With that, he pulled off the headphones, looked at Pete, whose head was still lowered towards the table, neglected to look at Wilkinson and walked out the door.
As he descended to the shopping levels, John felt numb from what had happened. Far from successfully claiming that he alone had designed the Zenith building, it was Pete who had said it first, so John’s reaction probably seemed like a retaliatory defence rather than the truth. Or, perhaps, Zenith’s plan to hijack John with the use of Pete was obvious to the audience.
Pete had now become the embodiment of his problems. He stood in direct conflict with John’s need to convince the world of the truth of the building. The ill-defined problems of society, of people, of the world and of everything which had made John feel uneasy, throughout his life, now had a name. The darkness was Pete, and he and Zenith had to be overcome.
‘Gowan!’ A voice cried, high above.
John looked up through the large gap, to the level just below the ceiling’s octagon-shaped skylights, and saw Mann looking down at him, his handlebar moustache unmistakable, even from that distance. Pete appeared behind him, looking down.
‘Wait, John,’ Pete shouted.
John felt tempted to walk away, but he wanted to hear what Pete had to say. Without Mann, Pete appeared at the bottom of the escalator a minute later and approached John. He seemed both sad and terrified behind his thick black-rimmed glasses.
‘I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry.’ He stopped and stood still.
‘I know why you did it,’ John said.
‘It was for us, for the company. Zenith were scared when you went off home for lunch this afternoon. They thought the plan of me simply reminding listeners that there was another architect of the Zenith building wouldn’t overcome the damage you caused to them last night. That’s why I agreed to this plan. I knew you wouldn’t agree to it, but I felt I had to – for us, for the company, for securing contracts in the future. Otherwise, nobody would want to hire us, no matter how talented we were. We couldn’t afford to have a firm like Zenith with government backing against us. Who knows what they could do!’
‘Legally, they couldn’t have done a thing against us. I said what I thought was the truth about my own building on television and, whilst it did have detrimental effects on their business, they couldn’t have sued us for slander.’
Pete scratched his neatly-combed hair erratically: ‘Well, they had me pinned up against the wall at the time, what with the government backing them, and everybody desperately wanting to clear up the mess you’d caused on television. I still believe I did the right thing.’
‘But I argued against you. I said you weren’t the architect but that I was.’
‘We guessed you would, and Zenith were fine with that scenario. People wouldn’t know who to believe, and that would still be a better situation for them than me simply saying I was joint architect. Anyway, we have to wait to see the public’s and the shareholders’ response.’
John didn’t trust Pete’s motivations, because he believed Pete’s ego would have gleefully seized the chance of claiming he was sole architect: ‘But some people will think you solely designed the building, Pete. Don’t you think that’s a terrible thing?’
Pete just stared at John a moment, not saying anything – as if he truly believed he designed the building. Finally, he said: ‘People will believe what they want to believe. If they disagree with how Zenith conducts its business overseas, then they’ll believe you designed the building. And if they like Zenith, they’ll believe I designed it. It’s political, so who cares!’
Pete was speaking the truth in this regard; it was political. Whoever was believed to be the real architect, the legacy of the building would be shrouded in political agenda: either pro Pete because people believed in the defence of a free society, or pro John because they were against Zenith and its international dealings. The truth of his building, of its actual free birth, would be lost forever.
‘You know, I could now say that Zenith put you up to it and that you’ve admitted it to me,’ John said wearily.
‘We both know Zenith and I would deny that, and I would be forced to gather support that I designed the building from our employees – for the good of the company, you understand.’
John found it hard to battle against the darkness and feared the future of always being bound to the hypocrisy of the building, never finding the freedom he had had during the amnesiac period.
Later that day, John spoke to Mann, in person, who apologised for the way things had transpired but stopped short of admitting Zenith’s involvement. Mann did admit he was happy, though, as if to say: don’t worry anymore about the television interview, but don’t try attacking us for what we did as a result.
The next day at the office, John could sense that everybody except Janice believed Pete was the true designer and that Pete undoubtedly enjoyed the prestige. Outside the building, the two men greeted reporters – one of whom worked for the Blanworth Express, the other for a national newspaper – and gave a statement saying the argument was now internal and that they wouldn’t be answering anymore questions from the media.
Over the next few days, there were political arguments about the legacy of the building in the News, but most of the newspapers were saying it was still a symbol of a free country because, in addition to Pete claiming he designed it and the political support from the government, the public’s appetite for it was so strong.
John’s blindness to the building remained, weighing him down and crippling his life. The environment grew weird and perplexing and as the darkness delved deeper into his brain, he no longer saw an enemy and something to fight against but, instead, an apathy for all things. Life was sometimes lifeless or, at other times, utterly petrifying for no apparent reason – or a mixture of both. He searched for reality in the urban landscape, touching the stones of buildings, trying to ascertain how they were constructed, but even the cathedral, a place of grandeur and retreat in the past, couldn’t give him what he was looking for.
