by Will Wiles
‘Who is he?’ Pierce said. ‘The name rings a bell.’
‘He has a chain of estate agents,’ I said. ‘Wolfe / De Chauncey – you must have seen them?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Pierce said. ‘He’s ideal.’
‘Obviously we can’t actually do him,’ I said, patting the pad, trying to make the nature of the exercise clear. ‘We’re just trying to get a feel. And I have dealings with him.’ I crossed the name off, for emphasis.
I tried to think of more names. The culprits. I had never met my neighbours, and without names or faces it was hard to condemn them directly. I knew my landlord’s name but nothing more about him, only the occasional elliptical email. Bella’s husband Dan? He was horrible, they both were, but I didn’t want them beaten up.
‘Boris Johnson,’ Pierce suggested, and I nodded enthusiastically. The mayor’s name went on the top of the list. And so we went on, thinking of the most nauseating Londoners with the worst possible politics and the biggest slices of the pie. Former tabloid editors turned TV presenters, style gurus, right-wing commentators, think tankers. Pierce added a couple of obnoxious writers he had feuded with: Mike Butcher, the bestselling self-help novelist; Hugo Pleasance, a pop-sociology twerp, author of Will This Do: The Surprising Science of Adequacy; Phil Lothian, a critic and columnist for a liberal newspaper and the Spectator. It was an ugly list.
‘A good start,’ Pierce said.
‘We’ve got the flavour of it,’ I said. ‘Of course you’re not going to bump into these people. This is just the mood board.’
‘And the mood is hatred,’ Pierce said. ‘Tomorrow, then. Signed document in hand. We’ll do – whatever.’
‘No signed document, no whatever,’ I said. ‘No more games.’ Before, I might have balked at setting an ultimatum, fearing that Pierce would simply walk away. Now, I had nothing left to lose.
Pierce nodded. ‘No more games.’
NINE
It was a game, though, all of it, that much was revealed as soon as a pneumatic drill split the shell of unconsciousness. The drill had become a mosquito whine, not the deafening, marrow-penetrating racket of previous mornings but an uncomfortable buzzing rattle, alternating with silence.
I awoke without having rested. It was as if I had bumped into an absent colleague’s desk and nudged their mouse enough to wake their computer, showing what they had been looking at when they were called away. That was the thought left over from the previous night: it’s a game. Or rather, it’s a mockery, a pantomime of reality. Lists of victims, signed confessions? These were the props of melodrama, not journalism. I had nothing. Two days had passed with Pierce and I had achieved nothing.
In the dim, dilute light of the basement morning, I knew that I was out of time. There was no additional day to work on getting useful material from Pierce – or from De Chauncey, and remembering De Chauncey brought on a fresh surge of panic. For a vertiginous second, sinking into the sweat-damp mattress, I feared that the day might already have passed – that I might have so thoroughly medicined myself on Wednesday night that I had awoken on Friday morning. I entertained this thought long enough for its positive side to appear: at least there would be no more delay, not another twenty-four hours of sticky, desperate delusion as I imagined I might yet heave my career out of the fire. Cut straight to the deadline.
But I had not been spared, not that way. The realisation that I was out of time came from elsewhere. The sound had ceased in the few unpleasant moments I had spent wondering what day it might be – the flat was quiet, but for the bickering of the builders outside. I sat up, and swung my feet out of bed. The room was cold, the central heating off already, the only part of the house that kept up the ridiculous fiction that I maintained a normal work schedule. Atomised brick and cement had accumulated in the corners of my eyes and the recesses of my mouth. How much had I swallowed in the night – how much did I swallow every night, since the neighbours started their improvements? Was it building up within me? Was I saving that kind of deposit? How benign would it be? I thought of asbestos, and the myriad other horrors that lurked in old houses: fibreglass, mycotoxins, mould, spores. Should I email Dave? What good would it do?
