by M W Foolster
Pushing her blonde hair from her eyes, and with a confused expression on her face,
"Excuse me?"
"Can barely see a sodding thing in here."
"Perhaps if you took your sunglasses off?"
"Ohhh... Right."
Rolling her eyes and ignoring the goofy grin, she passes him the cocktail. Glasses now removed, he attempts to sip at the drink as he returns to his observational duties but the small paper umbrella in the glass keeps tickling his nose. Deciding that it would be easier just to remove it, he takes a quick look around the bar just to confirm that nobody is paying him any attention, and snatches at it. The DS suddenly jolts upright and winces with pain, having pricked his finger on the cocktail stick it's attached to. The glass wobbles precariously as it nearly slips from his hand. As it is, several ice cubes drop to the floor. And then he sneezes. Just unfortunate that a woman wearing a tight skirt and white blouse happens to be passing by at that exact moment. The DS can but sit and stare in horror as the forceful sneeze catches the umbrella and sends it flying from the glass. The woman gasps in shock as it plummets straight into her cleavage. Their eyes meet, DS Fuller gulps loudly, the menacing look on her face suggesting that he's in serious trouble. She grabs at the little umbrella, scrunches it up and steps towards him. With the cocktail stick clenched in her fist and pointing directly at him, the DS decides it's time to make good his escape. And then comes the sudden shriek as she duly slips on the ice. Having slid heavily into the bar and sent his glass crashing to the floor with her elbow, the fuming redhead turns towards him, cocktail stick raised above her head. But then the blonde bar tender shouts,
"Ehh, you. What the hell do you think you are doing?"
That’s followed by a woman screaming.
The red head freezes momentarily, but on seeing that everybody in the bar is now staring towards the stairs, she rams the cocktail stick down into the DS's outstretched leg. He yelps and she quickly backs off along the bar. The shocked DS throws her an angry glance before returning his attention to the spectacle unfolding before him. Reaches for his mobile, and phones the DI.
"Gov… Yer, it's all kicking off in here and you ain’t going to believe what I am looking at… But… Yer, sorry. Sinclair is definitely our man and he is making a run for it… Yes, I'm sure…Yes, get this... He only is in disguise, Gov... But... Yes, seriously, he has ditched his clothes and disguised himself as the bar’s cleaner… And get this, Gov, he is only bloody well naked under the apron… Yer, a right sicko... Yer, seriously, no clothes at all, can see his bare arse... No, I didn't see where he... Okay Gov, will look. You think he might have the diamonds stashed in the apron... Sorry... Yes, I am sure, nobody heard… Ok, Gov, will do. Let you know if I find them."
Having forced herself up against the brick wall at the end of the bar, the red head smiles to herself as she listens in on the DS's conversation. But her expression suddenly changes, and she's now looking apprehensive as it occurs to her that it probably wasn’t the most sensible action in stabbing the goofy man with the cocktail stick, not that he didn’t deserve it. And if Jason blabs, she could end up in serious trouble. But what was that about diamonds? Creeping past the DS, she heads swiftly for the door. DS Fuller cringes as the red head slinks past several laughing men, relieved that she appears to have lost interest in him. But then he catches a brief glimpse of her throwing what looks to be a bundle of clothing under a table. Phones the DS as he watches her exit the bar.
"Gov… No, haven't found it yet… But… Yes, I will but look, think he's got an accomplice. A red head, just left the bar. A right psycho… Yer, that's her… Think she might of ditched his clothing under a table… Really? But it's packed in here… Yer okay, I'll try."
As ordered, DS Fuller devises a cunning plan to retrieve the evidence. With most of the bar's clientele still preoccupied by what they'd just witnessed, and the bar tender having disappeared from view, he drops his lighter in a somewhat dramatic fashion. He drops to kneels to pick it up, and dives under the long wooden table. Crawls beneath it before somewhat reluctantly reaching for the pile of clothing, and then comes the sound of approaching footsteps. Smacks his head on the underside of the table on hearing the waitress showing guests towards it, swearing under his breath as he clutches the back of his head. With several pairs of legs now blocking his escape, he almost has to perform a contortionist act in order to reach his phone. He sends the DI a text message explaining his predicament. A less than sympathetic response leaves the DS in no doubt that he'll be spending the next hour doubled up under the table, struggling to stay awake as he's forced to listen to the wine guzzling pompous prats who now have their legs stretched out in front of him. That's until he hears the name.
