The Fly Guy (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Since the opera, Alison was at home less and less. Her working hours stretched into the evening and she would often go for a dinner with Andre and clients.

Martin’s time at the house was more and more undisturbed. When he got up in the morning she would be gone, and he would take his time with breakfast, listening to the radio and taking the clothes from the washer and hanging them on radiators or outside, cleaning the dishes left over from the previous evening, before he would get changed and go for his run.

When Martin was running around the estate his thoughts travelled through his head with an ease he was not used to. It was as if his body was a machine, and the cogs and pistons were working together to pump out thoughts on a production line, and he didn’t have time to inspect each one, just glance at each as they just passed him on a conveyor belt, odd misshapen products of his body and mind. As he got faster and stronger and started running the circuit twice every time, he gradually stopped being surprised at the shape of his thoughts. Whatever he was thinking by the time he got to Foster Road for the second time would be cast aside as the struggle of the hill rose up in front of him.

He was writing more. The story had a momentum which he was trying to keep up with. At this rate his book would be finished in a month. He looked forward to the day when he could send it away. When he could press send and get rid of Gregor for good. No more redrafts, he’d say, either take it or not. That’s that. He could always go back to writing short stories for
Noire
again. Those stories felt like they were written a lifetime ago.

It was Saturday and Martin was running past the big houses on Wyatt Way. He saw a scaffold being erected on the side of one of the houses and he stopped for a moment, running on the spot, to try to see what was going on. A voice came from behind him.

“Martin? It is Martin, isn’t it?”

He turned to see a worker in a fluorescent hard hat with an open folder standing next to an overweight guy in a white shirt and braces who was squinting at him, scrunching up his face. Martin recognised him, but couldn’t place from where.

Then the man said, “It is Martin! I wasn’t sure. It’s Ted, Ted from the club.” He walked across the road, extending his hand. Martin stopped running on the spot. The first person that Martin thought of was the small fellow he met in the Sugar Club, the guy with the ski lift company, but this wasn’t him. That guy was Ashley. This Ted must be from the club he went to with Alison. He recalled the group he was talking to before he left, remembered Alison trying to make it sound like he was a successful writer.

Ted, Ted.

He remembered the dark suits and red faces, the iridescent purple of one of the women’s dresses, ringed fingers clutching glass stems, a bulging neck and sweaty rolls of fat above the collar of one of the men as he laughed. Was that this guy? Martin scanned his face and tried to imagine him laughing.

Ted. Ted.

Then Martin saw the couple sitting on the couch in the shadows of the Sugar Club with Ashley’s wife, saw Ted’s red face over Ashley’s wife’s shoulder as he tugged at the strap of her bra through her top and pushed his thick tongue against her neck, leaving a sticky trail as Ashley handed him a business card and told him how great his friends were. For a second Martin smelled the thick sweaty air of the Sugar Club.

“You don’t remember me do you?” he said to Martin, shaking his hand.

“Yes, yes I do, it’s just I was introduced to a lot of people that night, I’m just trying to remember what it is you do.”

“Printing. At the Crown Estate. And you’re the writer.” They moved onto the pavement together as a car passed. The guy on the other side was taking a pencil from behind his ear and making notes on his folder.

“Of course! You and your wife were there, em it was …”

“Rosie.”

“Yes, Rosie, I’m sorry I’m so bad with names. Yes, Andre was trying to get you to reveal the secret of your success. I remember. What has you out this way, this isn’t your place is it?”

“No, no, I just bought this place for my daughter, but she hasn’t moved in yet, and she’s got me surveying for an extension already. She’s got me under her pretty little thumb. But how about you, where do you live?”

“Just up the road on Paxton Drive.”

“Oh, near the top. Tell me, how’s the writing going?”

“Well, you know, it keeps me out of trouble.”

“And we all need something that does that.”

“Ha, ha, indeed. How’s the printing?”

“Busier than I can handle at the moment.”

“Is it just the free papers you print?”

“Oh, no, but they are the big contracts we landed. We’ve been building lots of smaller contracts, too. There’s a lot of small publishing houses who do special interest stuff, as well as travel agents and property brokers putting together brochures.”

