“Does she… know?”
“Of course. We wouldn’t send her otherwise.”
I stared at the face on the screen. Was he wearing a wig? I supposed he could be. It would make sense.
“Who are you people?” I asked, finally, my voice a whisper. The grin returned, along with a gentle shake of the head.
“We are sorry you have to do this, Chris,” he said. “but our boss is… well, he has his ways and his ideas, and we see that his wishes get carried out. Christine is a part of that. Not her real name, obviously!” he added with a chuckle.
I didn’t know what to say. As I’d been doing since this whole nightmare started, my brain switched over to the logistics. Those I could deal with.
“So… when does this start?” I asked. “I mean… then that’s it, until at least until the Tuesday morning time slot begins?” The Man in White pulled a face that wasn’t quite a wince. It was the face the guy at the car rental place pulls when you ask about a complimentary upgrade.
“All right. Okay. Now here’s the bad news, Chris. Again, don’t shoot the messenger. But there has to be balance with this. Obviously, as I say, you will be using the extra time to think—and the whole idea of this normally is that you operate under a strict timescale of action and planning, under pressure as it were—but seeing as your thinking pressure has been reduced, there has to be, as far as the boss is concerned, a reduction on the other end of things.” He stopped talking again and stared at the camera, letting it sink in. It did, but I was slow.
“No,” I said. I sounded like a kid who’d been told to come in for his dinner.
“Afraid so, Chris. Afraid so.”
“But I still have an hour left!” I shouted. “You’ve stopped the clock!”
“So you would have killed someone within the next hour? While you’re barely able to walk?”
“That’s not the point!”
“To be honest Chris, if you want my personal opinion,” the Man in White said, scratching at his cheek, “I’d be grateful that we’re stopping the clock at all, and I’d stop complaining like a little fucking bitch.”
I was so shocked by the sudden change of language that my mind went blank. It had been said in the same genial tone, but I didn’t know how to respond. The hand returned to his lap, and he cocked his head to one side before he spoke again, the face slack once more. “We could leave you to it and let you carry on with a non-functional foot. Meanwhile, the hours would tick by and then there’d probably be at least one girl dead and one girl a quadriplegic by the time you’re able to even hobble about. This way, Olivia only has her arms removed, and you have a chance to get the job done before the legs and the head go—”
“Arms? You mean, both arms?”
“Yes. Better that than dead, Chris. I really wouldn’t complain.”
“Fuck you,” I managed, and as lame as it was, somewhere inside I felt glad that at least in some small way today, I’d managed to stand up for myself. For whatever that was worth. “Don’t talk like you’re doing me a favour. You bunch of lunatics are cutting innocent peoples’ limbs off like they’re chicken wings, and you talk like I should be grateful! Just stop the clock! Leave it at that!” The Man in White’s hands came up to his shoulders, his don’t blame me gesture was so high.
“No can do, Chris. Sorry,” he said. He sounded like he was saying sorry sir, the BMWs are gone, best I can do is a Kia. “Boss’s orders. He thinks it wouldn’t be fair for you to get that extra time to plan and not have any consequences. I agree, but his sense of fairness is, well…” He paused, and looked at something off-camera for a moment. He smiled, and then looked back into the camera. “He’s very opinionated,” he said, the grin back on his face.
“Show him to me!” I suddenly screamed, and tried to grab the phone, but Klaus calmly shifted it to his opposite hand, placing it out of my reach. “Put him on camera! Put him on camera!”
“I think we’re done here, Chris,” the Man in White said calmly as I ranted and yelled at the phone, losing it as I knew that I’d failed and that Olivia MacArthur would never hold anything or anyone for the rest of her life, however long I managed to let that be. “Klaus will take you home. Christine will be around later to fix you up, and you’ll stay there for the rest of the day. Again, you don’t have to, and you can quit any time. Just a reminder, there. But you also know what that means. Just tell Klaus at any point if you change your mind. Oh, one thing: you may be thinking that if you hurt yourself again, or deliberately injure yourself so badly that you couldn’t possibly continue with the challenge, then you’ll be let off. That won’t happen. That’s the same as quitting. Plus, we can just wait until you heal. I said that one should be in the initial rules, but it wasn’t agreed. After today, it was decided that you should know that.”
