The Thing on the Shore (31 page)

Arthur wandered around the town in a state of almost total blankness, his hands in his pockets, his head down. He was cold. It was a cold night.

He found a bar called Sydney's. He remembered going there when he was younger, about sixteen, although it had been a different place then; it had been called Shadows, and was a rock club. It had always seemed empty when it was Shadows. Arthur remembered sitting there on a chair at a low table in a corner, probably with Bony, and watching Pedophile Ted slowly headbanging, alone, in the middle of the too-bright dance-floor, a cartwheel interwoven with fairy-lights suspended above him, and his long blond hair moving around like seaweed. Maybe he wasn't slowly headbanging at all, maybe Arthur was just remembering it all in slow motion. Pedophile Ted was called Pedophile Ted because he was aged twenty-four but was going out with a fourteen-year-old girl. Although that would have been ten years ago, so
maybe he wasn't a pedophile any more. Maybe he was with the same girl, and she was now twenty-four and he was thirty-four. Or maybe he had kept going after the young ones, and he was in prison now. Who knew? Whatever had happened to Pedophile Ted and his denim jacket and his long blond hair and his lumpy, scarred, acne-ravaged face?

Arthur hadn't been back to Shadows—or Sydney's, as it was now called—since that night. In ten years, he hadn't been there. He stood outside for a moment, wondering how he'd ended up here in this dark little back alley off New Street in the first place, because he hadn't consciously decided to walk here. It had happened by accident. And then entered the bar.

There was no dance-floor any more. There was just a long bar, and a load of booths. It was all leather and cocktails now. Quite nice, really, in its way, Arthur thought, but not what it used to be. Did that matter? Maybe it didn't matter. It was dead there, but then it was a Monday night, and what time was it, anyway? How long had he been out walking?

It was nine o' clock and they were still serving. Arthur sat at the bar and looked up at the lights. They had chandeliers now, but the chandeliers were enclosed in plastic cylinders. Why was that? It looked a bit stupid. He ordered a cocktail, after checking that you could pay by card. He couldn't afford it—all of his money in the bank was already spoken for, earmarked for bills—but that had never stopped anybody before, had it? It had never
stopped Dad in the Vine. Besides, Arthur wasn't sure if he'd ever tasted a proper cocktail before, and that seemed just abnormal for somebody of his age. The cocktail he'd chosen was a Long Island Iced Tea because that, he thought, sounded quite sophisticated. It would be nice to be sophisticated.

What else could he remember from all those years ago? He remembered Bony staying over one night and being so drunk that Arthur had propped his friend's head over a biscuit tin in case he was sick. He remembered how once, at Bony's house, he and Yasmin and Bony had been sunbathing—it was a fantastically hot summer's day—when the three of them were disturbed, to their incredulous joy, by an ice-cream van turning up from nowhere. It had been playing “Stairway to Heaven.”

By the time they threw him out of Sydney's, Arthur could barely walk. “Maybe all people are wrapped in an impenetrable membrane,” he was mumbling, “that prevents genuine emotional interaction.” In his mind he was picturing a second skin that mapped itself to the contours of the human body, including the interior surfaces of all of the orifices, and through which another human being could never, ever pass.

Yasmin! That was who he wanted to see. Yasmin was kind and he felt like he loved her, which was maybe the same thing as loving her. Who knew? He slowly made his way down to Lowther Street and turned right, occasionally having to push himself away from the wall. It was a bright night; the moon and the stars were out. Arthur
was a stooping, stumbling silhouette. Oh, he was a right fucking mess.

Lowther Street took him up to the harbor. There he looked briefly at the dark water of the marina, which made him uneasy, and then turned abruptly left and headed for the building in which Yasmin lived. All of the lights were off, but then it was late; so what did he expect? She was probably in bed, but still, she wouldn't mind being woken up by a friend. A friend in need.

