30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

  The boots move away from John. The boy stands over his wife, lying motionless on the floor with her bodice pulled down by her midriff. The boy slashes the razor in a straight line down her bosom. The boots move back towards John. He stands over him.

  "Look at me."

  John closes his eyes.

  "Look at me."

  The grip on his throat is so strong that John foams at the mouth. John opens his eyes. Looks at the boy, sees the saliva glistening his perfect, white teeth. John keeps looking at the boy, his body limp and lifeless, as the boy carves the razor down his chest. He keeps looking - just as he is told - as the boy pulls back the razor and then claws it down his chest again.

  John is aware of screaming in the room. He knows it no longer belongs to Valerie, that his wife is no doubt dead by now. He knows that, this time, the screaming is his own.

  DAY ONE

  1ST JUNE 2018

  "We are going to put that incredible imagination of yours to good use. I urge you to maximize its full potential," he says. Definitely a he. Undisputedly masculine. "Imagine you've organised a party. The party is in your house - your home - and therefore it is your party. The party belongs to you. It is your possession. It is the most fantastic party that your imagination will allow. And remember, the power of your imagination, unlike the real, predictable world, is limitless. Can you imagine that?"

  "I can imagine that."

  "You've created a guest list. It is your guest list, and so the only people included on the list are the people you want to be there. Some people who don't make the list might be offended. Frankly, this isn't your problem. You have heard that lyric: “It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.”? Well, it is your party, and so they'll be doing the crying if need be, not you. Can you create that guest list?"

  Nod my head.

  "But what if somebody else turns up at your party?"

  "Who?" I ask. "Who turns up at my party?"

  "You know who."

  Remain silent. Tap my feet on the floor.

  "He turns up at your house uninvited. You didn't invite him because you didn't want him to be there. He brings out the worst in you. The very worst. A side of you that is best buried away. So what happens if this person turns up uninvited at your house?"

  I rub my fingertips in straight lines up and down my forehead, digging into the bone. "How can I answer that? You haven't told me who this person is..."

  Long, drawn out sigh. "You know who this person is. Please don't humour me. There is no need for me to answer that question and, quite simply, I don't intend to. He is outside your house, knocking on your door, demanding your attention. So what are you going to do about it?"

  "I'd open the front door..."

  "You would? That means that you'd come face to face with him. Is that what you want? Do you really think you could cope with that? Why would you do that?"

  "Think about it. Otherwise he'd keep knocking on the door. My guests would be upset. It would negatively impact my party."

  "Your guests can't hear the knocking. Only you can hear the knocking," he says.

  My fingertips move upwards, tugging at loose hairs from my scalp. "Even so, the knocking will become louder, you can't deny that. I'm not a magician. The knocking will become a barking dog keeping me awake when I'm exhausted and desperate to sleep. I'll have no choice but to answer that door - to face him - just to put a stop to the unbearable noise..."

  "You know you are wrong," he says. "You pay attention to a fly, for example, and it becomes a nuisance. A damn fly. You focus on something else - anything else - and your subconscious no longer has room to give that damn fly any importance. It might remain in the room; who cares? It will disappear from your mind and you'll get on with your life. I'll ask the question again: what are you going to do when your greatest fear comes knocking on the door, demanding to be let in?"

  Pause. Need to put the correct words in the right order. "I'd ignore the knocking on the door. And then I'd return to my invited guests. I'd do everything I can to make them feel welcome, to ensure it is the most fantastic party they've ever been to. And the knocking would just become some distant, irrelevant noise. Eventually, I won't even notice it is there. Just like that damn fly you talk about."

  "Fantastic. I'm certain your actions are the right ones to take. Let me just play devil's advocate for one moment, though, if you don't mind? Let me put another question to you: how do you think he'll react to you ignoring him?"

  I blow out hot air. "I can't try to control how other people react," I say. "You told me that."

  "You're right. I did. And you can't. But I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking you to tell me what his likely reaction will be. You're ignoring him. He is stood on your doorstep. You are humiliating him. Aren't you just going to make him angry?"

