Half Plus Seven (10 page)

As they waved me off, I felt a pang of guilt about pinching the pills from my mum. She was going to need a fucking shipment to get through tonight.

Chapter 10

‘Gold. It's a great thing to have in your portfolio, especially in times of crisis. It really is the most tangible thing you can trade at the moment. But what do I know? I'm only listening to the so-called experts. So, there I was in the jewellers the other day trying to value some of Mother's old rings. You know what the lady in the shop told me? Buy a sovereign, put it under your bed and forget about it for a couple of years. It's a very sound investment right now, if you've got the money, that is.' Pete was in microeconomic mode. The only sovereigns under my bed had fallen off the fingers of the single mothers I'd fucked from the rough side of town. Quite why Pete was advising me on investments was anyone's guess. I didn't have the money. Or at least I would have had the money if I didn't blow it all on the weekend. I'll have the money again on the 28th of the month. And the 28th of the month after that. And after that. But I'll never
have
the money. Not for comforts like that. Gold. Stocks. Shares. Holiday homes. Retirement funds. Nest eggs. Nothing for a rainy day. How do you save anything for a rainy day when it's always fucking tipping down?

Something tells me I could have done with an umbrella for this afternoon's session with Christy. I could barely tie my shoelaces, yet I was being entrusted with the pastoral care of an over-the-top attractive life-damaged girl. I didn't know where the nearest fire exit was, or how best to contact Human Resources, and I was definitely not equipped for issues and tissues. If anything, the fact I had been charged with Christy's care was recognition of the fact I managed to just about hold it together in front of the other drones. That, or there was a rota. But I was going to take all of the positives out of this that I could.

Christy, Christy, Christy…

‘Yes, Bill.' Damn, no inner monologue.

‘Oh, hi Christy. Good to see you again.'

‘I saw you earlier, Bill.'

‘You did?'

‘Yes, I was on reception, of course….'

‘Because that's where you work,' I cut in.

‘You got it. You kind of shuffled past at nine-ish. You said hello but looked a bit distracted.'

‘Ah, sorry. I was…'

‘Late? stressed? hungover?'

‘All of the above,' I answered.

She laughed.

‘I can see this is the kind of place that can get to people. You know, stress them out. I don't know if Jill's going to bite my head off or stroke my face. And I was sure I saw Pete counting grains of sugar onto a spoon yesterday afternoon.'

‘The pressure of working at one of the city's top public relations agencies can affect us all in very different ways.'

‘I suppose,' she said. ‘But more than anything it makes me laugh.'

‘They say it's the best medicine,' I replied. ‘It just makes me angry.'

‘I'm not taking it that seriously, Bill.'
When you've been through what I've been through
, she didn't add to the end of the sentence. Her red hair was tied back today. With her fringe out of her face, and her bangs behind her ears, her eyes took over her face, big and smudged black with make-up. They looked like they'd seen more and lived longer than the taut skin that clung to her cheekbones. Experienced beyond her years, but not necessarily in a nice way. Plus she looked like she'd been up half the night. And I should know what that looks like.

‘And so you shouldn't. There are more important things in life,' I said. Unfortunately I was still struggling to find them. ‘But anyway, this isn't about me. You're not my buddy, erm, well I hope you are, can be, but I'm your buddy, so I'm, erm, meant to be helping you, not you psychoanalysing me.'

‘Were we psychoanalysing you?'

‘Well, I kind of was,' I said.

‘Well, you got to the heart of your feelings about this place a lot quicker than any of my previous experiences of that crock of shit.'

‘Go on…' I said. This I wanted to know about. What had she been through? Could I help her? Could she help me?

‘No, it's boring. Look, can we just get on with this? I'm tired.'

‘Late night too?'

‘Yes, it usually is, but not having the fun it looks and smells like you had.' I smelt myself. I stunk of gin. I knew that had been a bad idea.

