Purple People

by Kate Bulpitt

‘Did you?’

  ‘Indeed. You remember – François. French. A scientist. Gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh yes! You followed him to that conference in Boston.’

  ‘I didn’t follow him! That’s an outrageous insinuation, missy. He invited me.’

  ‘Is he still at Crayne?’

  ‘Nice change of tack. I don’t know. But I can find out.’

  ‘What I was thinking,’ said Eve, ‘is that I might just go there, say I’ve got an interview – about something fluffy, obviously, so as not to arouse suspicion – and see what I can find out. If I had a name of someone to ask for, that would be a huge help. Otherwise I’ll just pick one at random off their page on the Portal.’

  ‘Though if you’re looking at them on the Portal, that’ll be tracked.’

  ‘I know. But surely, even if InTan is a part of all this, it’d be a really long shot for anyone to have figured that out. Most people wouldn’t have a reason to have heard of it. Even the folk who were sent the press release all those months ago are unlikely to be preoccupied with a beauty product that got shelved. So I doubt the powers that be are going to expect anyone to have linked the Purple Scheme to Crayne. If there is a link.’

  There was a pause and the sound of a match being struck as Adio re-lit his cigarette. ‘The InTan thing could have legs,’ he said.

  At that moment the office smoke detector went off.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Adio. ‘Gotta go. Be good, doll.’

  ‘I could say the same to you—’ said Eve, as the line went dead.

  She pictured a variety of packages – tubes, tablets, sprays and syringes – each featuring a large black question mark. Eve’s Pam sketch needled her: How?

  *

  François had proven to be as golden as InTan allegedly was. He no longer worked at Crayne, but had given Adio the names of three former colleagues who Eve could try talking to.

  ‘You were cautious, weren’t you?’ Eve had asked.

  ‘Mostly,’ said Adio. ‘Look, I trust him. I asked if he knew anything about InTan, and he said no. But he thinks these people might. Two work in the research lab, and one is in a product planning department.‘ With what sounded like a smoke exhalation, he added, ‘And as a bonus, François is in New York next week.’

  ‘So you’re taking him for an appreciative drink?’

  Adio laughed. ‘It’d be rude not to.’

  Armed with the names of these potentially wise musketeers, Eve was now at the end of a four-hour train journey to Cardiff, the location of Crayne’s sleek headquarters. Outside the station, she shielded her eyes against the bright sunlight as she searched for a taxi rank.

  Eve approached the first cab in the queue.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m going to the Crayne Industries offices.’

  ‘Hop in, love,’ said the taxi driver.

  About to follow his instructions, Eve squinted through the window at him.

  ‘Did you know—’

  ‘Ah, here we go,’ said the cabbie. ‘I suppose you’re not going to get in now.’

  ‘No, no. I’m getting in,’ said Eve, swinging the door shut behind her.

  The taxi pulled away.

  ‘You seem to be turning Purple,’ said Eve.

  ‘I am not Turning Purple,’ said the cabbie, emphatically. ‘I am un-Turning Purple.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Eve, a hundred questions starting to fizz through her mind. But the cabbie didn’t require any prompts, and continued to talk.

  ‘I did nothing wrong, I’ll have you know. Went to the pub, as I always do on a Monday night. Had a nice time with my mates, thank you very much. Outside, there’s a couple of lads pestering this girl, I told them to leave her alone, and they start on me. Both of them! Cheeky sods. My mates come outside, give them what for, they scarper. I have another drink, courtesy of the landlord, go home, wake up—’

  ‘And you’re Purple,’ said Eve.

  ‘Exactly. The nerve of it. I went to the police station and gave them what for. I am a law-abiding citizen! I was protecting a member of the public – which is your job, I told them. Well. Off they went, to check with some person higher up the food chain, no doubt. Oh, we’re so sorry, Mr Rees, we’ll rectify this mistake, Mr Rees. So now, I am being Re-Turned to my God-given colour, thank you very much.’

  ‘That’s incredible,’ said Eve.

  ‘It’s disgraceful, is what it is,’ said the cabbie.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions?’

