The Thing on the Shore (3 page)

Arthur's eyes strayed once more to the window, and the elemental turmoil beyond it. Storms were not unusual in this part of the country, but they were invariably spectacular. He was gratified to see that the weather showed no sign of improving and, if anything, was growing increasingly lively. He could hear the entire roof of the building groaning. Maybe, with luck, it would be whipped away or there would be some catastrophic power failure that meant the place had to close down. Arthur fantasized about this kind of occurrence frequently.

“‘However,'” continued Bracket, “‘despite their best efforts, Outsourcing Unlimited have failed in one of their contractual obligations. This is of great regret to all concerned, but particularly to Northern Water, who have no other option but to terminate their contract with Outsourcing Unlimited.'”

One of the older team members, Johnny, looked alarmed at that. He had been in the navy once upon a time, and sported a thick, gray handlebar mustache and tattoos all over his wrinkled hands. He now widened his bright blue eyes in a way that Arthur found over-dramatic, as if it were a deliberate action and not simply a reaction to what he had heard.

“‘This means that, as of the first of October, the arrangement between Outsourcing Unlimited and Northern Water will come to an end. Employees based at the Whitehaven contact center will no longer be working for Outsourcing Unlimited. Instead, Interext are moving the operation inhouse and will be your employer from that date on. This is the end result of several months of intense negotiations and renegotiations with Northern Water, whereby Interext have been granted the contract only on the basis that they will satisfy the contractual obligation that Outsourcing Unlimited previously failed to honor. That is, Interext have guaranteed that they will achieve the revenue targets set by Northern Water, and Interext will bring their unrivaled resources into play in order to do so.'”

That didn't sound good. Arthur thought about his dad's paltry cash-collection figures.

“‘If those revenue targets are not met, Northern Water will face serious difficulty in continuing to provide the northern counties with the level of service we are committed to providing. As you will all appreciate, the delivery of fresh clean water, on demand, and the removal
and treatment of waste water, also on demand, are basic measures of a civilized society. We are fully committed to this task, and we are sure that all of you share that commitment.'”

Arthur frowned at “civilized society.”

“‘The first major change will be the replacement of your current section manager, Jessica Stoats, by a senior Interext director—Mr. Artemis Black. Mr. Black will be joining you all at Whitehaven on the first of October. Thank you for listening.'”

Bracket looked up at his team. They were looking around them as if they'd just woken up.

“Is that it?” said Diane, who was chewing some fruit-flavored gum very loudly. Arthur could smell it distinctly from where he sat.

“Yes,” said Bracket, “that's it.”

“Does this mean we'll be getting sacked?”

“No,” said Bracket. “Erm …” He looked at the brief again, and then back to Diane. “No,” he repeated.

“Good, good,” she said, standing up, and then everybody else was standing up too.

“Hang on,” said Bracket. “Hang on! Nobody got any questions?”

“What's Interext?” asked Dean.

“It's the parent company of Outsourcing Unlimited,” answered Bracket, uncertainly.

“What's a parent company?” asked Diane.

“It's a company that owns another company,” said Bracket.

“Have
you
ever heard of Interext?” asked Arthur.

“Well,” said Bracket, shrugging. “I must have. I mean, I don't really remember, but yes.”

“Jessica Stoat's that big lass up on t'pedestal?” asked Johnny.

“She's the manager of this whole operation,” said Bracket, “so you should know who she is.”

“Aye, well,” said Johnny. “Is she that big lass up on t'pedestal?”

“She sits on the command center, yes,” said Bracket.

“Then I do know who she is!” Johnny sat up, straightening his back, his mustache bouncing up and down as he worked his mouth in exasperation.

“The important thing is that she's leaving,” said Bracket. He looked over at the command center, which was a raised circular platform right in the middle of the room. Jessica wasn't there today, but usually her unseemly bulk could be seen firmly settled in behind one of the three desks overlooking the workspace.

“But
we're
not getting sacked?” asked Diane again.