The central heating had cooled to nothing. My bedside clock said it was 10.17, which gave me a nasty lurch. We were supposed to be in the office by ten at the latest, and it took forty-five minutes to get there, so I was at least an hour late. But I had already decided to skip the office and ‘work from home’. True, I needed to dash off a quick text saying that I was working from home, and it would have been better to do that before nine thirty, showing that I was out of bed at least; Eddie had in the past emphasised to everyone the importance of this notification as a bare minimum. ‘We do like to know where you are and what you’re doing,’ he had said at more than one Monday meeting. Then his indulgent expression would turn pained. ‘Don’t leave us guessing – it’s just rude, for one thing.’ And that was what always got me – I didn’t want to be rude to Eddie, not when he was so willing to stretch the rules for us.
So, a text. But where was my phone? The closing stages of the previous night were a familiar blank.
I did not need to consider the question long, because the drilling sound started up again, that altered, distant, hollow drilling sound … not a drill. It was my phone, vibrating on the bedside table. I had left it on a bed of coins, so its vibrations had an unusual, metallic quality, and it was this I had heard earlier. And I realised why I had jumped awake with the certain knowledge that my time was up: I had been lying in my bed, not yet awake, listening to my phone pulse over and over again, the repeated sound of someone calling, getting sent to voicemail, and calling again.
The screen was alight as the caller tried again: number withheld. That meant the office. Outgoing calls through the switchboard never showed up. I answered, expecting – dreading – Eddie or Polly.
‘Yep,’ I said, trying to sound friendly, but also like someone called away from an important work-related task that merited my fullest attention.
‘Are you still in bed?’ said an unexpected voice. It was Kay.
‘Nope,’ I said. ‘Up. Working from home.’
‘Did you clear that with Eddie?’ Kay said, her voice urgent but low. I could picture her, I had seen her make this kind of clandestine call before: she would be hunched over, elbows on her desk, free hand over her other ear, hiding behind dog-eared stacks of magazines. ‘Because, listen, because they are on the warpath about you not being in, and you need to get here ASAP.’
‘Right,’ I said. So, it was the end. The ceiling was falling, the floor opening up. ‘I’ll leave right away.’
‘Sooner than that, yeah?’ Kay said. ‘As a friend.’
The call ended.
I wondered how much time I might have, really. Enough for a can or two? I could do without a shower, just about, as I had showered the evening before, so perhaps I could just squeeze in a can. The usual drunk maths began to play out: how late was I? If I was not very late, then I could spare the minutes needed to fortify myself with a Stella, or even two. And if I was very, very late, then those minutes wouldn’t make too much difference and I could afford that Stella, or even two. But there was a nasty little strip of no-man’s-land between those two comforting trenches, when I was late but the damage was still escalating, and I needed to get moving. I feared I might be on that thirsty median this morning. Trouble had accumulated on my phone. I had missed three calls – how I hated the sight of that twisted red arrow. There were emails as well, of course, and texts, and other notifications, but calls were trouble. Missed calls were big trouble.
As if to confirm my worst suspicions, the phone started to vibrate in my hand, another incoming call. When I swiped to answer, my thumb dragged on the particles of grit that had settled on the screen during the night.
‘Yep.’
‘Jack.’ It was Eddie. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m on my way,’ I said. There was nothing else I could say, but it
set another clock ticking. No time for that can.
‘It is’ – there was a significant pause while he checked, probably from the lower-right corner of his computer screen – ‘ten twenty. You should be here before ten. And you are still on your way. Are you still at home?’
‘I’m sorry, Eddie,’ I said, trying to sound as humble as possible without crawling. ‘I overslept.’
‘We talked about this.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’
An exhalation came over the line, accompanied by rustling and bumping. Without being able to see him, I knew that he was running the fingers of his free hand through his curls.
‘Find me when you get in,’ he said. ‘I need an update on your pages. Polly too.’
He was being stern to a positively un-Eddie-like degree, which terrified me. I had at last depleted his goodwill, and I was so frightened I put both feet into a hole. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘It’s all good.’
‘Great,’ Eddie said. ‘I look forward to hearing about it. I knew you’d get a good result with Alexander.’
‘Yeah, absolutely,’ I said.
‘OK, see you soon. Don’t get back into bed.’ I could almost hear the smirk, the twinkle in the eye. The call ended. The old Eddie was back, but that was the old Eddie’s way of issuing a warning.