The lack of reality did not confine itself to inanimate objects. People were becoming shadowy figures within this environment, too. John couldn’t get a sense of their lives, their ability to live. Those in the office looked to Pete with the uttermost respect and belief, but his kaleidoscopic image emanated a rich tapestry of darkness for John. Janice was the only one left who believed in him, or so it seemed, but his growing detachment from reality meant he wasn’t capable of wanting to be with her, or needing to ask for her help. Her advancements for intimacy were no longer appreciated; and soon, the close relationship that had been established during the amnesiac period was gone.
14
On a rare day that he was feeling more normal and able to cope with people, John went into work to get away from his house and his thoughts and to familiarise himself with the office. He did this every couple of weeks or so. Janice greeted him, sitting at her desk as usual in front of his private office.
‘Pete still wants to speak to you.’
‘Since when?’ he asked.
‘Don’t you remember? I rang you last week and told you he wanted to talk to you. He tried to phone you, himself, but you didn’t answer.’
‘Is he in?’
‘Yep.’
John noticed she appeared sad and wondered whether she was still having problems with her divorce. He walked over to Pete’s office and went in. Pete was on the other side of the curvaceous table, wearing a red bow tie today with both ends tucked bizarrely into his shirt. Behind him was the backdrop of houses rising on Toxon’s hills.
‘Listen, John,’ he said, putting down the phone, ‘you know that I’m very sorry for what happened on radio nine months ago – for what I did. But you also know that I was forced into that position by Zenith. If I hadn’t done what I did, they would probably have cancelled the radio interview and attacked us in some other underhand way, in an attempt to re-establish their integrity.’
‘Sure,’ John said dismissively,
sitting back into the leather chair.
‘We’ve known each other for a long time, haven’t we?’
John shrugged.
Pete smiled good-naturedly: ‘In college you were a year above me, and I barely knew you. It was only after college, when we bumped into each other in Blanworth, that we learnt we grew up in the same city. A few days later, you told me you had money from your inheritance and were looking for a junior partner to form a new company. And I think we’ve now achieved more than we ever dreamed of.’
Pete touched his side parting carefully and adjusted his black-rimmed glasses: ‘Have you spoken to any of our employees today?’
‘Janice – who said you wanted to speak to me.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘No.’
‘Nobody else?’
John shook his head.
‘Well, I asked nobody to tell you.’
Pete sat silently a moment. Then suddenly, he straightened his back as if finding courage for what he was about to say: ‘If you had talked to any of them, you might have discovered that all except Janice – who’s never been PA to both of us, anyway, and whom I didn’t even bother asking until yesterday because I knew it would be futile – have decided to work for me in a new company that I will be forming after the Zenith project is complete.’
‘What!’
‘Williams Enterprise, it will be called. And the dissolution of Gowan Partnerships will be totally legal, in adherence to our contract. I’m giving you enough notice, and so will our employees.’
John let Pete’s words settle uncomfortably inside his brain. The firm that he had set up with his parent’s inheritance – when both had died of cancer and wanted him to do something meaningful with it – the firm that he had spent his professional life building, the firm that had given him the opportunity to raise a family and build his own home was now being destroyed by his junior partner.
‘Why?’ John said.
‘Without you and with a new company name, I will be able to secure better contracts.’
‘How?’
‘The latest example – Cramer & Sons. You remember I wanted us to design their new office building, once we finished the Zenith contract?’
John remembered Pete mentioning something about the firm Cramer & Sons last month.
‘Well,’ Pete said, ‘I got in touch with them, but they were not interested, John – like other companies. They said it was because of your behaviour with Zenith on television and our consequential political involvement with Zenith that makes them not want to be associated with us. I talked to the CEO on the phone. He spoke candidly about not wanting to be associated with an architectural firm that had become politicised. He said we got too involved with Zenith’s problems, and he didn’t want that association. He said it was specifically you whom he didn’t want to be associated with. Therefore, I began to think of forming a new company without you. Why should both of us be affected?’
John was feeling far more alert now. The reality of the environment, including Pete’s curvaceous desk and the red-bricked houses on the hill through the window, no longer appeared smudged and lifeless but dark, distorted and intimidating with Pete sitting in the middle.
‘But you’re the one associated with politics,’ John said. ‘You defended the building as a symbol of this country’s freedom, allying yourself with Zenith and its business practises, albeit indirectly.’
‘Yes, but you were the one who started the controversy. What I did was nothing as bad as you did, which was to claim the design was indebted to the attack on this country’s freedom.’
‘But I designed the Zenith building, Pete – not you.’
Pete sighed: ‘Shall we stop the farce, John? Just for one moment, shall we speak the truth in private? I designed the building, John – not you. The only reason I went along with you was because you were the senior partner, and I could do nothing about it – not until you cocked-up on television and I had help from Zenith.’
John couldn’t believe what he was hearing, even from Pete: ‘It’s finally gone to your head – this image of grandeur – has it?’
