by Simon Fay
‘I’m also fine, thank you.’ He takes a long look at this body sat in the hot seat. With its tensely folded arms, one leg crossed over the other and twitching, it would seem a circuit in its motherboard has been fried. Smoke streams out of her nostrils to confirm it. He goes on. ‘I’m just trying to get the lay of the land. I’ll be asking about your relationships with people in the office and your observations of them, how they act around you and with one another. There are strings attaching everyone. I want to make a map of them and, more importantly, how you see them. Perhaps you’ve noticed somebody wandering around, unattached, so to speak, and not have comprehended what it was that made them feel so untouchable. I won’t start another lecture about why we’re doing this, but please keep in mind that your assistance is important in the process of keeping the psychic environment clean. In the same way that bad life experiences can build to make a UPD’s symptoms worse, habits can form in a workplace, polluting it on a deep level in a surprising amount of ways. It’s what it means when somebody describes an entire corporation as untouched.’
Guardedly hugging herself, Joanne remains unimpressed.
‘Let’s get started then.’ Francis scrolls down his screen and picks a light question to begin with. ‘Who among the staff members do you get along with best?’
‘They’re employees. I don’t make friends.’
‘Just subordinates?’
‘If they do their job, I’m happy.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He bites his cheek as the next thought comes to mind. ‘You seem to have a soft spot for Ava,’ and his voices goes down a pitch as he says the name in an attempt to prevent it going up one. His struggle to disguise the growing infatuation is flustered at best, and yet nobody in the office has yet to detect it. Worried for themselves as they are, all they see in him is a suit that holds a checklist. Hidden behind the questionnaire his obvious interest is consistently unnoticed.
‘Do I?’ the editor challenges him.
‘Do you?’ he meets her.
Joanne opens her mouth with a loud smack, then closes it. ‘I found her in the community. She was a college drop out. She didn’t even apply for a job here. She was my little project. A soft spot? I have an interest in making her as good as she can be. You can’t get comfortable at the top, as a company or an editor. We stay the best by retaining quality and aiming for more. You’re asking about personal relationships in an environment where personal relationships are all business. Ava’s a good writer and has a keen understanding of how to work under public scrutiny. She’s valuable to me that way.’
‘A protégé.’
Dodging the suggestion, Joanne takes a puff of her e-smoke.
‘What attracted you to her writing?’
‘It had balls,’ she says in a rumbling baritone. ‘You can’t write a story today without putting a disclaimer on the end of it. She didn’t do that. She doesn’t hide the truth, our Ava. She just has a way of putting it in a nice Armani dress. And she’s not afraid to say what she’s thinking. Counter opinions are important. Between her and Barry, we’re kept on our toes. If one of them didn’t speak up, who would? Of course, it helped she had a large following in the community that came over to us when she made the move.’
‘I see,’ and switching direction abruptly, Francis asks, ‘You’ve been divorced, twice, is it?’
‘Excuse me?’ Joanne balks. ‘I thought you said you wanted to understand the newsroom. My personal life is off limits.’
‘Well, I’d eh, like to understand you too,’ Francis stutters, busying himself on the screen so her surprise doesn’t engage him. ‘I’ll be asking the other staff members about you. The personalities at work here are what make the office what it is and you’re at the top. We can rely on other people’s opinions of you, or you can help me get a clear image...’
‘Of my marriages,’ Joanne bites the end of his sentence.
‘Why do you think there were two?’
A bitter laugh erupts from a dark pit inside her. ‘The hangover wasn’t so bad from the first one, I didn’t think a second could hurt,’ and she swallows, taking time to arrange her thoughts into a civil manner. ‘It was the same man both times. We were children the first go round. Years later. Well. You think you grow up but so much of that is just house keys and cars and paying bills. Shock twist. It turned out we were still the same people.’
‘That’s a sad lesson to learn,’ Francis nods, satisfied that she was provoked into saying something so honest. ‘And eloquently put.’
Not replying, she clenches her teeth and waits for him to go on, apparently having surprised herself with the confession and not wanting to be drawn by his attempt at intimacy. Focused on the wall behind him, her attention is pulled to one of the posters he had hung. ‘Remember the Children.’ Her startled eyes water in thrall of it.