My deceit was fully formed and disastrous. I should have said … almost anything else. I should have prepared Eddie for the bad news that I would inevitably have to deliver once I was in the office: no record of the Pierce interview; no interview with De Chauncey at all. But instead I had lied. I knew exactly why I lied: I wanted to enjoy a single second of normal, cheerful interaction with Eddie. To perpetuate, for the shortest time, the impression that I continued to function. To live in a way that was not simply waiting for disgrace, and death.
The white shirt and smart trousers I had worn the night before were heaped on the floor beside the bed, on top of a trampled stratum of older, dirtier laundry. That was good – I would at least look fairly presentable. But then I recalled the condition of my face, and to recall it was to crack the veneer of numbness like the crust of a crème brûlée and feel the pain again.
If only I could have that drink. The emergency ultimatum from the office overpowered even the Need’s ability to keep me in place, but it would not give up. Opening my shoulder bag to check its contents – no DVRs, of course – I discovered the aluminium water bottle I had used to take beer on the train last night. It was empty, and a little sticky. Moving briskly, feeling efficient, I took it to the kitchen, ran it under the tap, dried it off and refilled it with two cans from the fridge. (Two of the three remaining – I had, it appeared, been industrious on my return, and the living room was mined with empties and not-so-empties.)
Another shameful first. Maybe there wasn’t much material difference between drinking in the shower in the morning and drinking on the Tube in the morning; maybe there wasn’t much material difference between drinking at lunch and taking drink into the office. Every daring transgression became every day in time.
A couple of years back – after I had started going to the pub at lunch, but before the morning cans began – I had sat next to a guy drinking a booze-hardened energy drink on the train into work. It was impossible to be entirely sure, but I was sure. The cloying chemical reek of off-brand energy drinks is a familiar part of the rush-hour bouquet, but he had added a few measures of harder stuff. And he looked the part, too, his shirt creased, trousers stained, eyes red and haunted, stubble undisturbed by a blade. Just about ready to give up the charade, or have it torn away from him. Not a sight to please a manager or any colleague. I hoped that lives did not depend on his work, that he was not on his way to direct aeroplanes or perform surgery. The sorry scene might have been salutary, but instead I drew a perverse lesson from it. I wasn’t that bad, I told myself. I didn’t have to worry too much. Here was living proof that there was much further to fall before the fall became final. And plenty of opportunities to change course entirely.
Bottle sloshing in my bag, I set off for the Tube.
A great heaviness had settled into my heart and my tread by the time I reached the office. I dreaded the attention my battered face would bring, the questions I would have to answer, even if they were kind. I did not have to lie about the essentials, at least. The effort to remove the bag from the tree was real and blameless enough, and I did not have to mention cockatoos or my blood-alcohol level. But I did not want to deal with people at all. I did not want anyone picking up the stench of decay from me. The prospect of the catch-up with Polly and Eddie was even worse. I had placed my last remaining hope in coming up with a convincing way to present the facts: figuring out, on the Tube, a way to tell the truth, but put an appealing spin on it. As it had turned out, all my creativity went into taking nips from my aluminium bottle in a surreptitious way while trying not to appear surreptitious. Agitated by the walk to the station, the bottle fizzed and spat in a conspicuous way when I tried to open it, and sent a trickle of foaming liquid over my knuckles. For a second I feared the whole thing might erupt in a geyser of beer, exposing my secret shame to the carriage. I had to screw the cap back on with a hard twist, and then try to release it very slowly, easing the pressure off, and it hissed and bubbled and generally made not-mineral-water noises.
The spilled beer made my left hand and wrist unpleasantly sticky and dirty-feeling, and I wanted to wash. But as I stepped out of the lift, I saw Mohit heading into the toilets, and did not want him observing me. For long seconds I stood in the lift lobby, half in the lift and half out, while an impatient electronic voice told me not to obstruct the doors. It was tempting to back into the lift and take it back down, to leave the building, go to the pub or return home, shut off the phone and head for unconsciousness … And ride out the consequences. The consequences would be very severe, but I could ignore them, until the money went, around the time of my next rent payment, or the one after.
