The Thing on the Shore

by Tom Fletcher

  “I … I’m sorry, Mr. McCormick.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry too. Sorry I’m not talking to somebody who knows what they’re doing!”

  “If—”

  “Just forget about it! Don’t even bother! All this nonsense’ll kill me! Bloody idiots!”

  Arthur heard Mr. McCormick slam the phone down forcefully, missing the cradle, then swearing, before righting his error with the understated click of a call being disconnected. He bit his lip. The second voice continued.

  “Mr. … Mr. McCormick? Are you there? Hello? Oh.”

  That second voice—that weak, stammering sound that worried and fussed into one end of the dead telephone line—was the voice of Arthur’s father, Harry, one of the many customer advisers working at the call center.

  Arthur stopped the recording and was about to close down the Random Call Recorder computer program when the door into the pod swung open. It banged into one of the glass walls with enough force to send a sharp cracking sound bouncing around the small, square space. Arthur spun around on his chair, his eyes and mouth wide open.

  “Arthur,” said the pale, stocky man standing in the doorway. “What are you still doing here?” He looked at his watch. “You finished half an hour ago!”

  “Yeah,” said Arthur. “Yeah … Hi, Bracket. I was just catching up. Marking a few more calls. I don’t want to claim overtime. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I wasn’t,” said Bracket. He had a cracked kind of voice that always sounded tired.

  “OK,” said Arthur.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” said Arthur, shutting down the computer. “I’m fine.”

  “Good.”

  Bracket stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment. He had short, bristly gray hair and dark blue rings under his eyes. His shirt was creased and the sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. He wore a chunky watch that looked expensive but, Arthur reckoned, probably wasn’t. Bracket held a small stack of paper in one hand as he chewed on his lower lip. He was Arthur’s team manager, Arthur being on the Quality Assurance Team.

  “Arthur,” Bracket continued at last. “There’s been some news. We’re delivering team briefings, so I’m trying to round up all of the QPs who’re still here. I wasn’t expecting to find you but, well, seeing as you are still here, you’d better come too.”

  “OK,” said Arthur.

  “You’re not in a rush to get home, are you?” asked Bracket.

  “No,” said Arthur.

  The QPs were the Quality Police, which was how Bracket referred to the Quality Assurance Team. It was his little joke.

  “Then you’d best get yourself to the scrum sofas,” said Bracket. “That’s where the others are. Have you seen Tiffany anywhere?”

  “No,” said Arthur. “I haven’t seen anybody since I finished. I’ve just been in here all the time.”

  “I’ll meet you over there,” said Bracket, “once I’ve found Tiffany. That woman, I don’t know.”

  He turned and left the pod, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

  Arthur waited a few seconds longer, so that he would not have to walk alongside Bracket, then picked up his coat and made his way out on to the main floor of the call center. This place always felt somehow green to him, but not in a healthy, fresh way—it was the sickly green of swallowed frustration, of exhausted arguments, of boredom, of well-thumbed £5 notes. This was probably partly because the carpet was green, reflected Arthur, but there was more to it than that.

  The scrum sofas were beneath a long window on the opposite side of the room to the pods. Most of the QPs were already seated there. With his coat draped over his shoulder, Arthur threaded his way between semi-circular huddles of desks, each one assigned to a different team. When he finally reached the bright blue sofas, he put his coat down next to a boy called Dean, and then stood by the window and looked out over the sea toward Whitehaven lighthouse. The sea was a bitter gray color and looked violently rough. Waves threw themselves high against the wall of the far harbor, which rose about six meters above the water at that point, and then crashed over the top of it. The spume rose even as high as the top of the lighthouse, which itself stood on the harbor wall, and a never-ending wind whipped it up into the sky, in bright white specks that stood out starkly against the glowering black clouds.

  “Right then!” came Bracket’s voice from behind him. “Looks like we’re all here now. Arthur, come and sit down. Is everybody actually here? Yes? Good.”