Arthur raised his finger to the buzzer and then leaned on it with all his weight. He heard the sound of it from her flat up above. Like an insect or something. It went on for a long time. He released the buzzer and waited. That must have woken her up. Must have.

He pressed the buzzer again.

Still no answer.

He heard the ocean lapping at the man-made shore behind him and pressed the buzzer again, feeling more urgency now. Still no answer.

He turned around, but could see nothing untoward. The Wave was lit tonight, and the swans bobbed in the water, heads tucked under their wings, lit up either blue or green, depending on where they were positioned in relation to the neon strips of the sculpture.

The boats moored nearby rattled and clacked and jangled, their rigging starting to sing as a breeze picked up.

Arthur could not bear to remain there near the sea any more. Yasmin was definitely not answering the door. She
must be sleeping very deeply. What time was it now? He didn't know. He staggered away from her building, and made an attempt to run along past the Vagabond—now closed—to Strand Street. He turned left, then right back on to Lowther Street, and ran clumsily until he came to Michael Moon's bookshop, where he stopped and put his hands on his knees, and threw up.
That won't do my red eye any good
, he thought.

Michael Moon's bookshop. The shopfront was a rich blue with the words
“OLD BOOKS, MAPS & PRINTS”
painted in a yellowy cream. Arthur wiped his mouth and peered through the window at all the local history books and curling maps. It was a wonderful shop, closed now obviously, it being whatever time it was in the middle of the night. Arthur hadn't been inside it for years, not since his mother had last taken him there. And where was she, anyway? Why was she dead? Why had she jumped?

Of course he could never know. A couple of boy racers flew past in their little cars and, still gazing in through the window of that little shop, he realized the truth.
He could never know.
He would never know—that was what it meant. That was what her jumping meant. She was dead, she was gone, and with her had gone the explanation. Anything but an explanation direct from her would be speculation and nothing more.

Arthur turned around and crossed the road. He didn't check for traffic, but there wasn't any, so he made it safely to the other side. He opened the gate into the tiny little bit of parkland that surrounded the old church building
between Church Street and Queen Street. He lay down on his back, on the cool green grass beneath a young tree, and tried to sleep.

Usually Isobel got up and went to work before Bracket, but for some reason Artemis had rung Bracket's mobile late the previous night, waking both Bracket and Isobel up, and requested—demanded—that Bracket turn in for work at 6 a.m.

“Sorry,” Bracket had replied. “It's a bit short notice, isn't it?”

“Don't you need this job?” Artemis had said.

“Artemis,” Bracket had protested, “you can't just make threats like that. I could go to the union. You're talking about unfair dismissal.” He wasn't in the union, of course, but hoped that Artemis wouldn't call his bluff.

“You can go to the police, for all I care,” Artemis said. “I'm not sure you understand who or what you're dealing with here. Come in tomorrow and I'll explain in more depth.”

Bracket had opened his mouth to reply, but just then
Artemis had hung up. Isobel was now sitting up in bed, too.

“Who was that?” she said.

“Artemis,” Bracket said. “He wants me in at six tomorrow.”

“He shouldn't be ringing you at this time,” Isobel said. “He shouldn't want you in at that time tomorrow, either. You're not going, are you?”

“Yeah,” Bracket said, after a moment, “I'm going.”

He then didn't sleep at all.

And now here he was, spooning soggy cereal into his mouth at the kitchen table at half past five in the morning, the room bathed in the dim orange glow of the street-lamp outside. He'd left the light switched off because his eyes felt so sensitive; his whole being felt sensitive at this time of day.

“Hey!”

Bracket nearly jumped out of his seat. He turned to see Isobel standing, swaying, in the kitchen doorway.

“Please stop being so noisy,” she said tiredly, her eyes still more or less closed. She was clearly still half asleep. “You're banging your spoon about on the bowl.”

“What?” Bracket said. “I'm sorry. Yeah, I'm sorry. I'll be quiet, I promise.”

“No, I'm sorry,” Isobel said, and shook her head. “I just didn't sleep, because I was worrying.”

