by Chris Simms
In explanation, he swivelled round and pointed to the intersection behind them, 'See that derelict martial arts centre at the corner of Princess Street? I've just persuaded the owner to take a big payment from Cusson's so they can wrap it in a giant advertisement for their soap. That site is a monster – it'll probably need eighteen drops of material stitched together to cover it. Did you know Cusson's have also just confirmed their contribution to the sponsorship pot? It's now got over forty million in it.'
By now they were parallel with the Commonwealth Games visitor centre. Located in a recently built office, its plate glass windows were blanked out with poorly arranged sheets of white paper. Through the gaps, workmen could be seen hurriedly constructing the shop's interior.
Nodding towards it, the taxi driver joined in. 'I was driving one of the guys on the council's organizing committee the other day. He told me what the sales projections are for that outlet and the one at Sportcity once the Games start. What do you reckon, mate? How much merchandise are they planning to flog?'
Tom thought for a few moments. 'I don't know, twenty grand'sworth a day?'
The driver gave a little whistle and pointed a forefinger up at the ceiling of the car. 'Fifteen grand an hour. Fifteen thousand pounds each bloody hour. I tell you, there are fortunes to be made once this thing gets going. Absolute fortunes.'
Slowly the cab eased out of the block-shaped shadow cast by the seventies-style Piccadilly Hotel. As they passed over a set of tram rails, the space on their left opened up into the newly revamped Piccadilly Gardens. Jon thought back to when the area was nothing more than a sunken collection of flowerbeds that seemed to suck in rubbish and debris like a drain attracts water. When lunch hour arrived office workers, desperate for any sort of green surroundings in the city centre, used to make do with the patchy grass slopes. He reflected on how much time he'd spent as a fresh-faced constable moving on the bickering huddles of drunks from the lacerated benches that bordered the gardens. The statues that interspersed the area had greened over with age. Pigeons would nestle on Queen Victoria's head, staining her hair white with their shit.
Now, after a ten-million-pound facelift, the area was almost ready to reopen. Behind ten-feet-high perimeter panels displaying colourful snapshots of central Manchester, the sunken gardens had been filled in, the all-day drinkers moved on and the pigeons made perchless while the statues were taken away for cleaning. Expanses of freshly laid turf and multitudes of designer benches awaited the rush. At the far end, in front of the Burger King, clusters of newly planted saplings stood in a sea of pristine pavement. Square after square of Spanish limestone and slabs of grey York stone silently waited their first footfalls.
The car had now reached the turning for London Road, which led down to Piccadilly station, gateway to Manchester's city centre. Again the workmen had been busy, altering the road layout to incorporate a raised concrete area dotted with trees down its middle.
Tom pointed to a partially converted building on their left. 'That is going to be a Rossetti hotel. The scaffolding won't be down before the Games start, so I rang them and asked if they'd be interested in a nice building wrap to hide all their builders' hairy arses. Nastro Azzurro rang last week looking for a site, so I paired them up. You know how Italians like doing business with each other – the Godfather and all that.'
'And how much money are they paying for it?' asked Jon, examining the mass of scaffolding. 'Thousands.'
'And what sort of commission do you get on the deal?'
'Thousands,' repeated Tom, unable to help smiling.
Jon sat back in his seat and blew out his cheeks.
At the junction to the half-built station concourse Tom asked, 'You really want to drink in the Bull's Head?' He looked down the road to the pub.
'Yeah,' answered Jon. 'Why?'
Tom laughed. 'Nothing. It's just that we come all the way into town – Castlefield, Deansgate Locks, the Northern Quarter – and you choose an old boozer behind the station.'
Jon shrugged. 'I told you. Give me somewhere with decent beer, music that lets you talk and enough seats. It's not like we're out trying to pull, are we?'
Tom nodded. 'Tell you what, let's have a look at my office first. It's only round the corner in Ardwick.' He leaned forward to address the driver. 'That all right, mate?'
'You're the boss,' he replied. 'What's the address?'
'Seven, Ardwick Crescent.'