  Arthur turned from the window and sat down next to Dean, in the spot where he’d left his coat. He saw that Bracket had found Tiffany. She was now squeezing on to one of the sofas, pushing everybody else along.

  “Ooh, sorry I’m late,” said Tiffany. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know there was a meeting!”

  “Short notice,” said Bracket.

  “I was just on the bog,” said Tiffany. “Caught unawares, I was. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do!”

  “Tiffany,” continued Bracket, and he looked at her hard.

  “Sorry,” said Tiffany. “Sorry, you know what I’m like with my mouth.”

  Tiffany usually wore the strangest combinations of clothes. She made them all herself, and they were always covered with geometric patterns in strange, dysentery-hued colors. They were like the clothes that Arthur imagined older women used to wear in the seventies. She had long hair that might never have been washed or combed for as long as it had grown on her head. Her teeth were mostly black with rot, but her gums were a bright electric pink. All the younger girls said she was a witch, partly because of the way she looked and partly because she herself claimed to be a medium.

  “I have to read this verbatim,” announced Bracket, holding up the thick document he was carrying, “and I also have to give you each a copy of the brief. This is so that everybody working here receives exactly the same message as everybody else. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” said somebody, quietly. Everybody else nodded half-heartedly. Arthur noticed that Diane, an empty-eyed girl on the team, was texting somebody while using her notebook to hide the fact from Bracket.

  “That means that you will all take away these handouts,” said Bracket. “You will recognize the importance of the message they deliver and keep hold of it, partly to refer to in your own spare time and partly to demonstrate your interest in the workings of this corporation, this workplace, and your employer.”

  “Is this part of the brief?” asked Dean.

  “No,” replied Bracket. “Here, Dean, you distribute these.” He handed the stack of paper to Dean, who stood to receive it and then shuffled around the sofas, with his back slightly hunched. Dean had a significant overbite and bad skin, and he smiled genuinely at the rest of the team as he passed them their individual copies of the brief. His short brown hair had been shaped into greasy spikes with the help of some sort of gel. Once he’d finished, he turned to Bracket.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “That’s OK,” said Bracket, his forehead creasing slightly. “OK then, at last. The brief is starting. I am beginning now. I am reading from the briefing note, so please listen.

  “‘It is with great sadness that I have gathered you here to inform you of some recent events. As you may be aware, certain contractual renegotiations have been ongoing between Outsourcing Unlimited and the parent company, Interext, with regard to the Northern Water contract. For three years now, Outsourcing Unlimited have provided Northern Water with an excellent customer-management service from the Whitehaven contact center, and both Interext and Northern Water would like to express their unreserved gratitude to both the center and all of the hardworking staff employed there.’”

  Arthur’s eyes strayed once more to the window, and the elemental turmoil beyond it. Storms were not unusual in this part of the country, but they were invariably spectacular. He was gratified to see that the weather showed no sign of improving and, if anything, was growing increasingly lively. He c
ould hear the entire roof of the building groaning. Maybe, with luck, it would be whipped away or there would be some catastrophic power failure that meant the place had to close down. Arthur fantasized about this kind of occurrence frequently.

  “‘However,’” continued Bracket, “‘despite their best efforts, Outsourcing Unlimited have failed in one of their contractual obligations. This is of great regret to all concerned, but particularly to Northern Water, who have no other option but to terminate their contract with Outsourcing Unlimited.’”

  One of the older team members, Johnny, looked alarmed at that. He had been in the navy once upon a time, and sported a thick, gray handlebar mustache and tattoos all over his wrinkled hands. He now widened his bright blue eyes in a way that Arthur found over-dramatic, as if it were a deliberate action and not simply a reaction to what he had heard.