‘Sorry, I didn't mean that. It's my brother, he's not sleeping so well. He's been having these night terrors. They really upset him.'

‘I dreamt I was being chased by a giant killer tomato the other day. Maybe I could talk to him.'

‘No, it's fine. We're fine. God, why am I even telling you this?'

‘Because it's better than talking about work,' I said. Because you want me in your life, I meant.

‘Is it? Work's an escape for me.'

‘So are things with your brother that bad then? Can't your parents look after him?' I was fishing. And using a ton fucking weight as bait.

‘Sorry?' She looked peeved. ‘I've already told you my dad's as good as dead. Well, to us at least.'

‘I'm sorry. And your mum?'

‘She is dead. Actually dead. It's always just been me and Joe. Even when Dad was around. It was so much better when he wasn't.' I looked out of the window of the interrogation room. Through the Venetian blinds I could see Miles perched on the end of Carol's desk. He had a hacky sack in his hand and was throwing it skywards with his right hand before catching it with his left; his platinum bracelet, a gift from Kira's latest modelling assignment in Tokyo, catching the light. Carol was doing all she could not to flinch every time the ball was thrown into the air. She wasn't facing us but you could see it in her shoulders.

‘Can we just talk about work?' Christy said.

I didn't want to talk about work. ‘I know how you feel,' I said.

‘What, tired?'

‘No, with your dad. I told you mine was dead. He died recently. Not long ago. Well, that's when he was pronounced dead, but his heart stopped a long time before that.' I looked up at those huge eyes to see if this was too much or out of line. She didn't look like she pitied me. Or was scared of me. This was a rare occurrence. I went on. ‘He was a lot like your dad sounds. There. Not there. Not there. You being glad he wasn't there but scared shitless that he'd come back.'

‘That sounds about right.'

‘I'll never forget one time. I was about seven or eight. Young. But old enough to sense an atmosphere, to know when things weren't right. I was in bed but didn't sleep well in those days. Well, I'd yet to discover a few drinks before bed. I could hear this commotion downstairs. Nothing too sinister, just raised voices, familiar voices. I got out of bed and crept towards them. I didn't want them to stop, I wanted to know what was being said, what was going on; maybe this would answer why things had been weird recently. I tried to edge the door ajar slightly so I could hear a bit more. They seemed to be talking about a woman called Maria. I didn't know any women called Maria. There was a girl in my class called Maria, but why would they be talking about her? The door creaked and the voices got louder and directed towards me. I looked up to see a missile coming towards me and my dad's face all screwed up and red. Really fucking red. I managed to dodge it but hot tea scalded my leg through my pyjamas. A commemorative Charles and Diana china mug had scattered around me into a hundred pieces.'

‘Oh, Bill.'

‘Why she never threw him out there and then I'll never know.' But I did know. He was hard to shake. And when she did shake him for Barry, I resented her for it. Poor old Mum couldn't win.'

‘That's terrible, Bill. Are you okay?'

‘I'm always okay.'

‘So this is what buddies do then?' she said. It felt like a support group for two. Hello, my name is Bill and I've been fucked up for about, phew, well let me see, 29 years now. Maybe we'd get to hug later.

‘But everything else aside, you're settling in okay?' I asked. I thought it was time to change the subject. She bit her bottom lip. She seemed wrong-footed.

‘Yes, I, uh, suppose I am. Everyone continues to be,' she paused, if not for effect, for thought, ‘interesting?'

‘You could say that.'

‘Trent is a friendly one, isn't he?'

‘Again, you could say that.'

‘I don't think anyone's ever started calling me “babe” after so short a time.'

‘He's probably forgotten your name. I wouldn't take it personally.' She ignored that.

‘And he keeps offering me a lift home in his car. I've told him I'm in the middle of a page-turner and like to read on the bus and that it really isn't the weather for a soft-top anyway.'

‘If he bothers you again, let me know.'

‘I can handle it.' Is that all you've got Trenty boy? Is a ride home the new roofie? Think again, fuck-face.