“No,” said Bracket. He put the document down and clapped his hands together. “Now. Before everybody rushes off to their desks—and I know you're all desperate to get back to work—don't forget our company values! Just because we're going to be working for somebody else doesn't mean we can't stick to the same values we work to at the moment:
faith, positivity, loyalty
and
team
!”

Nobody said anything. Heavy rain suddenly swept past
the window, battering the glass. All around them the call center continued to vibrate.

“Team isn't a value,” said Arthur. “A team is a thing. It's not a value. Just a thing.”

“Don't be smart.”

“I'm not,” said Arthur. “It just doesn't make sense.”

“Look,” said Bracket, pointing at Arthur. He opened his mouth but didn't say anything. Instead his shoulders sagged and he lowered his arm. “You get the idea, anyway,” he sighed. “Now go on, all of you.”

The team dispersed, drifting away from the sofas, everybody but Arthur weaving their way in amongst the maze of desks. Arthur gravitated toward the window. He still held his briefing note in his hand. Everybody else had left theirs on the sofas. Diane had left her chewing gum there as well.

“Hey!” said Bracket, but not loudly, because you shouldn't speak or shout too loudly in case of disrupting phone calls. “Come back and get your briefing notes!”

Nobody heard him or, if they did, they pretended not to. He turned to Arthur. “Honestly,” said Bracket, “this is big news. This is important. And it's as if they really don't give a shit.”

Arthur studied him silently. Why was Bracket saying this to him? Did Bracket think that he, Arthur, gave a shit either? He looked down at the briefing note in his hand.

“We need more people like you here,” said Bracket, slowly moving around and picking up all of the discarded notes.
“Properly committed. Less kids just after their drinking money.”

“Right,” said Arthur, thinking “fewer, not less.” “Well, I'm going to go now.”

“Yeah,” said Bracket. “Get yourself home.”

Arthur jogged down the steps leading to the foyer. Sometimes he would take a pack of printer paper from the stock of boxes that were, for some reason, stored beneath the staircase. Not for himself, for Bony. But this time the security guard was not too busy to notice him, so he left it.

It had stopped raining, but the clouds were still heavy and full-looking. The air was like some sort of glass: everything looked crystal clear and all the colors were sharp and intense. He turned around and looked up at the massive white bulk of the call center. The revolving doors were like a vertical mouth. Like some strange, intricate sea-creature mouth, both beaky and mechanical. He shook his head, took a few steps backward, then turned and walked down North Shore Road toward the town's harbor. The wind was still strong. The air smelled salty.

On the left-hand side of the road was a huge supermarket with the obligatory car park. Beyond was the small train station. To the right was a new redbrick, barn-like building which had a small-scale replica of a ship's prow mounted above its giant doors, together with the words “
WHITEHAVEN SHIPYARD
” spelled out in silver lettering. The ship's prow was made of cast-iron and it looked like a
trophy—like the head of something that had been hunted down and killed.

Due to the bad weather, the harbor was not as busy as usual. Even the geese were huddled together against the buildings, instead of marauding thuggishly around like they did when the sun was out. Arthur turned right off the road, by the sculpture representing a shoal of fish that swam ever upward in a spiral of verdigris, and set off along the harbor walk. He staggered like a drunk as the wind pushed him this way and that, and his hair blew out horizontally, first in one direction and then another. He kept his eyes focused downward so that he didn't step in any of the goose shit or dog muck that littered the way. Although, thanks to the rain, whatever shit he did see looked quite vibrant and appealing, like big blobs of green and brown oil paint. And stopping to lean over the railings, which he did frequently, the water looked opaque and deeply colored, like enamel. It was mildly rippled, but no doubt there were larger waves to be seen beyond the harbor walls. Filthy, rusted fishing boats floated beneath him, but the strange quality of the atmosphere meant he could trick himself into seeing them as resting on the top of something solid. Something restless maybe, but solid all the same.