"A top up, Councillor Fuker?”
Ruddy face jowls bouncing up and down beneath his beard as he breaks into a gravelly laugh, Councillor Fuker pushes his glass towards the suited male opposite.
“Need you even ask, George?”
Sipping appreciatively at the red wine, James Fuker clicks his fingers to draw the attention of the harassed looking waitress passing by their table.
“How can I be of help?”
“Well, my dear girl, you could begin by asking your chef to speed up our order. We’ve been sat here for all of fifteen minutes now and we both have rather important appointments to keep.”
“Yes, Sir. I can only apologise.”
Leans towards her breasts, making a point of looking at her name badge.
"We don't want an apology, Karina, we just want our steaks."
A dismissive flick of his hand has the waitress scurrying back towards the kitchen.
“Remind me, George, whatever possessed me to suggest this bar?”
“I think you mentioned something about the pretty waitresses, James.”
Both snort with laughter.
“Back to more important matters, George. The Boloc Board members. Have you now succeeded in receiving their full support in pursuing the contract?"
"Just the one dissenting voice, old chap. My uncle, Charles Boloc. But rest assured, his influence is, shall we say, fast waning. And I can give you my personal guarantee that he'll be resigning from the board in the very near future."
"Will he indeed?"
"Yes, most definitely. I won't bore you with the sordid details, James, but suffice to say that he has something of a preference for much younger women. Now, I'm absolutely positive that he won't want the photos that he'll soon receive in the post, finding their way into my auntie’s hands.”
The sinister sniggering from across the table him leaves a smirking Councillor Fuker feeling reassured.
"Excellent news, George. Have invested too much time, energy and effort into the project for any slip ups at this late a stage.”
“As regards Borrington Central library, am assuming the building will definitely be disposed of prior to the outsourcing. And that the ‘Save Borrington Central library campaign’ will be of little consequence?”
Snorting with laughter, Councillor Fuker rests his chin in his hands as he looks across the table.
“After today, old chap, it will appear as though the ‘Save the library’ campaign is being run by a bunch of extreme political activists. Those damned fliers that they've been circulating have caused the council untold embarrassment, but that's all set to end. Durrell has arranged for a group of anarchists to disrupt the planned demonstration outside the library. In fact, his hired help will most likely be mingling with the demonstrators now in anticipation of my arrival. Not that I will be visiting the damned library, having been warned by the police to cancel my engagement."
James Fuker snorts loudly before continuing.
"And I can guarantee you, that come Monday morning, Borrington's residents will be anything but sympathetic to the library cause. Any dissenting voices will soon be shot down once I've explained that for the library to remain open, additional funding will need to be raised, and that due to enforced government austerity
measures, the only option available to the council would be an increase in their council tax. I can assure you George, with the threat of a rise in council tax, Borrington Central library will soon be forgotten. And as for the plebs who’ve shown any interest, or support in this misguided campaign, they will soon be crawling back under their rocks to live out their thoroughly menial existences.”
"Marvellous. Do so love that terminology ‘austerity measures’, it really does have a truly wonderful ring to it."
James Fuker explodes with laughter.
"Yes, agreed. It’s quite amazing how you can use that as an excuse to justify almost anything. The banking crisis has created so much opportunity, and you've certainly benefited, George."
"Most definitely. Profit margins have increased dramatically. Wage freezes, zero hour employees and my beloved staffing restructures should profits ever dip. Been absolutely bloody marvellous, old chap."
Clink their glasses together as they toast the bankers.
"Back to the matter in hand, James. The reporter with the Informer, Jenni Forster, she is becoming something of a liability. Any progress in having that particular problem eradicated?”
