by Dan Tyte
But then along came Trent. He’d email me on an almost hourly basis how Dina’s ruddy cheeks rubbed him up the right way and what he’d like to do to her given half the chance. But the problem was, unlike most of the girls who slid in through our swing door, she wasn’t giving him even half of half a chance. She was dedicated to her work, not swapping fuck-me looks with the account handlers. Trent realised he would have to up his game. While most men faced with unrequited lust would work hard to woo a potential lover with poetry, posies or platitudes, Trent took a slightly different approach. It was the tradition for non-married members of the office to share a few drinks on a Friday night before heading off to a weekend of whatever lay ahead. Car boot sales for Pete, a one-way ticket to cirrhosis of the liver for me. Different strokes for different folks. After months of spurned invites, Trent realised the object of his affections was going to have to be fished with a more wholesome bait. It was on a Wednesday when his evil plan became apparent. Carol walked over to my desk, clutching an A3 sheet of paper in her hand.
‘Have you seen this, Bill?’
‘I can see it, Carol, but I have not seen it.’
‘Very well, Bill. Literal as ever. Well, it’s Friday night’s drinks, they’re going to be in aid of Save the Children. It’s the big fund-a-thon day on Friday, you see. Apparently we all have to wear one yellow item of clothing and…’
‘Just the one item of clothing?’
‘Golly no, Bill, let me finish. One item of yellow clothing and donate a fiver. To give a little back to those poor kids. It was Trent’s idea. It’s nice isn’t it?’ Nice wasn’t the word which immediately sprang to mind. Nefarious was. Trent knew Dina was never going to be interested in going to the pub just for the pints and peanuts. But by appealing to her good nature and plying her with toasts to the downtrodden and Downs Syndrome he was banking on the Trojan Horse of charity donation leading to a Trojan of a very different kind.
‘Very nice, Carol, very thoughtful.’
As if forcing enough alcohol down the poor girl to tranquilise a horse wasn’t enough, Trent managed to finish the job while Dina was distracted by Pete’s inane chat about premium bonds or the price of a barrel of oil. Ketamine, slipped right into her drink. Being from the countryside she had no idea what a Mai Tai tasted like. He could have got away with lacing it with arsenic. As the group broke up in numbers and Dina broke up in body and mind, good old charity-champion Trent rose to his feet with the declaration he’d drop her off in a taxi.
‘It’s been a long week, she’s tired.’
‘I’ll jump in.’ said Pete. Trent had banked on this cover. Pete always wanted to go when people were splitting a cab, it appealed to his frugal nature. And the best thing? Pete lived closest to the pub, meaning he’d be first out. Sadistic, but systematic. You couldn’t fault Trent for that.
Poor Dina didn’t stand a chance. The key-load of ket had seen to that. We never saw her in the office again, her irregular correspondence with Carol our only update. The last we’d heard she was living out west as part of a breakaway group from the Seventh Day Adventists. It was rather sad the lengths she had to go to to forget that night. We couldn’t help thinking she only wrote to Carol due to a healthy commission on offer for enlisting new recruits. And Trent? He didn’t bat an eyelid. It was all in the game for him. All in the game.
A new phase of the game’s play began the day Christy walked into our often wired, always warped little world. It was the month-end, which meant the atmosphere in the office was tauter than usual. The tension emanated from the Finance Department, who for the other twenty or so working days of the month were treated with the pity and contempt it was felt grey-suited penny-pinchers deserved from a cluster of ‘creative’ coke-heads. But come the time of the month someone responsible had to monetise our hair-brained, half-cut ideas they ruled the roost. And every one of us who enjoyed the comforts of warm clothing, the Taste the Difference range and a roof over their heads damned well fucking knew it. It was like the role reversal of the bullied becoming the bully. And the asexual abacuses loved every minute of it as we scrambled around to try and come up with a list of outputs worthy of the inflated sums clients paid us on the second of each month.