The smell of burning was overpowering – I could taste it, thick scorched tar at the back of my mouth. Opposite the lifts were windows facing east, looking across the rooftops of London towards Barking and the smoke column. The view was identical to my first sight of the plume on Monday – that had been through the adjacent windows on the other side of the door into the office. And it was still there, the rising smoke, feeding a sky stained dark by four days of uninterrupted pollution. How could it possibly still be burning? What was left to burn? Why wasn’t everyone gathered here like they had been at the start, saying, ‘This is bizarre, this shouldn’t be happening’?
I could swear that it appeared to be closer, and filled a wider wedge of the horizon. In the winter gloom it was difficult to be sure, but I remembered the stark, black column that we had all seen on Monday, how far away it seemed to be; that was part of what made it impressive, the fact that it was so obviously distant and yet so very prominent. It didn’t match this sprawling toxic curtain.
The lift doors stopped complaining and began an electronic hollering. I stepped out and the doors closed with an aggressive snap. My hand was still dirty, and I feared that I reeked, but I pushed into the office regardless.
Only Kay acknowledged my entrance – she raised her eyebrows at me, an exaggerated look of alarm, and then pointedly turned to the aquarium. Eddie and Polly were bunkered there, Eddie unusually stiff, sitting straight, Polly leaning forward with her arms crossed tight, hair behind ears, staring down at papers. Her legs were kicked back under the chair, crossed at the ankles. The whole scene was tense.
Outside the aquarium, the office was quiet. We were in the meaty part of the production cycle, when features start to come together, and my colleagues were out visiting places and meeting people and overseeing photoshoots. Test spreads had started going up on the wall behind Ilse – tomorrow these would be brought into the meeting and Eddie would pass judgement. I saw a couple of pictures of Pierce in the mix. Pierce standing with his back to the wall-map, arms crossed. Pierce on his t
atty leather sofa, looking louche. Pierce pressed up against the wall-map, fingers running through the thick mane of psychogeographical trivia, ecstasy on his face, like a man lying in a meadow on a summer’s day. This last was a particularly good photo, and triggered a pang of envy at the good fun Pierce appeared to have had with Alan, the photographer, while I was drinking my way out of panic in the Liverpool Street Wetherspoon’s. One unwelcome emotion abruptly gave way to another: why be envious? Was I still besotted with Pierce? Did I still want to be his friend and peer? On Monday I would have been delighted with these photos, and what they said about the unwritten feature that was to accompany them – the feature I wanted to write, in all its glorious potential. Now it was all sullied and ridiculous.
I sat down and switched on my computer. Using my phone – more discreet than work email – I messaged Kay: What’s going on?
I don’t know, she replied. Something.
Redundancies? I asked. I watched as the message icon changed – Kay had read it. But she did not reply. I turned in my chair to look across the office at her, and she shrugged at me.
About me? I asked.
They weren’t happy with you earlier, Kay replied. What happened to your face?
I fell off a garden wall, I said. It’s a long story. Not a funny one, sorry, just stupid.
Are you OK? Kay asked.
I took a long time to reply. Yes, fine. Sorry. Just got a lot on.
We should catch up, she said.
I know, I said. I’m sorry I didn’t come out and see you the other night.
That’s fine. You could have just said you were with Quin.
She had seen Quin’s Tamesis post. Of course she had seen Quin’s Tamesis post. It would have lit up the sky across my contacts and T-pluses.
Sorry, I said, and left it at that. She did not reply, and I did not look around to see her expression.
Casual as anything, I opened my bag and took out my pad and my aluminium bottle. There was no further risk of an explosion, but the bottle still made an unwaterly Psst when I opened it. No one reacted. Mohit was back from the toilet and had resumed the interminable succession of phone calls that comprised his job. I took a gulp, but my movements were so self-conscious and awkward that I fluffed it and dribbled down my chin. At that moment, tilting my head to wipe my chin with the back of my still-not-washed hand, I became aware that I was being watched. In the conference room, Eddie and Polly had stopped conferring and were looking out through the glass wall towards me. When they saw me see them, Polly rose and came out of the aquarium in that slightly bowed, scuttling pose that comes instinctively when leaving an ongoing meeting, as if one is exiting a helicopter.