Arthur continued along the harbor, past the big pink buildings that had once been warehouses and were now flats. He walked on past the pubs and the restaurants. The wind made him feel as if he were stripped to the waist. He headed toward the hill at the far end of the
harbor. Walking past the empty shell of the derelict hotel, he took the steps up the hill two or three at a time. At the top he came to the housing estate on which he lived with his father. The sky resembled a thin, greenish membrane, through which heavy black clouds were trying to force their way.

Arthur opened the back door and the first thing he saw was his father's pair of spectacles left on the kitchen worktop, surrounded by crumbs and baked beans. The kitchen was a mess. Hearing his father's voice from the front room, Arthur paused and listened.

“But I don't want to do the shopping,” his father, Harry, was insisting. “I mean, I'll do it if you really want me to, but I'm no good at it. You can go in there and keep a hold of whatever you need, but I get all in a flap. You think because you can do it, everybody else can do it, but I can't do it.”

Arthur listened for a response. There was nothing. Just a moment's silence. Then Harry continued.

“It's like I keep saying, Rebecca. We're all good at different things, that's all. Please, Rebecca—”

Harry stopped as Arthur opened the door into the front room.

“Who are you talking to, Dad?” asked Arthur.

“Your mother,” said Harry.

“Mum's not here,” said Arthur. “I can see that she's not here.”

“I was talking on the telephone,” said Harry. “That's the magic of the telephone. They don't have to be here at all.”

“Dad,” began Arthur.

“I know you don't believe me,” said Harry. “I know you don't believe me, son. I'm not asking you to. Just—let me talk to her.”

“OK,” said Arthur, after a moment.

Harry was a small man, painfully thin, and he lived in a navy-blue fleece. His pointed face was red and flaky, his hair was gray and greasy, flecked with dandruff, and he always smelled faintly of old raw meat.

“Do … do you want some tea?” he asked, then he gave a little smile. “I had beans on toast. I can make you some beans on toast if you like. I saved half the tin.”

“Go on, then,” said Arthur. “I'll just go up and get changed.”

Later on, as Harry sat on the edge of the old gray sofa and shouted out the answers to
University Challenge
, Arthur went upstairs to use the toilet. The light on the landing was dim. The carpet was green and cheap and badly fitted. The walls were a dirty cream color. Arthur stood there for a moment and listened to his father's voice carrying upstairs from the front room. Harry got most of the answers right when it came to
University Challenge
. It seemed that watching it was one of the highlights of his father's week. Second only to karaoke night in the Vine, maybe.

It was a shame, Arthur thought, that his father was not as good at his job as he was at
University Challenge
.

Arthur eventually went into the bathroom. There was
no window there, so he couldn't see anything much at first, but he couldn't really bear that so he tugged the light-switch cord. He urinated into the toilet bowl, fixing his eyes on the cistern. As he washed his hands, he noticed something move, out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look at it but couldn't see straight away what it was.

The walls above and around the bath were covered with small white tiles. The bath itself, despite Arthur's best efforts, was a little stained. He leaned over it to look more closely at the wall. Something had definitely moved. A lot of the grout was rotten or missing, and it was into one of the black holes left by some missing grout that Arthur now peered. There was something in there.

He wasn't sure that it was what he had originally seen, but he could certainly see it now. It looked as if a small part of the remaining grout was somehow alive and wriggling. He shuddered involuntarily as he watched the soft, tiny piece of darkness squirm its way out from between the tiles and drop, silently, into the heavy glass soap dish that had once been his mother's. He saw then that it was a short black worm, maybe no more than a centimeter long. There was one already in the soap dish. That must have been what he'd spotted from the corner of his eye—the first worm falling. Together they made up an “=” symbol in the soap sludge.

Arthur's face twisted as he examined them. Then he tore off some toilet paper and rolled it into a ball, before using it to squash the two worms. Gathering them up with it, he flushed the toilet paper away. Arthur
shuddered again as he washed his hands, and then he left the bathroom, turning off the light as he went.