the Christmas spirit but I know that’s not right. Andrew and Saint Nicholas don’t make the best of bedfellows and his new-found cheer is sure to be swept away by a tsunami of murderous anger the moment he has to go out Christmas shopping.
I do hope he doesn’t get me another engraved pen. There’s only so many a girl can accidentally lose.
Chapter 3. Shop Till You Drop
Something weird was happening. I’d only stepped out for five minutes to make a cup of coffee, but when I got back to the office everyone had gone. Everyone.
&nb
sp; I looked at my watch and saw that it was lunchtime, which went some way to explaining this, but it was still weird how there wasn’t a single soul left.
Normally, only about half a dozen people off our floor actually go anywhere for lunch; the rest of us make do with a sandwich out of a packet or half of last night’s dinner out of a tupperware tub.
This was different though. Everyone was gone.
Everyone.
Somebody must’ve been having a birthday drink or leaving do that I didn’t know about. Or maybe, more likely, the management had finally got around to fine-tuning the fire alarm so that only everyone else in the office and dogs could actually hear it.
I didn’t know. All I knew was that everyone was in on something except me.
I thought about calling Godfrey to ask him where he was, but then I didn’t want to make it look like I’d been overlooked so I decided to second-guess where they’d all be, grabbed my coat and headed for The Dog & Bull.
When I stepped out of the building however I found Croydon unnervingly quiet. Katherine Street didn’t have a single person on it and the air was still and empty. I walked around the corner and saw that Queens Gardens were deserted too. I still wasn’t overly alarmed as occasionally they had a bit of a show on in the Whitgift Centre around the corner that sucked all the stragglers from the surrounding area, so I figured this would be where everyone was.
I was just about to head around there myself when I noticed the main road fifty yards away.
It too was dead.
I watched it for several seconds, expecting to see a car come along and break the spell but none did. Not a car, a bike, a lorry or a bus.
The road was empty.
This definitely got my attention and I looked about from east to west, then north to south, for signs of life, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen.
I was all alone and horribly confused.
What the hell was happening?
Either a terrorist alert had emptied Croydon or the Pound Shop had just lowered its prices, so I headed off for the Whitgift Centre to see for myself.
Park Street and the High Street were just as deserted as Katherine Street. Rather more disturbingly the pubs on the way around were as dead as doornails. The Rat & Parrot was empty (even by The Rat & Parrot’s standards) and the posh pub opposite a shell. I poked my head around the doors of each and both still appeared to be open for business. All the lights were on and all the pumps were glowing. I almost called out for assistance, then thought better of it.
I’d seen those films and no good ever came from calling out.
I left as quietly as I’d entered and hurried along to the Whitgift Centre. Unbelievably, this place was deserted too. I ran from shop to shop and found them all open. I even succumbed to temptation and punched open a cash register to find it stacked full of notes. I pulled them out and folded them up but frowned at the thought of what I was doing.
Should I take it?
The obvious answer was yes, but then if the security cameras were on and I was the only man in Croydon, Surrey police wouldn’t have to clock up too many man-hours tracking down the culprit. And did I really want to be that rat that always made the papers after every disaster?
SCUMBAG THIEF LOOTS SHOP WHILE HERO FIREMAN BATTLE TO SAVE THOUSANDS
I always hated that bloke, as did everyone. And he always got his just desserts.
DISASTER THIEF BLUBS IN DOCK AFTER GETTING FOUR YEARS. “HE SHOULD’VE GOT MORE!” DECLARES OWN MUM
Hmm, not tempting.
I put the money back and closed the till. If the population of Croydon were off somewhere being saved, I wanted to be saved with them too, or better still, one of the people who saved them. And if they weren’t, then I could always come back for the money later.
I peered out of the shop and saw that the street was still deserted.
I then thought about phoning Sally but realised I’d come out of the office without my mobile. I walked over to a public phone and picked up the receiver but there was no dialling tone. What’s more, I could hear somebody grunting on the other end of the line. Or maybe chewing.
“Hello? Excuse me,” I said.
“Uh! Uh! Whoozat?”
“Hello, who is this?”
The voice thought for a moment then asked me a simple question back.
“Where are you?”
I thought better of answering him, put down the phone and stepped back a few paces.