Every month, when the figures were being collated and the activity interrogated, a shadow of doubt crept across some members of the team as we realised the game was up and the last days of Rome upon us. Jill could sometimes barely talk, which was a fucking godsend, but even she broke out of her nervous nihilism to comment on the stranger in our midst.
‘I imagine that’s the new girl, then,’ she said to no one in particular. Welcoming the break from my screen, I replied ‘Where?’ but before I could get the word out I’d realised exactly where, what and whom she was referring to.
It was her red red hair which punched me hard in the heart from the off. She was in Miles’ office, which perched above our factory floor like a dictator’s palace peering over a favela. Surrounded by his Barcelona chairs and misjudged modern art chosen by his overbearing Japanese girlfriend Kira, she was still a good twenty yards from where I was now ignoring Jill. But that didn’t dull the effect. Ruffles and ruffles gushed from her head the colour of dried blood and served to stir mine. Flame-haired broads stoked my coals. Not only did their colouring speak of passion, of love, of danger, but the women who wore it often burnt brighter after a childhood of piss-taking from shitty, spotty little sheep who knew no better than to flick rubber bands at the ginger girl because she was ‘different’.
But she stood out for me for different reasons, and I felt a wave of nausea come over my body at the fact Miles was first in to bat.
Miles was our boss. He was the kind of guy who’d walk into a bathroom, unzip his fly and go right ahead and piss in the middle urinal. No hiding off to the side for Miles. It wasn’t that he actually had a big dick (far from it if you were to believe the stories that did the rounds following the industry awards’ party back a few years ago). As with most things at Morgan & Schwarz, the truth didn’t matter. He possessed an absolute blind faith in the fact that he did, and did a hell of a job in making others believe the same. Whether you were a clerk at his bank, his ex-wife’s mother or some starlet who’d chase him all night at a Bellini and bullshit function, you didn’t have a dealing with Miles Carter without coming away with the unwavering knowledge that the dude packed heat. He had a confidence others weighed out in Peruvian lines and a clarity that came from being teetotal for 12 years. And that’s why he was the big man on 120k a year with an expense account that rivalled a small nation’s GDP. I hated him from the pit of my stomach and respected him from the depths of soul.
Miles often took the time to welcome new starters with a brief but courteous greeting in his office before setting to his big important boss stuff. None of us were really certain of what this consisted, but we were scared sure the place would be washed into the sea if he wasn’t left to it.
The business of the first dayer’s orientation was led by Pete, as was the case with most extra-curricular activities: a caring and competent First Aider, a no-one-dies-on-my-watch Fire Warden, a by-the-book Green Champion: logistically, administratively, environmentally, pastorally, Pete ensured no stone was left unturned, unconscious, on fire or switched on overnight.
We’d all had the pleasure of Pete’s thorough introduction and now it was Christy’s turn. He’d welcome her to the building, recite the Morgan & Schwarz story by heart, before unleashing a policy blitzkrieg: sickness and absence (you’re dead or at your desk), internet use (let’s not bring up what happened with Greg and his ‘research’), holidays (you’ll need them), ad infinitum.
It was during the Health and Safety supervision that Pete entered what athletes commonly referred to as ‘the zone’. The beady eyes of the office got ready to climb on their stalks. This phase of the induction gave its tutor the chance to flex the Three Ps (practicality, power and a physical). It gave Trent and I the One P (the opportunity to perv). Christy had follow
ed Pete out of the boardroom, through the floor and to the other end of the office where printer supplies were stored. With our itchy trigger-fingers always poised to ignore the advice in our email signatures and print off things which we really didn’t need, ink cartridges and paper were kept not in store cupboards but near the printers. Their out-in-the-openness saved Pete from being in an awkwardly close stationery cupboard situation with an unrelated female, and their relative light weight made them the perfect boxes with which to demonstrate the perfect bend. Never before has a man been so unaware of how plum his job was. As Christy Kelkin bent her knees to pick up a box of ream-wrapped 80gsm office copier paper, using her leg and buttock muscles to lift and correctly not twisting her body, she twisted a grip around my heart like I’d never felt before.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Lust at first sight. Which, okay, it was. But it wasn’t just that, it was more than animalistic desire. Where the fuck was this coming from? It was something deeper, something different, something new, an urge to look after, to protect, to keep warm, to keep safe.