The car carried on through the lights, past the redeveloped rear of the station with its new taxi rank. Within seconds, they'd pulled up outside what had once been a cramped terrace of residential housing.
Above the front door of the house before them was a sign reading,' It's A Wrap'. The office was two old houses turned into one, the narrow alley between them sealed off with plated glass which arched backwards to form a curved atrium between the two buildings.
'This is where it all happens,' said Tom, looking up at the building and seeing the windows lit up on the first floor. 'I don't believe it; Creepy George is in.'
They flicked the driver a fiver each and climbed out.
'Who's Creepy George?'
Tom shook his head. 'Don't ask. Hopefully someone's just left the lights on and he's not there at all.'
He pulled out his keys and opened up the heavily reinforced front door. When the alarm didn't start up with its warning beeps Tom said over his shoulder, 'He's here.'
Jon followed him into a foyer that continued the theme of a modern office carved from an industrial town house. The walls were stripped back to the brickwork and an old mangle stood in the corner. Hessian sacks with the word 'cotton' were piled to the side of the brushed stainless steel desk.
Tom opened a side door that led into the main boardroom. He pulled open the pale yellow Smeg fridge in the corner, took out two bottles of Becks, popped the caps on the wall-mounted opener and handed one to Jon.
'You can just help yourself?' said Jon, surprised.
'As long as you don't take the piss.'
Jon stepped into the room, opened up the fridge and saw it was stacked full of bottles. 'Bloody hell! Why am I in the public sector? We even have to pay for our coffee and tea.'
Tom laughed. 'Come on, I'll show you my office.'
They proceeded through an archway that led into the flagstone alley. Beneath the protective glass panels, two giant rubber plants thrived. Stepping through into the adjoining building, Tom pointed towards a door marked 'Head Honcho'. He raised his hand to his forehead and made a dickhead gesture, then began climbing up the circular iron staircase that curled up to the first floor where former bedrooms had been knocked through to form a single, open-plan office. Inside five workstations had been crammed in for the account handlers. The corner alcove was entirely taken up by a fortress of monitors and computer equipment.
Tom stepped through the doorway and was about to wave a hand at his desk when a flurry of activity started up. Visible behind the barricade of equipment in the corner was a mass of black hair. Creepy George. Their sudden appearance had obviously taken him by surprise and he was scrabbling to close down whatever he had been viewing on his monitor.
'Evening, George. Keeping busy?' Tom asked, not stepping any closer to his colleague's work area.
'Mmm, yes. I...' Slowly Creepy George rose to his feet, the bushy hair connecting with an equally dense pair of sideburns. Framed in it all was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with particularly thick lenses. His eyes flashed darkly. 'Just tidying up some old files on the main server.' He reached for the front pocket of his thick khaki shirt and pulled out a Phillips screwdriver. Pointing it at the semi-disembowelled hard drive on his desk, wires and circuit boards exposed for everyone to see, he added, 'I need to fix Tris's
machine before Monday, too.'
He still hadn't looked at Jon.
'Oh right,' said Tom. 'Well, we're only popping in so my friend here can have a look round. Jon, this is George.'
'Hi,' said Jon, stepping forwards and holding
a hand out over the monitors separating George from the rest of the room. A pair of magnified eyes blinked once, almost black irises giving him the stare of a corpse. Then a clammy palm was pressed briefly against Jon's hand, fingers barely flexing before contact was broken.
To Jon's surprise, a feeling that bordered on revulsion suddenly reared up inside him, instinctive and instantaneous.
Ten minutes later they were settling into two leather chairs in the snug surroundings of the Bull's Head. An early Van Morrison track was playing quietly from invisible speakers as Jon gulped a mouthful of beer and said, 'What's the score with that bloke in your office?'
'Creepy George?' said Tom, shrugging his shoulders. 'He was at the company long before I joined. One of those people who melt into the background whenever the occasional job has to be cut. I'm not really sure what his exact role is – I've heard him described as office manager; he's responsible for the computer system and in charge of getting the photocopiers and colour printers up and running again when they get jammed or run out of toner. Aside from that, he backs up all the files at the end of the day, orders new pieces of kit and upgrades equipment when it's needed. He chooses to work really strange hours – comes in late morning then works through far into the evenings, totally alone. If he's ever at his desk first thing in the morning, he's been there all night. Doing exactly what, I've no idea. No one has ever seen him eat anything other than family-size bags of Minstrels and he only drinks some type of purple squash from a bottle he brings in with him each day.'