‘Does it mean something to you, Joanne?’
‘Hm?’
‘The poster...’
‘What poster?’ she asks, staring at the picture in question.
Sensing the woman’s off guard, the agent takes a deep breath and tries for a push.
‘Would you say that you’ve had a lot of sexual partners, Joanne?’
‘Oh, you have some nerve!’ she snaps back to reality, exasperated.
‘I’ll be asking everyone in the office the same questions. Believe it or not, everything we discuss is relevant to my task at hand.’
‘How many would you say is a lot, Agent Mullen? Only looking at your rosy choirboy face I think you’d be offended if I’ve had more than one.’
Francis blushes in spite of himself, the set of questions on his screen wavering downwards as the flush of embarrassment goes through him. ‘It’s not about what I find offensive,’ he says timorously, then, finding that the silence has turned against him, he offers with a shy smirk, ‘You could just write the number down on a piece of paper if you like.’
***
Watching them is Ava. Sitting at the duck blind that is her desk, she’s eying the frosted glass of the room Joanne and Francis reside in. It’s a boring hour, but after a while the blurs move apart, the door opens, and she makes a beeline to meet Joanne in her office. Noting the mood on her editor’s face and letting it reflect on her own, she briskly closes the door and launches into a round of questions with, ‘What a load of pish-posh. Really, just pish-posh, isn’t it? What kind of things was he asking about?’
‘You, for one,’ Joanne says offhand. ‘I mean, you and me. If we’re anything more than boss and employee. His words. My marriages, my sexual history, my pets.’ She picks at her thumbnail as she talks. ‘I don’t have any pets. What’s that supposed to say about me? He must be some kind of pervert. Do you think we can get this thing called off on sexual harassment grounds?’
Ava gives this due consideration before shaking her head. She’s scrutinizing the grid of desks beyond Joanne’s door. Despite the undercurrent of paranoia, the newsroom is the usual buzz of activity, a wasp nest that shakes itself up every day to pump the noise onto the ChatterFive network. Joanne’s office is set to soundproofed. None of it reaches her if she doesn’t want it to.
‘What’s going on out there?’
The editor half suspects a team of investigators are sifting through all the computers in search of some despicable crime to pin on her. Ava has never seen the woman so unnerved. She throws her the painkillers she keeps on hand and catches them as they’re lobbed back, unopened and unused.
‘This is too stressful for you. Go on holiday. I could use your office for a while. I wouldn’t have to listen to Barry take calls anymore.’
Joanne ignores the idea. ‘Who’s he talking to next?’
Peering across the cubicles to the room Francis has claimed, Ava sees the door is ajar. The information she gathers is filtered through the window, and then, filtered through her eyes and out of her mouth to Joanne’s ears. ‘He’s just sitting there, lost in his notes or something – I don’t think he’s entirely right in the he
ad, Joanne.’
Putting her own spin on it, Joanne says, ‘Probably looking at my online history. I knew I shouldn’t have been looking up that stuff about buying anthrax.’
The social agent stands abruptly and calls to that funny haired girl as she passes by. Jumping to catch up with her, she beams in response and they walk into his office together. With the door closed behind them, they’re just soft shapes on the glass now, hues Ava can’t understand.
‘She’s a trouble maker,’ Ava mumbles. ‘That intern. The one with the awful hair. She keeps pushing that silly doctor gossip.’
‘I don’t blame her,’ Joanne laments. ‘I wish we could use it. That riot story went nowhere. The Gards were calling about that bloody lost girl you centred the piece on, by the way. You need to get back to them.’
‘We helped enough, getting her story out there, maybe they can do something for her now, you must realise that. And you’d have had it buried just to get some smutty medical scandal on the front. That doctor story would have had this place bombarded with lawsuits.’
Joanne doesn’t hear this, ‘How can they not know what happened to her?
‘Who?’
‘The girl you took that photo of. The one you said we helped, Ava. They want our assistance tracking her down!’
‘Translation – please solve the case for us.’
