Days (20 page)

“No, this is fine.”

“Your voice rises an octave when you lie, Gordon, did you know that?”

“It does not,” Gordon protests squeakily.

“Go on, I know you’re dying to head off on your own. It’s ten twenty now. Let’s meet up again at a quarter to one, here.” That should give her enough time to buy the tie she picked out for him from the catalogue, and then she can present it to him over lunch.

Gordon, with a great and not wholly convincing show of reluctance, gives in. “So which one of us gets to hang on to the card?”

“I do, of course.”

“Is that wise?”

Linda thinks he might be teasing her, but he isn’t teasing her. His eyes are narrow and serious behind his spectacles.

“Gordon, I’d hate to think that you don’t trust me with our Days Silver.”

“I do trust you,” he says, too quickly.

“But still you think it’ll be safer if you hold on to it instead of me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what you implied.”

“I’m sorry if that’s how it sounded. What I meant was, since the account is held jointly in both our names, every purchase made with the card ought to be agreed on by both of us. Don’t you think?”

“Whatever happened to man and wife being one body, one flesh?”

“Come on, that’s just a metaphor.”

“I don’t know about you, Gordon, but when I took my marriage vows, I meant every word of them sincerely.”

“You’re not being rational, Linda.”

“And you’re not being fair. This is just as much my card as yours.” She waves the Silver in front of his nose. “Either one of us on our own couldn’t have earned it. Together, we did. This card represents the fact that we are greater than the sum of our individual parts. It shows what two people can achieve if they pool their resources and work as one.”

“The majority of those resources coming from my salary.”

“I’m not just talking about the money, I’m talking about the sacrifices we made
together
, the hardships we endured
together
. And anyway, I’ve done my bit. What with the upkeep of the house and shopping thriftily and coming up with money-saving scheme after money-saving scheme, not to mention my hairdressing, I’m at least an equal partner in our Days account.”

“Well, let’s not get into that now,” says Gordon. “What concerns me, Linda, is that we don’t run up a debt we can’t pay off. I see people at the bank every day who’ve got themselves into all sorts of difficulties over credit cards or Days accounts.”

“And they’ve come to you for help, which you give them in the form of a loan, on which, of course, the bank charges interest.” Linda grins venomously. “Or have I got it wrong, Gordon? Have banks started giving money away free?”

“Better to owe money to a reputable bank than to some dodgy character who’ll break your legs if you don’t pay up,” Gordon replies, unflustered. “But that has no bearing on the point I’m making. The point I’m making is, people wouldn’t be tempted to borrow money if borrowing wasn’t looked on as an acceptable alternative – no, as
preferable
– to doing without what you can’t afford. It takes strength of character to say no and wait rather than say yes and have immediately, and it’s that lack of strength of character in all of us that gets exploited time and time again.”

“We did without for five years,” Linda asserts firmly. “We’ve earned the right to our Silver.”

“But let’s be careful with it, eh? That’s all I’m getting at. Let’s not go mad.”

“Have I gone mad yet, Gordon? Have I? So far I haven’t bought one item from this store. I’ve looked around, I’ve seen dozens of things I’d like to own, things that would look nice in our home, but what have I bought? Nothing. Not a thing.”

“And I admire your restraint. For most people the limit on a credit account is a goal rather than a boundary, something to race for rather than keep as far away as possible from.”

“You of all people, Gordon, should know that I have more self-control than ‘most people’.”

“Linda, please. I’m not criticising you. I’m just sounding a note of caution.”

“But don’t you see, that’s all I’ve heard all morning!” She clutches the air in exasperation. “People warning me, people trying to sow doubts. It seems like no one except me believes I know what I’m doing. This is
my
day, Gordon. This is the day I’ve been dreaming about all my life. All my life!” She can feel her face growing hot as her voice rises, but she is unable to do anything about either. Shoppers are turning and looking in her direction. She strives to ignore their scrutiny. “I’ve suffered and struggled and compromised just to get to the place I’m in now, and I won’t have you, I won’t have
anyone
, ruining this for me. This is
my
moment of glory. Please have the good grace to let me savour it. You can caution me all you want when we get back home tonight.”