“Don’t you hang up on me!”
“I’m done here, Klaus,” the Man in White said, and Klaus turned the phone over to end the call. The phone went back in Klaus’ jacket, he fastened his seatbelt, and then turned the key in the ignition as I tensed my entire body in my seat and let out a primal scream of frustration. The car pulled away, and the Man in White’s words danced around in my head like a needle just out of reach of an addict.
You can quit any time. You can quit any time.
I could. I knew I could. That was the worst part. I was choosing to stay a part of this… and yet I didn’t have any choice at all.
And now I was going home. To wait for Christine.
***
THE SECOND DAY OF THE TIME-OUT, MONDAY MORNING:
Harry’s back is already up when he sees Chris. And it wouldn’t cause such a reaction, today of all days, if Chris wasn’t one of the slackers. If he was someone who had shown any real dedication to the job. But Chris is one of the young slackers, and it’s already been a bad day for Harry.
Those damn cats had started it off by keeping him awake all night. Then, at breakfast, Ruth had spilt orange juice all over his shirt as they’d both bustled around the kitchen. Fine, no big deal, an accident, but instead of apologizing she’d shouted at him and called him an idiot. That had led to an upstairs-to-downstairs screaming match as he’d gone for a shirt replacement, a verbal war of attrition that had lasted until he stormed out the door, leaving his briefcase in the hallway. He’d had to go back for it, making him twenty minutes late. Then he’d arrived at work to find out that Linda was sick and that he had to manage not just his team, but hers, and this during the week that he was supposed to be preparing the stat report to the upper-level brass. All of that together has meant that he’s tired, he’s angry, and he’s stressed.
And here’s Chris, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Harry doesn’t expect the world from the call centre kids. He knows it’s a temp call centre job for most of them. They’re here for beer money, clearing student debt, or making funds to get them through until Christmas. They’re doing the bare minimum and going home, and they’re not here to start a career in customer service. Harry gets it, and he gets it because he was the same as them once, at least in terms of age. Harry never went to university, and anyone that ever says he has a chip on his shoulder towards the younger staff because of that – and a few people have, never to his face but he knows they have – is just plain wrong. Harry would never be jealous towards the younger team members because he has what they never will: street smarts. You can’t get that shit from a book, oh no.
To be fair, most of them, at least, are on time. Most of them, at least, make a reasonable effort. Ok, there’s always something Harry has to pick up on now and then (and he does, Harry runs a tight ship, and again, anyone that says he nitpicks is simply a slacker, another one of those cocksuckers that are never going to go as far as he has), and yes, he has to explain to them how he got where he is through a good work ethic and observing the rules. But of course, Harry gets what these kids are about. And it certainly doesn’t hurt to have some eye candy about. What was that line? I keep getting older but c
ollege girls stay the same age. Ruth is certainly getting older too, but not the young staff, especially the student staff. That’s a perk, for sure. He’d never do anything, but it doesn’t hurt to look. And a little flirting is harmless too. He knows they enjoy it, anyway.
But Chris has been one of the worst offenders. And he isn’t even a student! This is his full-time job! Shouldn’t that be worth something? Always a minute or two late. Arrival time is 8:30 am, not 8:31, not 8:32. If you’re not five minutes early, you’re late. That’s one of Harry’s Rules, for certain, probably his number one.
Harry has caught Chris texting in the past when he was supposedly listening to customers. That was a dressing down, and yes, Harry had done it in front of everyone else and some would say that was a bit much, but Harry has to make examples. Harry has caught Chris eating at his station, which other supervisors (the ones with no goddamn ambition, that’s for sure) might let slide. But in Harry’s book, the rules are the rules, and if he’s caught letting his staff break them then it’s his balls that get busted. The kid’s attitude to work is just slack. Sure, his call completion rate is high, and when the customers accept the feedback texts they rate him highly too. But it’s an attitude thing, Harry knows, even if other people don’t see it. And Harry always sees that shit. Fair enough, the kid even asked to come in an extra day, and that had been a Sunday no less, but so what? The kid just needs the extra money; that doesn’t make him dedicated.