  ‘Knock yourself out.’

  ‘Do you know how you Turned Purple?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘But you saw a police officer nearby?’

  ‘If there was one, they should’ve been helping that poor lass, being harassed by those thugs.’

  ‘So you didn’t see any police?’

  ‘Not so as I noticed, no.’

  ‘Did you feel anyone touch you, or could someone have put something in your drink?’

  ‘Of course I felt someone touch me.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘The thugs who were attacking me!’

  ‘Of course. Anyone else?’

  ‘How many people do you want me to be accosted by?’

  ‘None!’ said Eve, sweetly. ‘How did they Re-Turn you?’

  ‘Don’t know. Don’t care frankly. As long as I’m back to normal. Though I’ve a good mind to take them to court for loss of earnings. Don’t leave the house until you’re fully recovered, they said. Well. I’ve already lost half a day’s work dealing with the results of their incompetence. I’m not missing the rest of my shift because it takes who knows how long to get back to normal.’

  ‘But you didn’t see how they administered the antidote?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were sedated?’

  The cabbie paused. ‘No. I don’t think so, love. I was talking to them and next thing I know I was coming to – in a cell! To add insult to injury. Apparently I fainted. Never fainted before in my life. It’ll be the shock, I suppose.’

  ‘How long do you think it was between when you fainted and when you came to?’

  ‘Ah. I don’t know. Not long. They wanted me to wait while I began to go back to normal, but I said not a chance, I’m going back to work. And here I am. Earning a crust, like the hard-working, law-abiding citizen I am.’

  ‘You got Turned last night, you went to the police station this morning, somehow they administered an antidote during the time between you fainting and coming to, and now this afternoon you’re back at work – does that sound accurate?’

  ‘It does. It’s going down though, to be fair,’ he said. ‘Only a few more patches, aren’t there?’ The cabbie glanced at himself in the rear view mirror. ‘That side of my cheek. A bit on my neck. And some on my arms. Look a bit like birthmarks, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eve, thinking of the marbled colouring of dappled ponies.

  ‘Anyhow,’ said the cabbie. ‘What brings you to Cardiff?’

  Eve considered telling him the real reason she was there, but thought better of it. Err on the side of caution, she told herself.

  ‘Work meetings, you know, quite boring,’ she said.

  ‘Hard to top my story, eh?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Here we are,’ the cabbie said, pulling up outside Crayne Industries.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Eve, as she climbed out of the cab. ‘I hope you have an uneventful rest of your day.’

  ‘So do I,’ said the cabbie, chuckling as he drove away.

  The offices were part of a futuristic development on the outskirts of the city, a green and grey utopia at the end of a long driveway, far enough from the road that you could barely hear the traffic. Instead visitors were greeted by the trickling lilt of a fountain adorned by an arresting quartet of bronze cranes. They took centre stage in a smart slate pond, from either side of which ran a moat-like stream, encircling the vast modern building. Crayne HQ was a tall, sprawling block of marbled concrete and tinted
glass, which glinted in the sun, reflecting the surrounding trees and passing birds back at you in a way that implied, it seemed to Eve, that very little penetrated this fortress – though perhaps this suspicion was a result of her own conspiracy-minded motives. She was sure, however, that in a line-up of Edens, you would identify this as having been conjured by a pharmaceutical company: neat, clipped, clinical. The grass was a saturated, almost emerald hue, trimmed uniformly short, like an army regulation haircut. And where were the people to populate such a haven? Inside, tinkering with test tubes and press releases, mulling over mergers?

  Still, let’s give this a whirl, thought Eve, as she moseyed over one of the wide footbridges that crossed the stream, wondering whether she’d make it past the next hurdle: that most contemporary portcullis, the corporate reception foyer.

  *

  Eve looked up, deliberately doe-eyed, as she entered the high-ceilinged lobby, which managed to feel simultaneously airy and claustrophobic. Soft chairs on strangely-angled stick legs were scattered along the far walls, leaving the not unsubstantial walk from the silently sliding main doors to the polished bank of reception desks dauntingly clear. Eve had worn low heels, which clicked as she stepped carefully across the shiny floor; she wondered if everything had been purposefully designed to elicit maximum intimidation.