“I know,” Bracket said. “You go back to sleep. I'll be quiet now.”

“Sorry,” Isobel murmured once more, then she turned
and melted into the darkness of the hallway. Bracket listened to her footsteps as she ascended the staircase.

Tuesday. Fucking Tuesday.

The call center was empty of staff save for Artemis himself, who was seated on the command center and tapping away feverishly at his laptop. Bracket slowly approached him through the maze of desks, uncertain whether or not Artemis realized he was there. He noticed a piece of A4 paper taped to the screen on Oscar's desk. The sheet of paper was almost filled with just one word, in capital letters thick and black, made up of many heavy, repeated biro strokes:

BREATHE

This was unexpected because Oscar came across as such a snide little bastard—not the type to let the job get to him. But, Bracket supposed, customer service could be a great leveler.

“Bracket!” Artemis said, without looking away from his screen. “You're here!” His voice was stern and deep and loud, and he made the statement sound like an imperative, somehow.

“I'm here,” Bracket said. “Yeah. I'm here.” He felt slightly sick, probably because he hadn't had enough sleep.

“I'm ready to tell you more about what we need to do,” Artemis said. He looked over toward Bracket, who was still standing amongst the desks, looking a little lost. “About your development opportunity.”

“My development opportunity?” Bracket said. “What's that?”

“An opportunity for you to develop,” Artemis said. “An opportunity for you to progress your career. To take your career to the next level within the Interext hierarchy. Within the structure.”

“A promotion?” Bracket almost felt a little hopeful.

“No!” Artemis said firmly, and laughed. “Not a promotion! A development opportunity! It means you get to experience the superior role without committing to it.”

“O-K,” said Bracket. He waited for Artemis to elaborate, but after a moment it became apparent that no further elaboration would be forthcoming.

“Are you coming up here or not?” Artemis's gesture indicated the command center.

“Yeah, sure,” Bracket said, hurrying forward. “Look, Artemis, I'm still not certain I understand.”

“All right!” Artemis threw both hands up in the air, feigning exaggerated exasperation. He swiveled around on his chair to face Bracket, who now stood beside him on the command center platform. “I'll be honest with you. A development opportunity is where you're given extra responsibilities, but your pay—and everything else, really—remains the same. But, truly, it does stand you in good stead for when jobs at the higher level become available.”

“So … if I take on a development opportunity, and then a role that matches my new responsibilities becomes available, would I automatically get that new role?”

“What? No, you'd still have to apply for it.”

“Then …” Bracket frowned and shook his head. “I'm not sure I want this development opportunity, really. Doesn't sound that great.”

“This is how companies work these days,” Artemis agreed. “It's standard industry practice. You'd still have to apply for the job, but if you don't take on these development opportunities, then you may as well not bother.”

Bracket nodded.
What a world of shit
, he was thinking.

“You know how we identify employees who might be suitable for a development opportunity?” Artemis asked.

“How?”

“We identify a
need
,” Artemis said. “We identify employees who desperately
need
their job.”

“Doesn't everybody?” Bracket said. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, they do, but everybody also has a moral or ethical line drawn in the sand over which they will not step unless circumstances prove exceptional. So we look for people in those exceptional circumstances.”

“I see,” Bracket said. “OK.”

Artemis grinned.

“I'm not going to pretend that you're going to like your new role, Bracket,” he said.

“I could say no,” Bracket suggested.

“Will you?”

Bracket sat down. “You still haven't told me what my development opportunity is,” he said.

“I need to start at the beginning,” Artemis explained. “We will get on to the specifics of your role all in due
course. Also, I need to remind you of the confidentiality clause you signed when you first started working here.”

“OK,” Bracket said. “But that was for Outsourcing Unlimited. Not for Interext.”

“Yeah,” Artemis said, “but it's all transferred over. Don't worry about it.”

“OK,” Bracket said. He felt like he was becoming an “OK” machine.