“Interesting stuff. I guess there’s a big market there.”

“It’s huge. I mean anyone can post on the net but that’s actually made the market for us bigger because everyone can self-publish if they want. We are the final link in the chain to make it look classy. We just keep getting bigger.”

“Wow, that’s great.”

“Well, if Andre is taking notice then we must be going the right way, and the bigger we get the more competitive we can be. The programmes for the theatres, we do them. You know all the fliers for the clubs in town? Well we’ve started on those too.”

“That’s a lot of clients to manage.”

“Tell me about it, but I knew it would be big. We can do it all, see, from the handouts for the strip clubs to the metaphysical poetry magazines. We can cover it all.”

“The final link in the chain.”

“You bet. Hey, listen, if you ever want a job, just let me know. At the moment I’m advertising, but seeing as you’re a friend of Andre’s we could skip the formal interview.”

“Well, I don’t know if we’re friends really, my wife works for him.”

“Oh, yes, you’re friends all right.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, don’t look surprised. Look, I know what it’s like, trying to judge where you stand with someone like Andre. He’s so successful, he knows everyone worth knowing, he moves in the right circles, and he’s got this big persona, so when you first meet him it’s hard, you know … you’re thinking, well does he really like me or is he just networking, you know, working it? But the way he was talking about you and Alison I’d say you’re friends with the guy. Let me put it this way, he’d take your call.”

“Okay, well you guys seemed all pretty close.” The sweat had started to dry inside Martin’s top and on his legs and he felt a chill run through him. He started running gently on the spot again.

“It’s different when there’s money involved. It’s like someone’s always got their eye on your missus.” The worker with the fluorescent hat now had his folder tucked under his arm and was walking across the road to them.

“Something to consider though,” Ted said, “if you want to get your head out of the book? I’m at the Crown Estate.”

“That’s very good of you. I’ll keep it in mind. I’ll let you get back to it. I’m going to keep going.”

“You go right ahead. It’s good to bump into you, Martin. Say hello to Alison for me.”

“I will,” said Martin, and he started to run. Just before the road curved around he crossed over and glanced back. Ted was pointing at the house, talking to the worker, who was scratching his head again.

When he reached his door, he realised he didn’t have his key. The driveway was empty and he sat on the doorstep for a moment. The house across the street had a window open and there was the sound of a vacuum cleaner and music, some sixties pop tune which was being sung along to tunelessly by whoever was cleaning. Martin stood up and started to jog gently again.

He found himself back on Wyatt Way, approaching the house with the scaffolding again. Ted was there, in the driveway, now leaning against a car that wasn’t there before, talking to someone on the phone. He saw Martin and saluted as he got closer. Martin slowed down and walked to the house. Ted finished on the phone, putting it back in his pocket, and resting his back against the car.

“Around again?” he said.

“Not on purpose. I forgot my keys.”

“Ha, ha! Well my daughter has turned up,” he slapped the roof of the car, “and is inside now measuring up the rooms. When she comes out she’ll have a list of furniture for Daddy that’ll be as long as my arm.”

“Oh, the joys.”

“Yup, she’s got me, all right.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said and I think I’ll pop into the Crown Estate to see you soon, you know, about a job.”

“Great! That didn’t take long! Well, I’m going to be going there in a minute myself if you want to come take a look.”

“I’m not exactly dressed for—”

“Don’t worry, hey it’s fine, like I said we can skip the formal interview. Just come down and take a look at the place, yeah?”

Ted’s daughter emerged from the front door. She slid big sunglasses down from perched high on her head to over her eyes and put her hand on her hip. She had keys in the other hand and her bulging handbag hung down from her elbow. “That’s it, Daddy,” she said, “I’m going to have to stay at Stacey’s until the walls are done anyway. I’m going to get some hangings for the landing and some lamps. I’ve got a lunch at one, so I’ll go now and I’ll call you later, and you can sort the painter out.” She walked over and Ted opened the car door for her. She climbed in and the engine started. Ted and Martin stepped back and the car reversed out of the drive and took off up Paxton Drive.