  She smiled as she approached a receptionist.

  ‘Hello,’ she beamed. ‘What a beautiful building, isn’t it? Gosh, you’re lucky. At our gaff you’re dicing with death every day just with the ratty carpets, which are curled up all over the place like an elderly sandwich.’

  The receptionist was wearing a smart, well-fitting suit. He smiled politely.

  ‘And how can I help you today?’

  ‘Well,’ said Eve, ‘I have a meeting with… Ooh, hold on, let me just check.’ She reached into her bag, and pulled out a slip of paper. ‘Let’s see. My colleague arranged it, and what do we have… Ah, so, I’m due to be meeting Molly Applebaum.’

  The receptionist tapped into a computer.

  ‘She’s on holiday.’

  ‘On holiday? Cripes,’ said Eve. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘That’s the information I have.’

  ‘Is today… it is the fourteenth?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I see. Okay. So, I was also due to see – ’ Eve glanced at the piece of paper again – ‘Igor Bagrov.’

  More tapping.

  ‘He’s working from another site today.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ said Eve, beginning to look upset. ‘I’ve spent four hours on a train to come here today, especially for these meetings. So Molly and Igor are definitely not here?’

  ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘I just don’t understand it. Let’s hope third time lucky,’ she said, ‘or I might cry.’

  ‘You have another name?’

  ‘Yes. Mina Patel.’

  Tap tap tap.

  ‘She’s here.’

  ‘Hallelujah!’ said Eve. ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  ‘I’ll let her know you’re here,’ said the receptionist. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Eve.’

  ‘Eve—?’

  Now, thought Eve, do I give a false surname, on the off-chance that we hit the jackpot and they come looking for me? Or give my real name, assuming this is the sort of place likely to check CIV passes?

  ‘Fox,’ said Eve, thinking of The Shifty Fox.

  ‘Eve Fox,’ said the receptionist. ‘That’s snappy.’

  ‘Takes no time at all to sign a cheque!’ said Eve.

  The receptionist raised his eyebrows, and the phone receiver.

  ‘Hi there, I have Eve Fox here for her appointment with you.’ The eyebrows went up a notch. ‘The meeting was arranged by her colleague, she says.’ Leaning towards Eve, he said, ‘Ms Patel has no record of the meeting.’

  ‘No!’ said Eve, ‘Oh no, no, no. This is a disaster. Honestly, all this time setting these meetings up, and now a day out of the office to be here. And then to not get the interviews. My boss is going to flatten me.’ Eve started taking deep breaths, as though she might hyperventilate.

  ‘Interviews?’ the receptionist asked. ‘Which company are you from?’

  ‘I write for the Potion Pages in the Daily Dispatch. Which I know some people find morally questionable,’ said Eve, adding, ‘the paper, that is, not the Potion Pages, which are, I like to think, rather good. But what can I say… my mum is proud. Anyway… Mina should have received Portal post about the ‘Behind the Scenes’ series we’re doing.’

  The receptionist relayed this, then shook his head: no dice.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Eve said. ‘I know we must seem hideously disorganised, but usually everything is arranged with military precision. I’m sure you can imagine. You know how fond the Dispatch is of the military! But my colleague… I shouldn’t say this.’ Eve tipped her head forward, as though sharing a confidence. ‘He’s been completely out of sorts since Whisky’s diagnosis.’

  ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Yes. His dog.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s bad enough that we’ve made a shambles of organising this – I’m so sorry, by the way, this must feel like such a waste of time for you.’

  The receptionist shook his head, his mouth opening like a goldfish.

  ‘And to not get the interviews is bad enough, but he’s going to be in so much trouble.’ Eve gasped, as though a thought had just occurred to her. ‘If he gets sacked…’ Eve paused, before whispering, ‘And I’m sure you can imagine how brutal the Dispatch can be… Well, I dread to think of how he’s going to pay Whisky’s vet’s bill. It’s a very expensive condition.’