Gordon has more to say on this subject but deems it wise to save it for later. He simply nods. “All right, Linda. All right. Let’s have it your way. We’ll split up, and you can hang on to the card. I trust you.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Linda beams at him in vindication. “
That’s
more like it, Gordon.”

17

Seventh-Inning Stretch
: a traditional pause during a baseball game, after the first half of the seventh inning.

10.30 a.m.

I
T IS TIME
for Frank’s mid-morning break and, on cue, his bladder starts to exert a mild, insistent pressure against his lower abdominal wall. Not painful, but not to be ignored either.

From years of repetition, Frank’s body has synchronised its urges with the dictates of his daily timetable. He wakes moments before his alarm clock tells him to wake, he starts to feel hungry just when his schedule permits him to eat, and his bladder has learned to regulate the incoming flow of liquid so that it reaches capacity just when it is convenient for him to drain it. Indeed, his physiological functions dovetail so immaculately with the pattern of his working days that on Sundays, when in theory he ought to be free to do as he pleases, he ingests and eliminates at the exact same times as during the rest of the week. Some might cite this as a demonstration of mankind’s evolutionary talent for adapting to circumstances, but Frank knows better. To him it implies that inside every human brain sits a mainspring regulating the turn of the cogs that govern the body’s rhythms. People run on clockwork, and if they are forced to go through the same routine day after day, their rhythms become rigidly attuned to the work-metronome – so much so that, sometimes, they find they literally cannot live without it. Frank knows of numerous retired or sacked employees who have gone mad or dropped dead shortly after their last day at Days, unable to cope with being liberated from the strict tick-tocking of a timetable. Time suddenly slackens its grip on them, and their mainsprings whirl and spool out.

By leaving today he may be able to prevent suffering the same fate himself. If he stays any longer, it may be too late.

This is Frank Hubble
, he subvocalises to the Eye.
I’m clocking off for half an hour.

OK, Mr Hubble
, says a screen-jockey, a girl this time. Frank hears the rattle of a keyboard.
Enjoy your coffee break.

Polite, cheerful – she can’t have been on the job more than a week. It won’t be long before poor diet, stress, and overexposure to the ion-charged atmosphere generated by myriad TV screens have turned her into a short-tempered, facetious pest like her colleagues.

Finding a staff lift, Frank summons it with a swipe of his Iridium, and on his way down studies his smeary reflection in the steel doors. This blurred other Frank appears and disappears and reappears over and over as his concentration waxes and wanes, until finally he stops bothering to look for it, and it vanishes altogether.

I am there
, he tells himself,
I am there, I am there, I am.
But the words ring hollow when the evidence of his eyes tells him the truth.

He longs for the day when he will once more be able to glance into a reflecting surface and see himself there without having to make a conscious effort, and suddenly his resolve to seek out Mr Bloom and tender his resignation burgeons again.

But first, having arrived in the Basement, he heads for Tactical Security, and there, in the Gents cloakroom, he assumes the position at a urinal and braces himself for his regularly-scheduled relief.

10.33 a.m.

Y
EARS AGO, THE
Tactical Security cafeteria had a buffet counter manned by serving staff, but they found it a disagreeable place to work. The Ghosts – as cold a bunch of fish as you could ever hope to meet – treated them as though they were beings from another dimension, barely talking to them beyond the basic courtesies of “Please” and “Thank you” and never able to look them in the eye, until after a while some of the staff actually started to believe that the Ghosts’ behaviour was normal and that it was they themselves, with their friendly, outgoing attitude, who had something wrong with them.