‘But sleazeballs aside, everything at Morgan & Schwarz is good? No work-related queries for your best buddy?' I cringed as I finished the sentence.

‘Well, the handover from the last girl – Dina was it? – was patchy to say the least but I'm picking it up, little by little.'

‘Yes, Dina did leave in rather a hurry. She was in a rush to save to her soul.'

‘Sorry?'

‘She joined some religious cult out west. Thought she had a few sins she needed absolving of.'

‘What bullshit,' she said.

‘Amen to that.'

‘You're born, you live, you die. The concept of any kind of afterlife is just a fairy story,' she said. ‘Probably gave people some comfort of something better to come during the dark ages but now we've got hamburgers and TV, how could heaven compete?' She paused, and trained her dark eyes onto mine. ‘What about you, Bill?'

‘Heaven? Fuck that. I don't like heights anyway.'

Chapter 11

Since the meeting with Sister Gina, the hacks of
The McDare Mercury
had taken on a new, more positive brief. The imaginary newsroom was a nicer place to be, pumping out propaganda to the masses of my mind like
The Daily Planet
on happy pills. The front page flashes of personal apocalypse had been turned around to semi-heroic hubris about my recent bravery. Headlines ran: ‘McDare Saves Girl, Dog, Civic Pride', ‘Bill: My Healthy Living Regime – Sex, Drugs and Sausage Rolls'. I was, if not invincible, or scared of Kryptonite for that matter, certainly not knocking at death's door. Well, if Sister Gina was to be believed anyway. And why wouldn't she be? She'd just become the newspaper's horoscope columnist.

The fortune of my most morally reprehensible colleague – Trent, if you hadn't guessed – would have read something like this at present: ‘Your suspicion is aroused by workplacetête-à-têtes
which may be more than the sum of their parts. Calm your mind, centre yourself and the inner strength to confront the culprits will come. Tread carefully, and beware black cats on Tuesdays.'

Now, the email which pinged into my inbox after my post-buddy session smoke break could hardly be filed under ‘E' for ‘egg-shell walking', but then that had never been Trent's style.

From: trent.rogers@morgan&schwarz.com

To: bill.mcdare@morgan&schwarz.com

Subject: The new project:update

William,

It's come to my attention that you've been spending a lot of time working on the new project. While your commitment to the cause is to be admired, it does seem that you've somewhat neglected your other responsibilities to clients and colleagues.

Please debrief me on progress as soon as possible.

Best regards, Trent

From: bill.mcdare@morgan&schwarz.com

To: trent.rogers@morgan&schwarz.com

Subject: Re: The new project: update

Trent,

What the fuck are you on about?

Regards, Bill

From: trent.rogers@morgan&schwarz.com

To: bill.mcdare@morgan&schwarz.com

Subject: Re: The new project: update

Billy boy,

Don't play hardball with me.

Have you tapped that ass yet?

T

From: bill.mcdare@morgan&schwarz.com

To: trent.rogers@morgan&schwarz.com

Subject: Re: The new project: update

Trent,

Fuck you.

Bill.

It was best to give nothing away to Trent. Not that anything
was
going on. But any scrap of extraneous information surrendered to him could be used to inform the planning process of his next forced sexual activity. I wasn't going to fluff the fucker. Trent was unbearable to be around when you had something he wanted, however small. Whether he was after your last Rolo or your sister's cherry, he boasted an unbelievably thick skin, astonishing ignorance and a huge sense of entitlement, giving him an ethic of perverse persistence. To use the parlance of the profession, I was getting Trent well and truly off my radar, for now at least. This left me with pretty slim conversational pickings in the office. Sometimes I felt I'd have had richer dialogue in the hole of a Turkish prison, interacting with sadistic guards through just a smattering of self-taught phrases, a compliant nod and a low pain threshold. Maybe I was laying it on
a bit thick. I'd go talk to Jill. Jill always had something to say.