  Eve had hoped for a last-minute reprieve, but the receptionist said nothing. ‘Well, gosh, I’m babbling on, and none of this is for you to have to deal with. I’m so sorry to have wasted your time. And please apologise to Ms Patel for the confusion.’

  She turned to leave, walking slowly as she re-folded the piece of paper and placed it in her bag. Then pivoted round, clicking back across the stone floor to where the receptionist was just hanging up his phone.

  ‘I don’t suppose I could use the bathrooms? Before I head back to the railway station?’ she said.

  The receptionist hesitated, then said, ‘Of course. If I can just see your CIV pass.’

  Rats, thought Eve. Rumbled.

  She fished in her bag, and produced an ID card.

  ‘This says Eve Baxter… I thought you said your name is Eve Fox.’

  ‘It is!’ Eve made a swooning face. ‘I have now been married for three weeks, three days and – ’ she glanced at her watch – ‘forty-six minutes! But my new CIV pass hasn’t come through yet. Goodness knows what’s taking them so long. Maybe they’re busy making everyone purple passes or something mad… who knows.’

  The receptionist blinked, by now truly bamboozled.

  ‘Please go through,’ he said. ‘The bathrooms are on the right.’

  About to be buzzed into the main Crayne hive, Eve was frantically wondering what she should do with her new-found access to the building. So she wasn’t paying too much attention to the young woman who came through the door, seemingly making a beeline for her.

  ‘Eve Fox?’ the woman asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Eve, apprehensively. Was she about to be escorted to the ladies’?

  ‘I’m Mina, you were supposed to be interviewing me? Anthony suggested I should say hello, given the journey you’ve had to get here.’

  All the way from New York, thought Eve. She looked behind her, and the receptionist smiled. Anthony, you are a legend, she thought. If only he knew how grateful she was.

  ‘Shall we make the most of the sunshine?’ said Mina.

  Eve followed her outside.

  *

  To one side of the building, out of sight when you first arrived, was an area dotted with wooden picnic benches, which appeared to have been arranged according to a very specific mathematical eq
uation. Despite her traditionally line-toeing nature, Eve felt an urge to nudge them all by a few inches when no one was looking. Though she suspected that here, someone was always looking; what she’d assumed to be a ray of sunlight through the trees was, she noticed, the reflection of an ISON camera attached to a sturdy branch. Careful to behave as though she hadn’t seen it, Eve took a seat with her back to the camera, though guessed there would be plenty of others, keeping a watchful eye.

  As Mina rested her elbows on the table, a gold charm bracelet slid down her wrist.

  ‘I had no idea about the interview, sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Our fault completely,’ said Eve. ‘We’re just doing a sort of day in the life for different people in the beauty industry. Who are the folk behind your favourite lipstick, or perfume, or tanning product.’

  ‘The thing is,’ said Mina, ‘that we do have to get approval for any conversations we have with the press, so there’s not much I can say, really.’

  ‘Oh. Well, this is more about the personalities than the company,’ said Eve, ‘painting a picture of the people who help bring products to life.’

  ‘I can’t talk about anything that happens at Crayne without permission,’ said Mina. ‘That sounds boring, I know, but I’m sure you’re used to having strict policies if you’re at the Daily Dispatch.’

  Perhaps I’m paranoid, thought Eve, but did Mina’s inflection in this statement – was that a querying if? – imply that she didn’t entirely believe Eve’s story?

  ‘Maybe we could do a telephone interview?’ Mina suggested.

  ‘How about having a chat now, so it has some “in person” colour, but I’ll hold fire on using anything until you’ve got approval?’ Eve asked, adding, with a smile, ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

  ‘I could lose my job,’ said Mina. Maintaining eye contact she continued, ‘Like your friend with the dog. Whisky, wasn’t it?’

  There had been a pause after the word friend.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Eve, thoroughly confused.

  What the hell was going on? If she didn’t think Eve was from the Daily Dispatch (I guess consider that as some kind of compliment, she thought), who did Mina imagine Eve worked for, and why had she agreed to come down and meet her? Why suggest a phone conversation? And as to the significance of the word friend…