‘It’s not a case. It’s damage control. They don’t want to look bad.’
‘Yeah right, next they’ll be asking us to give their uniforms a make-over. Well, it’s not for us to find out. We’ve done our part.’
‘Says the woman who started the story!’
‘Anyway if she hasn’t been reported missing she must be fine. Her parents probably don’t want any publicity and haven’t come forward to announce they were there. Honestly, you’d think we could respect the last good people in the world that don’t want to milk attention out of a disaster.’
Frowning, Joanne finds her e-smoke battery has run down. ‘Tell that to the Gards. And do you think they’re going to find anything? This is just going to fizzle out to nothing. One more riot that caught our attention for a minute. Just a clap of thunder. I’m tired of the snacks you people keep bringing me. I want a story with meat. Type something up to kill it. Say the cops have several leads and are pursuing them in earnest. Hopefully something terrible will happen in the world tomorrow and we can move on from it all.’
‘Alright, fine, and what are you going to do about Susan?’
‘What?’ Joanne asks, frustrated. ‘Who the bloody hell is Susan?’
‘The intern who keeps causing trouble!’
‘Jesus, Ava, I don’t know. She hasn’t done anything that bad has she?’
‘Pretty sure she’s the one who’s been stealing food from the fridge.’
‘She could stand to lose a pound or two,’ Joanne finds herself agreeing and with it, a stone drops into a well. Business is a mercenary affair where I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine is the definition of friendship. Ava wants the girl gone and Joanne wants Ava to remain a pillar of support in this turbulent time. The reasoning for it, whatever the girl did to offend Ava, is the last thing Joanne wants to discover. She has survived this long in the media world because she has learned the hard way that, counter intuitive to her profession, sometimes it’s more important to not know what is happening. To remain ignorant is to remain innocent. This credo exists like a poison in her veins. So, as she realises that somewhere in the course of their griping she has struck a deal with Ava, she stops herself from wondering what motivations might be at work and tucks in her chin to sheepishly mutter, ‘I need a drink.’
Ava walks over to a filing cabinet and finds the sparkling wine Joanne keeps hidden at the back. Seeing the bottle, Joanne excitedly takes two mugs from her drawer and lets Ava serve double measures.
‘I’ll tell the newsdesk you said to give the girl her notice. They’ll email it on to her in the morning.’
‘Can she sue us?’ Joanne takes a swig to resign herself.
‘She’s just an intern.’ Ava brings the mug to her mouth but doesn’t swallow any of the liquid. Licking her lips, she sees Susan leave the social agent’s office as he calls for another candidate.
‘Look who’s up next.’
CHAPTER 7
Bobblehead Barry! A knobby hand slams onto the desk, placing a bobble-headed figurine in front of the social agent. Following the hand to the arm and the arm to its conclusion, Francis finds a matching face for the toy in Barry Danger. Skin tight on the man’s skull, his lips are stretched into a severe grin.
‘You can keep that. I’ve a drawer full of ‘em.’
‘Thanks,’ Francis delicately examines the thing, afraid perhaps that the head might fall off, bobbling about as much as it is while it laughs at a joke he’s not let in on.
‘I had an advice column running for a while and we were going to send those out to people who wrote in. Well, turns out nobody wanted my advice. There’s a warehouse in Naas storing crates of the things.’
‘It’s even got the same funny suit as you.’
Barry grips the collar of his outfit, a brown gridded jacket, slacks mismatched with a shiny purple vest, and puffing his chest out proudly, he peacocks the style while the sweat stained cuffs of the shirt stretch a finger’s length out of his jacket sleeves. The ensemble seems to have been pieced together in a number of different charity shops but, in his own assured way, it’s become a brand. The matching icon confirms it.
‘Or do I have the same suit as it?’ Barry waggles a finger.
‘Excuse me?’ Francis asks.
‘It’s a mystery. One of life’s little oddities, isn’t it?’
‘Funny gimmick though.’ Placing the bobblehead on the desktop, Francis adjusts it so that he doesn’t have to look at the thing. ‘You could give them out to top commenters and such?’