'Well,' said Jon. 'He wasn't tidying up old computer files when we walked in on him. He couldn't get rid of whatever was on his computer screen fast enough.'
'That's the copper in you,' said Tom. 'I hadn't noticed. He was probably about to beat off to some teenage sex site.'
Or worse, Jon almost replied. Another pint later and Jon felt he could ask Tom about Charlotte again. 'So come on, mate. Cards on the table. How are you really finding married life?'
'What do you mean?' Tom answered, a tiny note of defensiveness in his voice.
Jon decided to lay out an admission of his own and see what it prompted. 'To be honest, the whole marriage thing makes me shit my pants.'
'What? But you're as good as married already! You've been with Alice for donkey's years.'
'Yeah, I know.' He looked at Tom's wedding band. 'But it's the formality of it all. I don't know, it makes me feel claustrophobic.'
'It doesn't change a thing, mate. I tell you what should make you feel really trapped – your shared mortgage with her. That's harder to get out of than any marriage.'
Jon smiled wryly in agreement. 'Until you have kids. Then you're really tied down.'
Again Tom sounded surprised. 'You're not a hundred per cent, then?'
Jon looked up at the ceiling and kicked his legs straight under the table. 'I don't know. It's the biggest step you can take. I just reckon I'll be crap at family stuff. I avoid holding babies like the plague.' He raised a large hand and stared at it, the knuckles peppered with scars and cuts from rugby studs. 'Tiny little things, just keeping you awake for months on end. I'd probably hate it. And there's my job – the hours I work. Nights and all that. It would really screw things up.'
'I'd love to start a family.'
Now Jon was stunned. 'You're serious?'
Tom's eyes dropped to his drink and when he spoke there was a melancholy note in his voice. 'Absolutely. Something's kind of shifted in me lately. It's all part of this plan to get out of the city and move to Cornwall.'
'You're getting broody.'
Tom smiled regretfully. 'I am. I admit it. But it's the last thing that Charlotte wants.'
Jon plucked a cigarette from Tom's pack and leaned forward a fraction. 'You've discussed it?' He touched a flame to its tip, listening to the tiny crackles as he took a deep drag. Tom shook his head. 'There's no need to. It couldn't be more obvious.'
'You know, when you two got married, it took me totally by surprise.'
Tom looked up. 'I know what you're thinking. Tom the shag monster.'
Jon laughed.
'But I tell you, the first time I saw her in the ad agency where she was the receptionist... fuck, my mouth filled up with saliva. I couldn't get my eyes off her body.' He stared into space. 'I went through the entire meeting on autopilot. As soon as it ended I was at the reception desk making up some bollocks reason to use their fax machine. Honestly Jon, if you gave me nude photos of every female film star and said put together your perfect woman, I couldn't do better than Charlotte.'
'And had you actually spoken to her by the time you'd decided that?'
Tom didn't even register the joke, and Jon groaned inwardly at how precarious the basis of their relationship must be. But then Nikki Kingston's face appeared in his mind. 'I know what you mean when the sight of someone just makes you go...' he snapped his fingers. 'There's this woman I work with sometimes. A crime scene manager. We flirt around a bit, but more and more I'm...' He shook his head.
Tom tapped a finger on the table. 'Don't even go there, Jon. What you've got with Alice – don't risk that for a quick shove.' He swept up their empties and returned a minute later with two fresh pints. 'You know what I really miss about rugby?' he announced, sitting down.
Jon acknowledged the switch in conversation by sitting up and grinding out his cigarette.
'The pain.'
Jon took a long sip and placed his pint on the table. 'Go on,' he said.