“Only a question of time now, George. Durrell has a rather unpleasant accident in store for Ms Forster.”
“As in?”
“Cycling on the London roads has become extremely hazardous nowadays, wouldn’t you agree, old chap?”
"So much for the pen being mightier than the sword, James."
"Indeed, George, but then again, what use is a pen when the ink has run dry, other than to ram it up a plebeian posterior."
Both chuckle.
“Excellent news, James. The only other reassurances that the Bolac board will require is that we’ll receive no council interference, or town hall opposition, to implementing any changes that Bolac Business Solutions deem necessary. And as for the competition?”
A grinning James Fuker replies,
“Irrelevant. Two other parties have expressed an interest but rest assured, neither bid will prove acceptable. On that, you have my personal guarantee. Can you actually believe that both of those interested parties have stipulated that they’ll run the service as a not for profit enterprise? Ludicrous. As for Borrington Central library, you can reassure the board members, George, that it’s already as good as a supermarket. I’ve got a meeting scheduled with Rupert and the legal team next Monday, contracts will be drawn up shortly afterwards and there will be an official press release by the end of the week. And as stated in our manifesto, we are the party that can be trusted to promote local business interests in Borrington. Rest assured George, that not only will there will be no interference, the council will in fact be most supportive of any initiatives that prove to be, shall we say, mutually beneficial."
A smug look of satisfaction on his face as he swallows a mouthful of red wine, and then continues,
"Most significantly, to implement the council's voluntary programme in line with our commitment to community engagement policies."
"As per contractual obligation to Borrington Council, James?"
James Fuker leans back and bursts into laughter.
"But of course, my dear man, need you even ask? You have my word on that, George. It will be stipulated within the libraries contract, so allowing BBS plausible deniability should there be any negative publicity relating to the compulsory staffing reductions."
"Excellent, James."
A dithering Karina stares down at the steak meals, and looks pleadingly towards her male colleague.
"Please, Juan, just this once."
"What is your problem, Karina?"
Karina looks across at the two suited males, both middle aged. She isn't so much troubled by the balding, chubby man who is constantly wringing his hands together, but by the other one who'd blatantly ogled her boobs and is now hissing with laughter. Looks at the grey specks clearly visible in the neatly trimmed brown beard, the immaculately cropped sable coloured hair, the expensive suit, the perfectly manicured nails on his small hands and then it dawns on her.
"They just creep me out, something about them. Look, I know it sounds crazy but it's their eyes, Juan, especially the bearded one, so black, you know. Never seen eyes that black," Karina shudders. "Swear Juan, evil and cold eyes that.. That like undress you. Please, Juan, they're seriously freaking me out, you can keep the tip."
"Whatever, Karina. All sounds kinda crazy to me. Tips mine then."
She watches as Juan carries the plates to the table. Can almost imagine them as having long and black reptilian tongues that dart greedily out of their mouths on seeing the bloody, rare steaks. Shudders again before smiling at the young couple now asking to be shown to a table.
"Looks as though our pretty young waitress had abandoned us, James."
"Indeed it does, George. Karina, if I remember correctly. Unfortunately for her, the proprietor of the Comfort Zone is an acquaintance of mine, play the occasional round of golf, dare say she'll be relieved of her position in a few days.”
Both snigger as James Fuker cuts into the rare steak, blood now oozing out and running between several large mushrooms. Mushroom on the fork, he dabs it into the blood before sucking it into his mouth.
"So pray tell, George, how many library staff are Bolac intending to retain?"
"Hopefully none, James. The data you've already provided has enabled me to calculate the costing. Now, I’m working on the assumption that 40% will definitely opt for the redundancy terms that we'll be offering. Despite only offering the minimum terms, we’ll do a little scare mongering in advance as a means of encouragement,"
He dabs at the blood tricking down his chin with a white napkin.
"Of the 60% who’ll remain with the service, I'm confident that we'll lose a further 20% through natural wastage once we've imposed the new working conditions upon them."