Harry’s never had to sack a kid Chris’ age, but he has had to give a few bollockings. After the last two days—especially after the day that Harry has had so far—Chris is about to get a very big bollocking indeed.
Yesterday had been bad enough. The kid was clearly hungover, coming into work looking like a total mess. Limping as well, perhaps because of a fight the night before? Yes, it’s a call centre, and no, the customers on the phones don’t actually see the employees, but Harry runs a tight ship. He just doesn’t like it. If Harry hadn’t been rushed off his feet yesterday, he’d have already said something. All through Sunday, he’d kept seeing Chris with his head in his hands or rubbing at his eyes, nodding at whatever the customer in his headset was saying. Harry had checked: Chris’ call completion rate was down eleven percent. Just unacceptable. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Harry had a meeting with marketing yesterday that went on for most of the afternoon, Harry would have given Chris one of his famous dressing downs. The kid had gotten away with it.
But then it had happened again today. Chris had come in looking like death warmed up. And now, as Harry is making his way back to his office, he sees Chris rubbing at his eyes, his headset off his head.
Chris has picked the wrong day to slack. This is going to be biblical.
“Chris!” Harry shouts—he makes sure to shout it, feeling a grim thud of satisfaction as several heads pop up to observe what’s going to happen—as he storms over to Chris’ station. Chris jumps in his seat and turns to look at Harry as he descends upon him. Yep, the kid’s eyes are bloodshot, with heavy dark circles under them. Harry would never allow himself to be seen at work like that. Once he’s close enough to be within earshot of the customer on the line, Harry goes into miming mode. He thrusts a finger at the headset and pantomimes jamming it onto his own head. Chris nods, pale and blinking, and puts it on. Harry stands with his arms folded, staring daggers, while Chris finishes with the customer’s request to book a callout for tomorrow morning (although the earliest Chris can give her, as a non-priority customer, i.e. no one elderly in the home and with the boiler situation not being an emergency, is next Wednesday). Out of the corners of his eyes, Harry can see more and more headsetted people taking notice, waiting for Chris to finish the call. Perfect.
Chris finishes, having set his system to Away to prevent the next call from automatically coming on the line—usually only reserved for sanctioned breaks under Harry’s watch, but the kid clearly knows what’s coming, and that’s good—and removes his headset, swiveling his chair around to face Harry fully. Harry crooks his finger at Chris, as if he were summoning a dog. It’s such an obvious but seldom-used trick to establish power, and Harry can’t believe more people don’t do it. He’d read it in a book about dominance assertion. Chris pauses for a second and then stands, head down. Harry walks a few feet away to give the illusion of taking the conversation out of earshot of the nearby stations, but actually still close enough that everyone in his section will hear everything. Chris slowly limps his way over.
“Sorry… Harry,” Chris says, and he sounds like he’s about to fall asleep. “I just, uh… I have a headache. It’s really bad. I won’t let that happen again.”
“Did I just see that right?” says Harry, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Er… well, I—”
“Did you just keep a customer waiting? Was the customer talking to someone who wasn’t listening?”
“I’m really sorry Harry, but I only asked her to hold on a second— “
“Hold on a second?” Harry cries. That was pushing it; that might have been heard by the customers currently on the lines, but the example has to be made and now everyone nearby is listening. Still working, of course—Harry wouldn’t allow that to stop—but with one ear on Harry. “Customers don’t have a second, Chris. They’re busy people. What would you say if you went to the hospital, bleeding to death, and they told you to hang on a second?” Chris blinks in response, and Harry suddenly has the flash that he gets sometimes. He’s realized that he’s said something a little stupid, or something slightly over the top, and for the briefest of nanoseconds he’s back in the playground at fifteen-years-old, and Simon Paulson and Terry Billingley are leading the others in the usual point-and-jeer fest and leaving Harry feeling very, very exposed. Harry bites it back as always—he’s very good at that these days and has been for years—and moves past it the best way he knows. “Something smart to say about that, Chris? Let’s hear it.” The kid stares at Harry for a moment with those tired, clearly hungover eyes, and then shakes his head.