Tom slid a cigarette from the pack, picked up the lighter and put both elbows on the table. 'Thing is, the way the world has got today, it's too easy to forget what it's really like to be alive. You get up, go to work, sit at a desk, go home, sit down and watch TV, go to bed. Maybe you visit a gym once or twice a week. Our lives are so cocooned and predictable. I look at people and think we've become so safe, we're all half asleep. Trudging around our daily business, living in our artificial environment. Know what I mean?' he concluded, lighting up.
Jon remained silent for a second. 'That's what I like about getting pissed with you,' he suddenly said, affection flooding his voice. 'Football? Women? Films? Yeah, they're worth covering. But you always drop in some big psychological point.'
Tom grinned at him. 'But you still play,' he said. 'When I think of the adrenaline surge I used to get on the pitch ... At the time you don't realize how immune you are to the knocks, the impacts, getting stamped all over in a ruck. You get so into the match you don't feel it until afterwards. And that pain is a reminder that you've been out there, that you're actually alive. If I went out and played tomorrow, the first tackle would have me hobbling. I've gone soft. And this life I lead has made me that way.'
Jon nodded. 'But you're talking about our lives which, comparatively speaking, are very safe and comfortable. Some parts of Manchester I work in – the run-down areas, the parts where people are trying to sell stuff like curtain rails in their local newsagent's window for two quid. Cushion covers. Old plates. Knives and forks. And those are the people trying to get by honestly. Then there's the scum and what they'll do for cash. Plenty of people experience pain in their daily lives thanks to them. Plenty of people are made aware that they're alive and reminded how shit being alive can be, thanks to them. It's a different world to ours and believe me, you don't want your world coming into contact with the one those scum live in.'
Tom breathed deeply. 'Yeah, I suppose you're right.' He glanced at his empty glass. 'Anyway, get them in.'
The next morning Tom found himself looking up at the massive yellow side of Portland Tower once again. Only this time he was a passenger in his boss's car.
Despite the exhaust fumes drifting through his open window, Ian took a satisfied breath in. 'Can you smell it in the air?' he said, waiting for Tom to ask him what he meant. Dutifully Tom turned his head and raised an eyebrow in question. 'Money, my friend. Filthy fucking money!' He growled with delight and pounded the heels of his hands on the top of the wheel, making the steering column judder.
The traffic began moving forward and he casually pressed 'play' on the dashboard CD. Though the action appeared to be spontaneous, Tom suspected it was a pre-planned move. Sure enough Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries' started and his boss looked to the side. 'Don't you just love the smell of money in the mornings!'
Tom knew that barking out a GI-style 'Yo!' in reply would be the appropriate answer, but it was too early in the day to start putting on an act, papering over his true emotions with a veneer of enthusiasm. Instead all he could bring himself to do was smile, then sip at the small hole in the lid of his Starbucks coffee cup.
They battled their way to the top of Portland Street, then turned left into the traffic jam leading down to Piccadilly station. As they crawled along, Ian said, 'We need to get on to the owners of that derelict building on Great Ancoats Street, the big white one with the bushes growing out of its gutters.'
'Will do,' answered Tom, taking the lid off his cup, swirling round the dregs and draining the last of his latte. Fraction by fraction he succeeded in arousing something that resembled a professional interest, and as he did so his feelings of self-loss increased. He knew by the time they reached the office, the real Tom Benwell would have been fully replaced by a serious and eager executive for yet another day.
At last the car made it onto the emptier road beyond the lights, Tom glancing wistfully at the Bull's Head as they drove past. Soon they had parked outside It's A Wrap.
The driver's door of the Porsche Boxter swung open and Ian hauled his bulk onto the pavement. Holding his empty coffee cup, Tom climbed out, raised his arms above his head and gave his far thinner frame a good stretch. Then he followed his boss through the front door.
The woman behind the stainless steel desk said chirpily, 'Good morning,' and lifted up two piles of post.
'Morning Sarah,' replied Ian. Tom greeted her with a smile and nod of his head. They took their post and crossed the flagstone alleyway into the other half of the office. Ian walked towards the door marked 'Head Honcho' while Tom, with a heavy heart, started climbing the iron staircase to his office. 'So if you find out who owns that derelict building that would be great,' called out Ian as he opened his door.