Automation was infinitely preferable for all concerned, and was introduced shortly after Frank started at Days. The food is of an inferior quality, tending towards the prepackaged and the microwaveable, the preservative-laced and the just-add-water instant, but the Ghosts find the dispensing machines a great deal more amenable than real people. The machines do not try to strike up a rapport, do not jabber pointlessly about the weather or politics, and do not take umbrage when their conversational overtures are rejected. The machines dole out food and drink at the touch of a button, without fuss, with comforting predictability, and thanks to them and to plastic cutlery, paper napkins, and cardboard plates and cups, the need for human staff in the Tactical Security cafeteria has been all but done away. There remains a skeleton staff of two: the janitor who comes in after closing time to empty the bins and mop up, and the technician who comes in once a week to restock and service the machines.

Withdrawing a near-scalding cup of coffee from the delivery chute of the hot-beverage dispenser, Frank scans the cafeteria for an unoccupied table. He manages to reach one and set the coffee down before its heat, efficiently conducted by the polystyrene cup, starts to blister his fingertips.

He will go and see Mr Bloom once he has finished the coffee. The coffee is a delaying tactic, he knows that, but a few moments to clear his head before tendering his resignation won’t go amiss.

He has barely had a chance to take more than a few sips when Mr Bloom strolls into the cafeteria.

Nonchalantly the Head of Tactical Security fetches himself a cup of milky tea and a jam doughnut, and chooses an empty table. Mr Bloom seldom eats in the cafeteria, and it can’t be coincidence that he has chosen to be here at a time when Frank is likely to be here too.

Frank contemplates slipping quietly out of the room, but he realises that would be childish. Besides, Mr Bloom’s attempt to pin him down – if that is what it is – may be an abuse of their thirty-three years of acquaintance, but it is a miscalculation rather than an act of malice.

With a sigh, Frank takes a last swig of the by now merely piping-hot coffee, gets up, and strides heavily over to Mr Bloom’s table. A part of him cannot believe what he is about to do, and begs him not to put himself through this ordeal. Why this compulsion to make his resignation official? Why not just slip away without telling a soul?

Because that would not be proper. Because he owes Mr Bloom, if no one else, an explanation. And because to sneak away furtively is the action of a thief, and thieves are a breed Frank has dedicated half a lifetime to thwarting.

“Donald?”

“Frank.” There is little surprise in Mr Bloom’s eyes.

Frank can almost hear the grinding of neck bones as the Ghosts around him surreptitiously strain to listen.

“Could we have that chat now?”

“Of course. My office?”

“Of course.”

10.39 a.m.

F
OR THE FIRST
time Frank notices the homely touches in the office as he sits facing Mr Bloom across his desk. The small framed photograph of a young girl (Mr Bloom has mentioned a niece in the past). The paperback novels sandwiched on a shelf between bulky file boxes – Joyce, Solzhenitsyn, Woolf. The yellowed, frail clipping from a financial newspaper tacked to one corner of the year planner on the wall, an amusing ambiguity in its headline: “Spring Figures Prove That Days Has Not Lost Its Bloom.” The yellow smiley-face sticker pasted over the Days logo on the desktop terminal. Tiny, personal additions it would never occur to Frank to make were this bland subterranean cell his own.

Mr Bloom is waiting for him to speak. He has been waiting a full three minutes, patiently eating the jam doughnut and licking the sugar granules off his fingers, sipping the tea. Frank’s silence is about to cross the line dividing hesitation from rudeness.

He admits defeat. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Begin at the beginning,” says Mr Bloom.

“That’s the trouble. I’m not sure where the beginning is. Things just seem to have...
accumulated
. I thought I was happy in my job, now it seems I’m not.”

“Ah.” Mr Bloom’s eyebrows lift, parallel wavy furrows bunching across his brow all the way up to his tenacious foretuft. “And is there any particular aspect of the job that you’re not happy with, or is it nothing you can put a finger on?”

“It’s... me, I suppose. The job is the job. It doesn’t change, so I must have changed.” Why is he making this so difficult for himself? He should just come right out with it, American-style.
I quit.
That’s all he needs to say, those two little words. Why this pussyfooting about? Why the absurd desire to break it gently? What difference will it make to Mr Bloom, one less Ghost, one less responsibility?

“Changed in what way?”