I didn’t like this. I didn’t like this one little bit. I screwed up my face as the fear tightened my innards and thought about crying, but it had been so long since I’d last cried that I’d forgotten how to.
I had to get out of here. That was all there was to it. I had to get to my car, put my foot down and get the hell out of here. Something was wrong. I didn’t know what. I only knew I didn’t want to hang around and find out the particulars.
I was just about to run back when a noise stopped me in my tracks. It was way off in the distance and I had to put an ear to the wind to hear it, but when I did I liked my situation even less.
It was a wailing. Or more accurately, it was lots and lots and lots of wailing. And it was getting closer.
I turned away from the wailing and began to run but only made it a few steps when I realised I was running in the direction of the wailing. I turned back and ran the other way but the sound was coming from that direction too. In fact, the sound was coming from everywhere and it filled the air with noise.
All at once I saw the first of them. He stumbled into view at the end of the street then began staggering in my direction. He looked like he was drunk but I soon realised he wasn’t drunk – he was dead.
But he was walking?
Okay, so he was one of those walking dead mateys? Big deal, live and let live, now let’s get the hell out of here, I told myself, but the other way was already blocked.
More dead. More walking. More wailing.
The Whitgift Centre was suddenly alive with those creatures and the doors of the Drummond Centre opposite began swinging backwards and forwards as walking corpse after walking corpse spilled out on to the High Street.
“Oh fucking nora,” was all I could think to say.
I had hoped my last words on Earth might’ve been a little bit more profound than “Oh fucking nora!” but they matched the occasion beautifully so I decided to go with them.
The faces of the dead were pale and blue. Some looked as though they had died horribly, whereas others looked like they had died in their sleep. One or two looked like they had only just clawed their way out of the ground, which was where I guessed all this had begun. It didn’t really matter. They were here now and they were all around me.
It was too late to run, too late to hide. Even if I’d tried to bolt they would’ve been onto me in a flash. All I could do was stand very very still and hope they didn’t notice me.
So that’s what I did. I stood very very still in the middle of Croydon’s pedestrianised High Street and barely dared to breath.
The dead mingled and milled, knocked into each other and even me, although incredibly none of them afforded me as much as a glance. I was just another obstacle to them, no more or less interesting than that tree some fat zombie had just wandered into therefore I was invisible.
I was just starting to think I might even get away with this when one of the zombies stopped in her tracks and turned straight at me.
“Are you okay, Andrew?” the zombie asked.
I blinked a couple of times and saw Elenor looking at me curiously.
“Are you alright?”
“What? Oh yes. Yeah fine. Just miles away, daydreaming,” I shrugged, and looked back at the fat zombie to see that he’d turned into a fat businessman. He was rubbing his head from where he’d walked into the tree and frowning down at the slice of pizza he’d just dropped.
“You looked lost,” Elenor pointed out.
“I am really. Christmas shopping. I never know what to get. I alwa
ys just end up thinking about other things,” I explained, Dawn of the Dead from the night before providing today’s inspiration.
“Who are you buying for?”
“Sally. My wife,” I told her.
“What does she want?” Elenor asked.
“That’s the point, I don’t know.”
“What would she like?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged once more, as if it were going out of fashion.
“Well, what did you get her last year?”
“A pen. It was a nice silver one. It was engraved with her name and everything. It was nice.”
“Sounds great,” she smirked sarcastically. “Did she like it?” I thought for a moment and admitted I didn’t know that either. “Then you should probably steer clear of pens in the future,” Elenor advised.
“She makes it so difficult. Every year I ask her what she wants and every year she says the same thing; ‘Don’t get me anything too expensive, just get me something little.’ But like what? What’s little and inexpensive and still nice that I can buy without feeling like a bleeding tightwad? Do you know of anything?”
Elenor said she didn’t but ventured it was the thought that counted.
“I know, and that’s the annoying thing. I hate shopping and Sally knows it and she knows I haven’t got a clue what to get her and yet she deliberately engineers a situation where I have to put a bit of thought into what I get her.”
“The cow!” Elenor tutted.
“Oh you know what I mean. I’ve been wandering around these shops half the lunch hour and I haven’t found a single thing she’d like,” I complained. “How many more hours am I going to have to spend traipsing around the shops just because she won’t let me throw money at the problem?”