Gnawing viciously on a large piece of bloody steak, James Fuker looks across at him inquisitively,
"New working conditions?"
"But of course. They're priority will no longer be the customer through the door but BBS's customer, which will, of course, be Borrington Council. That will then enable us to scrap many of the services previously offered within the libraries, unless of course, they're run by volunteers and generate no cost to us. Stock purchasing will of course need to be reduced, the present level is unsustainable and any unnecessary assets will be sold off. As for the remaining 60% of the original workforce, they really won't know what has hit them. We'll bombard them with new, and dare I say, thoroughly unworkable policies. That tends to lead to many a resignation, especially once several employees have received an official warning for being unaware of and/or failing to implement BBS procedures. We'll also introduce a programme of time consuming and, if I'm being totally honest, thoroughly irrelevant and soul destroying E-learning modules to be completed within an impossible time period. Having cut the staffing levels at each of the libraries to the bare minimum, there really won't be any opportunity for the staff to complete the training within their working hours. Consequentially, they’ll need to complete it outside of work or face the consequences. Trust me James, by the time I’ve finished, staff moral will be at an all-time low. And they're working lives will have become a living hell. Now, as I mentioned earlier, I’m estimating that this will lead to a further 20% of the work-force finding alternative employment."
"Ingenious, George."
Blood dripping from his steak knife, George bares his teeth as he smiles maliciously,
"Once the six month payment-protection umbrella has ceased, the pitiful 40% or so who we've failed to force out the door will then be offered new terms and conditions. In order to continue to work for Bolac, they’ll need to sign new contracts. I envision a minimum 30% salary decrease, an increase in their working hours to 45 hours per week and, of course, a severely reduced holiday entitlement."
"That is absolutely bloody brilliant, George."
"I will guarantee you that wit
hin 12 months, the libraries will be predominantly staffed by volunteers. The dramatic reduction in costs will then allow us to go down the self-service route and in so doing, the council's community engagement programme will have come to full fruition."
James Fuker, with a smug and contended grin on his face, nods approvingly,
“Just as significantly, George, BBS will generate a very healthy profit margin. And your successful business model in running the service will make it so much easier for Borrington Council to award you further contracts.”
“Such as the council IT and building management contracts that will be up for renewal in the near future?”
“Indeed, George. The libraries contract will pale into insignificance when compared to the multi million pound contracts BBS will be awarded. It’s a win, win situation all around.”
Glasses raised, both cheerfully clink them together, James Fuker breaking out in a deep and guttural laughter.
DS Fuller rolls around under the table, fist in mouth, clutching hold of his cramped leg. Could cry with relief as he watches the two men finally move away from the table. Discretion no longer an issue as he scrambles from beneath it, dragging his dead leg along behind him, the DS makes a desperate dash for the toilet. His stomach churning, he locks himself in a cubicle and retches, the thought of having had Jason Sinclair's boxer shorts in his mouth still vivid in his mind. When the cramps had started, he had groaned louder than he'd intended and without thinking, he’d rammed the clothing he'd found into his mouth to muffle the sound. And only then came the horrific realisation that the polka dotted cloth hanging from his mouth was, in fact, a pair of men's boxers. Moans loudly as he bends over the toilet, and heaves again.
The vibrating mobile in his pocket brings him back to his senses. He sits on the toilet and reads the text. Crikey, he'd best get out of here, and fast. That bastard of a counsellor wasn't bullshitting, all hell has broken loose in Borrington High Street and the DI is in the middle of it. His mind then turns to Susie. He has the entire sordid conversation he'd just overheard recorded on his mobile phone and will use it to prove to her just how supportive he is of her, and the campaign, well, of her anyway. And then he feels a cold shudder running down his spine. Susie will be at the centre of the disturbances too. Cold water splashed on his face, a quick check in the mirror, hair combed back and he walks back out into a now deserted the bar. Is met by four panicked staff, recognises the blonde bartender from earlier, who throws him an anxious look.