  I nod. I'm smiling. "But like you said: I can't control that. Let him get angry. Let him tear his shirt off and turn green for all I care. If I don't open the door then he has nowhere for that anger to go. He'll get bored of the situation. He'll get bored of the anger. He'll get bored of me."

  Silence. Fingers tapping. They're mine.

  "Fantastic," he says. "Tell me, what is the most important aspect of your world?"

  "My mind," I say. No hesitation. The words slip off my tongue. He's asked the question countless times before.

  "Exactly. Your mind is a precious commodity. So how should you treat your mind, this precious commodity?"

  "Like I treat my house."

  "Precisely. You control who enters. You tell any uninvited guests to leave. If they do not listen, then you just ignore them. They will eventually get bored, and nobody likes boredom. They will leave. They will no longer even want to come to your party. He will no longer want to come to your party. If you remember that golden rule, then everything will be absolutely fine."

  I nod. Smile.

  "Splendid. Absolutely splendid," he says. "I think that is enough for today, don't you? Now. Slowly, and in your own time, please open your eyes again..."

  *******

  I lean forward in my swivel chair and focus my eyes on the young girl sat the other side of the mahogany table. The girl brushes her hand through her long auburn hair and tries - in vain - to focus on somebody - anybody - so long as that somebody is not me. The crimson flush highlights the sprinkling of brown freckles on her cheeks. I briefly scan the rest of the table: five men in designer shirts rolled up at the sleeves; five women in prim, white blouses. Nice round number. All ten are twenty years younger than me, twenty years keener than me. Yet it is me they all turn to, anticipating the next words that come out of my mouth.

  "Janine," I say, "the last thing I want to do is to put you under any unnecessary pressure, my love; but shall we cut to the chase? This is your moment in the spotlight. All eyes are on you. Make the most of it..."

  A couple of the (braver) guys snigger. One has suddenly developed an irritating tickle in his throat. Pressing her hands against the edge of the table, Janine tentatively rises to her feet. Her chair rolls backwards. Glancing over her shoulder she decides - wisely - not to chase after the chair. Upper lip rising, she displays a row of acceptably straight teeth. The tips of her fingers never leave the edge of the table. Rotating her head, her eyes work the table. Janine reaches me. I deflect her gaze.

  We're on the 11th floor of this pristine, modern office building, and the wall to ceiling glass window provides a picturesque view of the Thames. I look around: there are three jugs filled with water in the middle of the table; everybody has written their name in black felt tip on a white placard, even though, as far as I can tell, they all already know each other; green plants, which look like they are watered daily, overflow from impressively expensive vases in all four corners of the room. The air conditioning is working overtime. The Beast from the East is a distant memory. It has been the warmest May in a hundred years, and June doesn't appear to be letting the side down, either.

  "We have five teams in five different locations
who all, essentially, do the same job," Janine begins. I raise my hand. Clearly, Janine is aware that I have raised my hand but she chooses to ignore it. Everybody else in the boardroom swivels their chairs and chooses not to ignore my raised hand. Janine releases a tired sigh. "Yes?"

  "Last thing I want to do is to interrupt you when you are in full flow, Janine," I say, examining my fingernails. "Would you agree that the key word in what you've just said there is 'essentially'?"

  "Sorry?"

  "No need to be sorry, Janine. I'm not sure you've actually done anything wrong. I just want clarification, that is all. You say that the five locations are essentially doing the same job. 'Essentially' allows considerable flexibility. Are you saying that essentially they all do the same job, but in reality, they do different jobs?"

  Janine wrinkles her forehead. "No, I am not saying that. What I am essentially saying - sorry, what I am saying - is that they all do the same jobs, only with some inevitable, trivial differences. Does that clarify my use of the word?"

  "It does. And thank you for the clarification."