  “‘This means that, as of the first of October, the arrangement between Outsourcing Unlimited and Northern Water will come to an end. Employees based at the Whitehaven contact center will no longer be working for Outsourcing Unlimited. Instead, Interext are moving the operation inhouse and will be your employer from that date on. This is the end result of several months of intense negotiations and renegotiations with Northern Water, whereby Interext have been granted the contract only on the basis that they will satisfy the contractual obligation that Outsourcing Unlimited previously failed to honor. That is, Interext have guaranteed that they will achieve the revenue targets set by Northern Water, and Interext will bring their unrivaled resources into play in order to do so.’”

  That didn’t sound good. Arthur thought about his dad’s paltry cash-collection figures.

  “‘If those revenue targets are not met, Northern Water will face serious difficulty in continuing to provide the northern counties with the level of service we are committed to providing. As you will all appreciate, the delivery of fresh clean water, on demand, and the removal and treatment of waste water, also on demand, are basic measures of a civilized society. We are fully committed to this task, and we are sure that all of you share that commitment.’”

  Arthur frowned at “civilized society.”

  “‘The first major change will be the replacement of your current section manager, Jessica Stoats, by a senior Interext director—Mr. Artemis Black. Mr. Black will be joining you all at Whitehaven on the first of October. Thank you for listening.’”

  Bracket looked up at his team. They were looking around them as if they’d just woken up.

  “Is that it?” said Diane, who was chewing some fruit-flavored gum very loudly. Arthur could smell it distinctly from where he sat.

  “Yes,” said Bracket, “that’s it.”

  “Does this mean we’ll be getting sacked?”

  “No,” said Bracket. “Erm …” He looked at the brief again, and then back to Diane. “No,” he repeated.

  “Good, good,” she said, standing up, and then everybody else was standing up too.

  “Hang on,” said Bracket. “Hang on! Nobody got any questions?”

  “What’s Interext?” asked Dean.

  “It’s the parent company of Outsourcing Unlimited,” answered Bracket, uncertainly.

  “What’s a parent company?” asked Diane.

  “It’s a company that owns another company,” said Bracket.

  “Have you ever heard of Interext?” asked Arthur.

  “Well,” said Bracket, shrugging. “I must have. I mean, I don’t really remember, but yes.”

  “Jessica Stoat’s that big lass up on t’pedestal?” asked Johnny.

  “She’s the manager of this whole operation,” said Bracket, “so you should know who she is.”

  “Aye, well,” said Johnny. “Is she that big lass up on t’pedestal?”

  “She sits on the command center, yes,” said Bracket.

  “Then I do know who she is!” Johnny sat up, straightening his back, his mustache bouncing up and down as he worked his mouth in exasperation.

  “The important thing is that she’s leaving,” said Bracket. He looked over at the command center, which was a raised circular platform right in the middle of the room. Jessica wasn’t there today, but usually her unseemly bulk could be seen firmly settled in behind one of the three desks overlooking the workspace.

  “But we’re not getting sacked?” asked Diane again.

  “No,” said Bracket. He put the document down and clapped his hands together. “Now. Before everybody rushes off to their desks—and I know you’re all desperate to get back to work—don’t forget our company values! Just because we’re going to be working for somebody else doesn’t mean we can’t stick to the same values we work to at the moment: faith, positivity, loyalty and team!”

  Nobody said anything. Heavy rain suddenly swept past the window, battering the glass. All around them the call center continued to vibrate.

  “Team isn’t a value,” said Arthur. “A team is a thing. It’s not a value. Just a thing.”

  “Don’t be smart.”

  “I’m not,” said Arthur. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Look,” said Bracket, pointing at Arthur. He opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. Instead his shoulders sagged and he lowered his arm. “You get the idea, anyway,” he sighed. “Now go on, all of you.”

  The team dispersed, drifting away from the sofas, everybody but Arthur weaving their way in amongst the maze of desks. Arthur gravitated toward the window. He still held his briefing note in his hand. Everybody else had left theirs on the sofas. Diane had left her chewing gum there as well.

  “Hey!” said Bracket, but not loudly, because you shouldn’t speak or shout too loudly in case of disrupting phone calls. “Come back and get your briefing notes!”