Pete grinned: ‘Fine.’
Pete’s wide grin, his perfect white teeth and his black-rimmed glasses suddenly began to pain John’s eyes. The walls in the room seemed to move towards John, and he felt a pain beginning to emanate from his forehead, exactly where he had it when he woke up in hospital: ‘Are you the enemy that’s been against me all my life, stopping me from fulfilling my potential but stealing its results when I finally did produce something worthy?’
Pete looked at him incredulously: ‘Since I’ve known you, you’ve always needed to design a great building. I’ve never got in your way. When the opportunity finally came, you failed, and it was me that created a great design. You never came to terms with it, and I think this inability to face the truth created problems for you – genuine delusionary problems which began on the night you hit your head at the site, probably intentionally.’
The pain grew worse and so did the malevolent nature of the room. None of what Pete was saying was the truth. He was always the egomaniac, and now he believed his own lies. He had always been part of the problem ever since John went into business with him. Pete was the man who was fake and unreal, the man who played politics – much of what John disliked about the world. It was for this reason John went into business with him: he was so good at promoting the firm and gaining contracts with clients.
John staggered to his feet. Darkness and twisted reality encircled Pete’s being like the surrounding space of a black hole. Mesmerised by the horror, John stared a moment, far enough away to observe the spectacle without falling into its evil, before turning quickly and leaving the room. A couple of employees glanced at him with demonic expressions as he tried to focus on the exit. In the lift, the mirrored walls showed a strange, shadowy reflection, ruffled and bent, and John closed his eyes, trying not to be sick. The foyer’s sliding doors opened too slowly, and he stumbled into the fresh air, reaching for a cigarette before proceeding towards the shopping centre with the intention of going to his car.
Green fields flashed by. Distant bulbous cooling towers belched white steam into the sunny air as cows stood in groups, chewing the cud. After turning onto the road that led directly to his house and driving a couple of miles, he took his foot off the accelerator and let the car slow down, gliding over to the left to avoid a hooting car from the opposite direction. By the time he approached the bend he was going slowly enough not to use the brake. The car almost stopped halfway round, and he slumped his head onto the steering wheel, pushing it anticlockwise and turning the car into the ditch – where he crashed. In the silence that ensued, his stomach muscles contracted intermittently, but no tears escaped his eyes.
With his head slumped on the kitchen table, John mumbled to himself: ‘January 25th. Male suicide is high this time of year. Autumn goes quickly with the anticipation of Christmas and New Year. Then, in a flash, it’s gone. Reality hits on the first morning back at work. So for some, it’s a trip to the medicine cabinet. That reminds me, sort out my Life Assurance today. Wonder how much money the NHS spends on counselling for failed attempts? Surprised the government hasn’t introduced prescription discounts for this time of year to coincide with sales. Hillary liked shopping this time of year – gave her the excuse to get away from me. “A good buy, Hillary? Goodbye £400!” She spent an awful lot on dresses and birthday presents for second cousins. “But we haven’t seen them in years,” I would say. Money became my hollow passion – kept the blood from clotting. I remember the relief it gave her to argue, and perhaps I did it intentionally. Arguments certainly gave her the excuse she wanted. At first she looked for them elsewhere, accusing me of having an affair with Janice, but I denied that without much conviction, which she didn’t seem to like. Anyway, an attempt to move Christmas Day to January 25th was the last straw – or the straw she was looking for. “Think of the money we’d save!” And seven years
ago today, I came home to discover a note on the kitchen table. I found it difficult to react.’
There was a knock at the door. He raised his head from the cold pine kitchen table. Hillary had wanted to meet him today and had assured him, in her email, that it was a coincidence it was January 25th. But surely, she saw it as some kind of poetic justice? He didn’t care. The anticipation of her presence, having not seen her for so many years, woke him partially from his apathy.
‘John!’ she shrieked from outside.
He opened the door. His wife stood there, looking almost the same as when he last saw her, with curly, brown hair below her shoulders, rounded cheeks that were a little thinner and glowing white teeth.
‘Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?’ she said.
He gestured her in with his hand.
She stamped snow onto the mat, walked past him, stinking of pleasant perfume, and sat immediately at the table with her handbag in front of her: ‘I like what you’ve done to the place – cobwebs, dirty dishes, the lack of heating.’
He rotated the thermostat dial on the wall: ‘How did you get here?’
‘George drove me.’
Through the window, a bearded man, wearing a chequered cap, was sat in a sports car.
‘The reason for the divorce?’
‘There are more reasons than him, John.’
‘Tea?’
She stared at him a moment, then nodded.
‘What about Romeo?’
‘Are you jealous?’
John realised he might be and felt good for it: an increasing sense of life pumping through his veins. He put the kettle on.
‘I regret what I said on the phone,’ she said, lighter in tone.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I shouldn’t have got angry.’
‘I’m not sure I remember what you said.’
The Freedom Building Page 17