  Janine maintains equal eye contact with the rest of the room. "Or at least, the teams should be doing the same job. But because the teams do not communicate with each other either regularly or effectively, they do not do the same job. Each team puts their own individual spin on procedures and this leads to inconsistency and - ultimately - inconsistency leads to unfairness to our customers."

  She has quickly gained confidence, and this confidence has quickly gained momentum. Janine is no longer so aware of the round sweat marks under her arms, or of her glowing, burning cheeks. Her shoulders are no longer hunched. Janine is ready to continue the flow but is unable to do so, because I interrupt her.

  "With all due respect, Janine," I say, gazing at the round circles underneath her armpits and then at her glowing, burning cheeks, "but all I am hearing at the moment are problems. The world is full of problems. We are sick of problems. We don't need any more problems, dear. Your negativity is spreading like wildfire in the room. What I am more interested in are the solutions. Do you actually have any?"

  "Yes," Janine says, bravely holding my eye for just a millisecond. "I was just about to come to that. I was merely setting the scene first. I apologise if I came across as negative. I would like to think that I was being realistic, but there you go. My solution is to migrate the five teams into one team, in one location, with one leader, all doing one, consistent job..."

  "Sounds absolutely fantastic," I say, jutting my neck out. There is plenty of room inside my pink shirt to do so. The other, younger and more athletic men in the room all wear ties. I don't. "So that means that four teams will be out of jobs. These employees will lose their livelihoods and, with no money or hope coming into the household, they will presumably end up living on the streets, begging for food with the ducks down by the Thames. As if that wasn't enough, the company will lose their invaluable experience and expertise. And that is only the beginning of our problems: the company will need to recruit their replacements. Recruitment costs money; what other cuts will need to be made to meet this? I'm not sure I share your undoubted enthusiasm for the proposal, Janine..."

  One guy around the table, the one with muscled arms and a shirt that has been rolled up higher than any of his compatriots, buries his head in his hands. Janine clears the frog from her throat. Her voice croaks, then rises. But she still manages to talk. "Thank you for your contribution," she says. Her smile could be drawn with a ruler. "Naturally, I have already considered all of these objections. I reassure you that none of our valued colleagues will lose their jobs. Other teams are keen to utilise their experience and skills in roles at the same grade. And colleagues in the core location have expressed an interest in joining our team. They will require limited training and will, I am confident, be an asset to our unit..."

  Janine's eyes fix on me; they are wide and glaring and challenging. In fact, all eyes are on me. The rest of the room expect me to throw a grenade back at Janine. They expect it to explode, and to cause maximum disruption.

  "Well I don't know about you," I say, glancing around at each and every face, "but I think Janine deserves a round of applause for that delivery..."

  The tension disappears with the metaphorical click of a finger and is replaced with laughter. I lead the way, loudly clapping my hands. The others quickly join in. Janine fans her pretty face and then does a curtsey, which, in turn, gets a laugh. She gladly returns to her seat, relieved that the drama is over. I wait for the adrenaline to die down.

  "That was fantastic, Janine," I say.

  "You really were such a horrible little man," Janine says, laughing. "I wanted to throttle you."

  I hold the palms of my hands up in surrender. "I do get carried away sometimes, I confess," I say. "But unfortunately, it is the name of the game with these workshops. The better you do, the more I test you. Take it as a compliment that I was heinous. I am here to play your very worst nightmare. And these people do exist, although - admittedly - usually in more subtle guises. The worst ones are those in sheep's clothing. You've picked up everything I covered on this workshop, though, and that is a credit to you. You were prepared for each of my objections and confrontations and you responded with logical and reasoned arguments. I'm sorry that I was hard on you," I say, and this is met by knowing laughter, "but for you I upped the tempo somewhat. I'm just glad that you didn't bite and tell me where to go, because that would have ruined the effect somewhat."