  Nobody heard him or, if they did, they pretended not to. He turned to Arthur. “Honestly,” said Bracket, “this is big news. This is important. And it’s as if they really don’t give a shit.”

  Arthur studied him silently. Why was Bracket saying this to him? Did Bracket think that he, Arthur, gave a shit either? He looked down at the briefing note in his hand.

  “We need more people like you here,” said Bracket, slowly moving around and picking up all of the discarded notes. “Properly committed. Less kids just after their drinking money.”

  “Right,” said Arthur, thinking “fewer, not less.” “Well, I’m going to go now.”

  “Yeah,” said Bracket. “Get yourself home.”

  Arthur jogged down the steps leading to the foyer. Sometimes he would take a pack of printer paper from the stock of boxes that were, for some reason, stored beneath the staircase. Not for himself, for Bony. But this time the security guard was not too busy to notice him, so he left it.

  It had stopped raining, but the clouds were still heavy and full-looking. The air was like some sort of glass: everything looked crystal clear and all the colors were sharp and intense. He turned around and looked up at the massive white bulk of the call center. The revolving doors were like a vertical mouth. Like some strange, intricate sea-creature mouth, both beaky and mechanical. He shook his head, took a few steps backward, then turned and walked down North Shore Road toward the town’s harbor. The wind was still strong. The air smelled salty.

  On the left-hand side of the road was a huge supermarket with the obligatory car park. Beyond was the small train station. To the right was a new redbrick, barn-like building which had a small-scale replica of a ship’s prow mounted above its giant doors, together with the words “WHITEHAVEN SHIPYARD” spelled out in silver lettering. The ship’s prow was made of cast-iron and it looked like a trophy—like the head of something that had been hunted down and killed.

  Due to the bad weather, the harbor was not as busy as usual. Even the geese were huddled together against the buildings, instead of marauding thuggishly around like they did when the sun was out. Arthur turned right off the road, by the sculpture representing a shoal of fish that swam ever upward in a spiral of verdigris, and set off along the harb
or walk. He staggered like a drunk as the wind pushed him this way and that, and his hair blew out horizontally, first in one direction and then another. He kept his eyes focused downward so that he didn’t step in any of the goose shit or dog muck that littered the way. Although, thanks to the rain, whatever shit he did see looked quite vibrant and appealing, like big blobs of green and brown oil paint. And stopping to lean over the railings, which he did frequently, the water looked opaque and deeply colored, like enamel. It was mildly rippled, but no doubt there were larger waves to be seen beyond the harbor walls. Filthy, rusted fishing boats floated beneath him, but the strange quality of the atmosphere meant he could trick himself into seeing them as resting on the top of something solid. Something restless maybe, but solid all the same.

  Arthur continued along the harbor, past the big pink buildings that had once been warehouses and were now flats. He walked on past the pubs and the restaurants. The wind made him feel as if he were stripped to the waist. He headed toward the hill at the far end of the harbor. Walking past the empty shell of the derelict hotel, he took the steps up the hill two or three at a time. At the top he came to the housing estate on which he lived with his father. The sky resembled a thin, greenish membrane, through which heavy black clouds were trying to force their way.

  Arthur opened the back door and the first thing he saw was his father’s pair of spectacles left on the kitchen worktop, surrounded by crumbs and baked beans. The kitchen was a mess. Hearing his father’s voice from the front room, Arthur paused and listened.

  “But I don’t want to do the shopping,” his father, Harry, was insisting. “I mean, I’ll do it if you really want me to, but I’m no good at it. You can go in there and keep a hold of whatever you need, but I get all in a flap. You think because you can do it, everybody else can do it, but I can’t do it.”

  Arthur listened for a response. There was nothing. Just a moment’s silence. Then Harry continued.

  “It’s like I keep saying, Rebecca. We’re all good at different things, that’s all. Please, Rebecca—”