Turns out I wouldn’t have to wait long to fulfill my new perverted paternalism. I heard a sharp cough and about-turned to see Pete, clipboard under arm and pen poised, and Christy, all red and warm and blurred. My eye focused. Pete cleared his throat.
‘Bill, this is Christy Kelkin, the newest recruit to the good ship Morgan & Schwarz.’
‘Hi,’ I said, standing and offering a hand. It hung in the air for what seemed like minutes before her small, purple nail-varnished fingers reached out to shake it. Awkward. My shirt had tucked out of my trousers. I was very aware of the stale cigarettes on my breath.
‘Hi,’ she mustered, with a nervous smile.
‘Bill’s your new “buddy”,’ Pete chirped. ‘I mean, we’ll all be your buddies soon enough, but Bill here is your buddy in a more formal sense of the word. It’s a scheme we operate here at Morgan & Schwarz through which a long-serving employee is assigned to a new starter to answer any general questions they may have about the company: anything from coffee breaks to, ooh, I don’t know, our company pension scheme. Now, everything will be covered in your orientation today but Bill will be on-hand throughout your probationary period to mentor you and sort out any questions, queries, quibbles or, umm, quizzical thoughts you may have. We find the scheme works ever so well in helping integrate newbies and in ironing out any cultural creases. Most people tend to have a weekly catch-up in order to maintain structure, but of course the very nature of the arrangement means questions can be fired Bill’s way at any time.’
Christy and I nodded in approval at Pete, intermittently stealing apprehensive looks at each other.
‘Right, off we continue on the floor tour’, Pete said. ‘Next stop, the bulletin board.’
Generally at around one o’clock, I went somewhere quiet. Somewhere far away from the social media strategies, the thought showers, to take a deep breath, gather my thoughts and prepare for the afternoon hawking propaganda to some equally tired hack. But every once in a while, I felt the urge to brush up against the crowds of people to prove I was still alive. To feel their buzz, their hope, their expectation at the endless possibilities a day in the big city presented to them. Today was one of those days.
Central Station must have seen tens of thousands of pairs of heels each and every day. Heels going north to visit cousins, heels heading south to take in some fishing, heels kicking themselves at missing the 13.42 out of town. But from my infrequent visits to the terminal, I’d come to know the grafters and grifters who worked the station floor. There was the phoney Hare Krishna in his orange shawl and too-new sandals who duped travellers out of small change for flowers, before picking discarded ones from the bin and reselling onto the next vulnerable small-town face. And the cup and ball con man who still managed to swindle passers-by with the oldest trick in the book through some animated stool pigeons and a mesmerising handlebar moustache. But today, another figure not only caught my still-sleepy eye, but damn near pulled it out of its socket.
From a distance, he looked like one of the doom-mongers you sometimes saw holding ‘The End of the World is Nigh’ placards. But as I moved closer and into focus I could see that he wasn’t proclaiming the end of days. His sign read: ‘Sister Gina. Fortunes told. Ten pound Bill. 182 Worcester Street’.
Great. More pyschobabble. I’d had enough of that for one week.
Chapter 7
I stood about five paces away from the man, trying to process the scene. The sign he clung to was a half taller than him again. His clothes were unremarkable; he wore the typical kind of duffle coat you saw all the old folks of his age wearing on the estates which sprawled across the city’s east side. His thick black-rimmed glasses framed two content and confident eyes which stared straight ahead to where the light fell from sparkling glass windows. I’d seen him before. The yellowed nicotine-stained fingers of my internal filing system flicked through snapped scenes, muddled memories, and boozy bites of conversation to place this man. Where had I seen him before?