  I've been running these workshops for about five years now. I mainly deliver them to large corporations across the city with deep pockets and plenty of learning and development boxes to tick to keep the regulators off their backs. The topics range from Leading and Communicating to Building Resilience and they vary in length from two hours to five days. This session started just mid-morning, just after my appointment. Sometimes I even need to pack my suitcase and travel to cities as far afield as Birmingham, Manchester and Leeds. I'm self-employed, and I can choose whether or not to accept a job. I don't need the money and I don't need the work. I'm aware that this is an enviable position to be in. I don't even view it as a real job. All of this suits me fine. It is a deliberate arrangement. I see it as a hobby. I only do it to keep my mind sharp and to maintain regular contact with other human beings. I actually quite enjoy it. Sure, I could get bored and walk out halfway through a session and, realistically, my life wouldn't change much.

  I wrap up the session and exchange standard farewells. The room clears. It is Friday afternoon and everybody is keen to escape the cesspit and jump head first into the weekend. I am left in the conference room with just my papers to tidy up. I am not in any hurry. I don't have any workshops booked next week. Nearly every day is the weekend to me.

  I shut the door and wave to a few faces I saw on my way into the building, just before lunch. This is not my office. I don't have an office. I go wherever I am booked. I push open the doors and stand in the corridor, staring at the carpet. I am alone. My mind drifts. Do any of my school friends now work at the steel plant in Port Talbot, the heartbeat of the town? Will the steel works will be affected by the import tariff Trump has imposed? I don't know, because I'm not in contact with any of them. My mind drifts to the counselling appointment I had this morning: Richard was on fine form. My days are not usually this busy, but then they do say you wait ages for a bus and then two turn up at the same time.

  The doors to one of the lifts are closing. Picking up my pace, I begin walking briskly. Hopefully whoever occupies the lift will notice me and hold the doors open. There will always be another, though, just like the bus. The doors continue edging closer together. There is a voice from inside the lift. I hear it just before the doors meet in the middle.

  Have a nice weekend, Jeffrey Allen. See you in 30 days.

  My legs buckle. Bile fills my throat. My fist slams against the button to the lift. I look up. The lift is going down. Tenth floor. Ninth floor. Eighth floor. It stops. Somebody is get
ting in.

  I thrust open the door to the stairwell. I clamber down the wide marble stairs, three steps at a time. Pushing through the middle of a couple of guys in suits idling down the stairs, talking on their mobiles, I leave a trail of swear words and obscenities. The floor numbers reduce, one by one, until finally I'm on the ground floor, sprinting past reception and out of the rotating main entrance.

  I look left, right and forward. I spot somebody in a long cream raincoat pull a hood over his head and then quickly disappear inside the narrow entrance to the tube station. That is my target. The heat and pollution of the underground makes my skin tight and clammy. I don't care. There he is - navigating past innocent commuters on the escalators. I push people out of the way, uttering meaningless apologies as I do so.

  I'm at the bottom of the escalators, running left and then right, not sure which direction he went in. There he is - on one of the trains - his face covered by the hood. I've never ran so fast but - just as I get within touching distance of the train - the doors shut. He is just inches away from me, on the other side of the glass, his face hidden away by the hood. I slam the palm of my hand against the button, but the doors remain shut.

  The train moves away. The man in the cream overcoat raises his hand. Waves at me.

  The light on the underground feels amazingly - painfully - bright. I sit on a bench to gather my bearings, maybe to stop myself from toppling over. I push my face in my hands and close my eyes. My breathing starts to slow.

  I have no idea what just happened.

  All I know is that it has been nearly thirty years since anybody called me Jeffrey Allen.

  DAY TWO

  2ND JUNE 2018

  This, I muse, is like wrestling a crocodile.

  The early morning sun filters through a tiny crack in the curtain, dusting the cabin gold. The air is so dry it feels like the moisture is being sucked from my body, leaving it weak and limp. I pull the duvet up over my chest, protecting me; then I push it away and lie on my back, naked and exposed. Staying in bed is only going to make my active mind more rampant. Accepting my fate, I unroll my sleep crumpled body and place a reluctant foot down onto the hard, unwelcoming wooden floor.