“Come on,” said Ted, “let’s go,” and they walked to Ted’s big black car.

Martin sat in and closed the door. His bare thighs stuck to the leather seat. He felt small in this car. Instinctively he felt his pockets for his phone to send a message to Alison, but his phone was in the house. The central locking clicked into place as the engine started and they were on their way.

They went south of the city, around the ring road, and on to a huge straight road with rows and rows of industrial complexes on either side. This area was totally flat as if it had been levelled by a giant roller, all of its bumps and textures flattened and pushed to the edges.

Ted explained how long he had been in business and what the growth predictions were for next year.

Martin gazed at the size of the complexes as they passed. At the entrance of each estate there was a massive billboard with a long list of the companies within it. They were lettered and numbered, so each estate had a different letter. Martin caught some as they passed. C32 Brunsteen Electrical Wholesale. E09 Arches Holdings. E61 Cooltech Ltd. J12 Albatross Fabrics.

The long straight road seemed endless. It went on for as far as Martin could see. Right off in the distance, somewhere at the end of the road, the silhouettes of high rise buildings rose into the sky. Big trucks and thick vans moved quickly along the flat straight road, and underneath them Martin could see the shadows of the fast moving clouds on the ground, rushing toward the car like the ghosts of huge mythic creatures fleeing the city. Then they turned left and they were onto Avenue M.

Martin said, “Ted, I have to admit that I’ve never worked anywhere like this before, and before you mentioned it, I had never thought of working somewhere like this.”

“No-one does. It’s actually a good place to be. There’s not much beauty around here, but there is an awful lot of money. We only moved into these premises a year and a half ago, and our agreement was based upon the assumption that we’d grow. And we have. By the end of the next half-year term we expect to be filling half of this building. I’m putting different teams together for the various types of contracts we want to get. Let me show you around, tell you what I’m looking for. If it’s not for you then we’ll leave it there, no harm done. But I think I could use someone like you around.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone, you know, creative. Someone who can deal with the special interest side of things. Someone with experience in publishing fiction and poetry and the like. You know, arty stuff.”

They pulled up outside a big building with glass doors. Martin could make out a lobby with a couch and a plant, and a desk behind which was a large plasma screen. Ted stopped the engine.

“I think you’ll like it,” he said, and together they got out of the car and walked into the building. As they walked toward the big reception desk, past the couch and the shiny plant with the big leaves, it occurred to Martin that he didn’t know Ted’s second name. Or the name of the company.

The receptionist looked up as they approached and looking over her half glasses said, “Hello, Mr. Oldman.”

Ted said, “Hi, Julie,” and walked past.

Martin saw Julie’s eyes follow him as he walked with Ted through the reception lobby in his trainers and running shorts. He remembered that the t-shirt he was wearing said
You’re still talking?
in faded letters on the back. The next door was a double door which opened as they walked through it. They walked down a long straight corridor to the lift at the end. The walls were a dull beige and the carpet was a colourless tone. The atmosphere seemed to swallow sound and the light leaked a pale wash over everything. In here Ted looked older, as if he bathed in dishwater.

Two people in suits with briefcases walked past them. Martin could feel their eyes on him. He looked at Ted. Ted shot him a smile. His teeth seemed more yellow, his tongue chalky. Martin grimaced and smiled at the same time, and gestured to his t-shirt and shorts.

“Not exactly office wear,” he said.

“Ha, well. Not many people would have just said sure thing and jumped in my car, with the sweat still drying. But it shows what’s important to you, and it’s not dress code, that’s for sure.” They came to the lift door. Ted pressed the button. “Let me show you the printing rooms, and then we can talk about it all.” The lift door opened and they stepped inside. Ted pressed the button. A circle of light appeared around the tip of his finger, then he stood back, next to Martin, looking ahead, side by side.

“What’s the name of the company? I didn’t catch it,” asked Martin as they looked back out at the corridor, the two men with briefcases disappearing down the colourless perspective of the rectangular tube, the walls and carpet converging on their suited backs.