‘Then I wouldn’t have any to give to my good friends, Doctor Mullen,’ Barry winks at the social agent, who takes it as a warning that this interview won’t be any easier than Joanne’s.
Francis had scrutinized her as gingerly as he could, searching for safe spots among the mass of sensitive nerves, but he might as well have tied her down and screamed the questions. Though she’d tested high in the UPDSRT, she was falling below average on the comparative report. By the end of the interview she was defensive to the point of going mute and he had to make do with the behaviour he’d observed up to that stage. It wasn’t like a boss to decline an opportunity to talk. Coming off the back of that, and facing a journalist who could more aptly be described as a professional troll, he has chosen a less invasive tact, though his tablet is still held between them.
‘I’m not a doctor.’
‘Counsellor?’
‘You know I’m not a counsellor, Barry. Just a social agent.’
‘That’s right, but-see, I’m not really sure how a bloke becomes a social agent. I would’ve guessed there were psychology classes involved somewhere along the line.’
‘An arts degree helps,’ Francis exhales tiredly. ‘Generally you get into a branch of the civil service and work your way up. Social welfare’s a good entry. It helps to know the right people. Not that I ever did. After that it’s like any other job. Do what you’re told, don’t be late, and learn to fill in the right forms.’
‘Another civil servant trained to check the right boxes,’ Barry nods to the tablet.
‘Circles, actually.’ The screen is clogged with them. ‘And we should get started filling them in. Are there any old rivalries in the office?’
The question is met with a chuckle.
‘Are you good at this job, mate?’
‘I suppose we’ll find out.’
A humble response. Before he can parry, he’s questioned again.
‘What other places have you investigated? Just curious. I’ll answer your question if you do mine.’
‘This isn’t a negotiation,’ Francis says. ‘It’s up to you how you ac
t in here.’
‘You’ve never been in a newsroom before.’
The tablet lowers slightly.
‘Come on, Mullen,’ Barry chides.
‘You’re aware this is the first media outlet to be processed.’
‘Yeah. Where else have you worked though? Social Welfare?’
‘Over the past year I’ve been processing the County Councils of Leinster.’
‘Different to here.’
Considering this, Francis reluctantly jokes, ‘There may have been a noticeable difference in IQ levels. It did tend to make contesting parties easier to spot.’
Barry Danger, with a stiff rigor mortis grin, signals that they’ve arrived at his point. ‘Let me tell you something then, mate. You’re going to need a new questionnaire to figure this place out. Rivalries?’ he scoffs. ‘I took a donut from the fridge last week without asking whose it was and within an hour someone in the office had started a community group against me saying my articles are full of hyperbole and egomania, that I’ve got a small Johnson and am probably taking all my frustration out on the world because of it. Who started it? Bloody hell, pick a head, they’re all suss.’
‘You didn’t try to find out whose donut it was? Apologise and appease the situation?’
‘No, I took another one the next day though. When you have a group like that onto you you’d better make it worth their while, right?’
‘How would you feel if you were chosen for the scan?’ This is Francis going for a jab.
‘Inconvenienced,’ Barry yawns.
‘That’s all?’
Leaning forward to return the jab, Barry places his fingers on the tablet the social agent holds, and lowers it, gently, so that it’s level on the desk and there’s no wall between the men. ‘I’ve got one for you. Humour me a minute, you might find this interesting.’ The change in Barry’s demeanour is so drastic as he takes a turn for the serious that Francis assumes he’s leading up to a joke. ‘I’m walking down O’Connell street one day and I see a lady get her leg clipped by a bus, do a three-sixty in the air, and hit the road, hard, landing on her shoulder. The driver of the bus, he mustn’t notice, taking a nap or something, because it keeps going, right? Why else wouldn’t he stop? And nobody else on the street seems to notice either. They’re all sleepwalking too, dreaming about a brand of toothpaste that’ll keep their smiles pearly white, and me, Mister Brown Teeth, I’m the only one who’s awake. That’s a nightmare in itself, isn’t it? It must be true though because none of them see the woman on the middle of the road crawling off at a turtles pace for fear of being run over by another bus that doesn’t bother to stop.’