‘Do I know you from somewhere?’
‘We all know each other, brother man.’
‘Oh great, not you as well.’
‘All of us, brother man. We’re all in the same boat. Paddling furiously along life’s little stream, one stroke forward, two strokes back. And sometimes the water seems to be getting into the boat, doesn’t it, brother man? And your little hands just can’t scoop it out quick enough, can they?’
‘You could say that.’
‘I did say that, brother man. I’ve been waiting for you to come and see me, you know.’
‘We have met, haven’t we? But where?’
‘You could say we’ve always known each other, brother man.’ It was then that the words he held jumped off the page. ‘Ten pound Bill’. The b of Bill was capitalised. Like in my name. Bill. Billy. Bill. This sign was made for me.
The serendipity of the scene must have dazed me because as I refocused, he’d vanished. I slapped myself in the face, hard, and hit my heels to 182 Worcester Street to find out just what the hell was going on. As I ran out of the concourse, trying my best to avoid tripping over suitcases being pulled in every direction, I was hit by the natural light of the bright sun. I headed north for a block or so, weaving in and out of newspaper vendors, window shoppers and camera-clutching tourists until I realised I wasn’t actually sure where Worcester Street was. I came to a stop, pulled my phone out and tapped the address into the GPS. These Flakberrys Morgan & Schwarz grafted to our palms did have their uses. Three blocks east, one block north. Or vice versa. Such were the wonders of a well-planned central business district. I’d walk the rest, that running had fucked me. Dr Taylor would be most pleased with the exercise. I lit a cigarette to celebrate.
As I strolled the short distance to my destination I asked myself: WTF was I doing? Psychics were the kind of people I actively avoided and now I was going to pay somehard-earned money to keep one of them in hoop earrings. The only thing that didn’t surprise me was my lack of surprise at this strange twist of events. Sometimes I found myself flung into situations which seemed to belie my very being, generally at the behest of those fuckers who fed and clothed me,but this one was all of the universe’s doing. It wanted me to go to Sister Gina. Who was little old I to step in and turn the other way? Anyway, it beat a conversation with Pete in the staff room on the Middle East crisis or the benefits of subscribing to National Geographic.
I spun onto Worcester Street, and slowly turned my eye to finding the numbers on the unassuming bricks which put together the buildings. Sure, I knew exactly where 182 was from the GPS, but my generation had the misfortune of being born on the cusp; neither able to live without technology, or able to live solely entrusting it. Better than a World War or two granted, but an annoying-enough anomaly dictated by age.
Number 182 wasn’t marked out by lamb’s blood or other such witchcraft, but by a list of apartments and names aside round gold bells. So far, so
conventional. And next to number seven, in red ink, was the name ‘Sister Gina’. As I rang the bell I resisted the inner urge to think ‘if she knew I was coming she’d have been at the door with some te de menthe’, but realised that joke was straight from Pete’s A-list material.
I waited for what seemed like minutes but was likely some strung-out seconds. I was nervous. Fuck fuck fuck. I rang again. Longer and harder this time. There was a distant noise, before rays of light brightened the corridor that was visible through the glass of the door. An almost impossibly small, old woman came into half-sight. As she moved slowly closer, small step by small stick-supported step, she took the form of an ancient but elegant babushka. Her stooped head was covered in an intricately woven headscarf, her long skirt almost swept the floor as she came closer to me. What did this woman know? Why had I been drawn here? She pitched her stick in front of the door, steadied herself and edged it outwards. I took the slack and pulled it wider.
‘Xschuse me,’ she said in a shrill voice, pushing me out of the way with a strength that didn’t previously seem possible. She scurried down the street. That was that.
I turned to walk away when a crackle came from the intercom system, ‘tssssshhhh… cccchh… hello… who… tschhhh… is… it?’ The noise came from buzzer number seven. I pressed the gold button again and spoke, ‘I, uhh, saw an ad in the, uhh, station and…’
‘Come on in. It’s at the top of the stairs.’