“No, Harry. You’re absolutely right. I’m really sorry. I’ve not been sleeping well. I’m sorry.”
“What you do on your own time is your business, but when it affects your work it’s my business, Chris.”
“Absolutely. That’s, uh… that’s totally understandable.”
This isn’t getting the response Harry wanted. The kid is just agreeing.
“You look a mess,” Harry snaps, pushing away the pent-up anger from the morning (and a lot of other times at home recently, now that he thinks about it, he pushes that away too). “Clean yourself up before tomorrow.” He’s getting angrier, and he doesn’t know why. He wants a reaction from the little shit. Harry lowers his voice a touch, as this zinger could get him in trouble, but if no one else hears it but him and the kid it’s Chris’ word against his. “If you’re out on the booze trying to get fucking laid, you might want to tidy yourself up. Then maybe you might get a look in for once. You look a mess.” Boom. Harry holds back a smirk—giving the kid some home truths that should bring him down a peg or two, and Chris really does look a mess—but for some reason, the kid just blinks a few times.
Then those tired eyes, carrying a gaze that had previously been frantically trying to look anywhere but at Harry, slowly come up and settle on Harry’s face. The kid’s brow furrows slightly, and he doesn’t say anything. Harry has the flash again and that makes him even angrier. What is this fuckup thinking?
“You’re agency staff, Chris,” Harry growls. “I can get rid of your slobby face anytime I like, so I’d choose my next words very carefully if I were you, son.” Son is pushing it; Harry is only twenty-eight, not a lot older than Chris, but he’s a damn sight wiser, that’s for sure.
“I wasn’t drinking last night, Harry,” Chris says, and his voice is a lot calmer all of a sudden. His eyes don’t leave Harry’s. “Or the night before. I just haven’t been sleeping. I have a lot of… personal stuff going on.”
“I do
n’t give a shit, Chris,” Harry says quietly, and he means it. “You can….“ Then Harry notices something. A little strange spot right by Chris’ eye, one that, once clocked, reveals similar strangeness around Chris’ face, especially on his nose. It’s like a Magic Eye picture, once you can see edge the whole thing just leaps out at you. A slow smirk begins to spread across Harry’s face. “Are you… are you wearing makeup, Chris?” The smirk gets bigger as Chris’s steady gaze finally cracks and his eyes begin to dart around again. “You are, aren’t you?”
In a distant part of his brain – one that even Harry probably doesn’t realize exists – Harry suddenly begins to feel like Simon Paulson and Terry Billingley. The smirk becomes a grin. “Is that something you wear to make you look better? When you go out?” He’s going too far, and he knows it, way too far, but his voice is low now—the observers have lost interest—and he has decided that he’s going to get rid of this fucking kid, understaffed or not. Doing so would make him feel a hell of a lot better than he has for days. He might as well enjoy it. Chris’ head drops, and Harry feels so powerful that he almost feels ashamed. Almost.
He waits. Chris’ head doesn’t come up. Harry savours the moment. As soon as he looks up again, Harry is going to tell him that he’s—
“Harry,” Chris says, without looking up, “Can I tell you something? Something that I haven’t told anyone else?” It sounds like he’s going to say go fuck yourself or something, and Harry opens his mouth to say you’re fired before Chris can say it because that would mean Chris was quitting by choice, and that would mean that Chris would win. But Chris gets there first. “Because I need some advice, Harry. And I know you’ve had to bollock me a few times, but I think that you’re a pretty worldly-wise guy. Even if we don’t always see eye-to-eye, I could really do with your opinion.” Chris’ head comes up and the gaze is steady again… but different. Harry actually shrinks back slightly, catches himself. Why does he feel unsettled? But then the kid makes it better by saying:
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