You Don't Have To Be Evil To Work Here, But It Helps (5 page)

‘All part of the service.’

Cassie opened the door for him. Through it he could see the lovely receptionist, looking daggers at them both. Feeling murderously self-conscious, he crossed the front office, trying very hard not to limp.

As soon as he was out in the street, the pain disappeared completely. He stopped and looked back at the door, then crossed the road. There was a pub quite close by. He lunged toward it like a sprinter clinching a world record.

Two-thirds of a pint later, Colin felt sufficiently composed to rally his thoughts. Something had happened in there, something on a par with Newton’s apple or Archimedes’ bath; because of it, the world was about to change. Buggered if he knew what, though.

He finished his beer and got another. There was one obvious possibility, but he was fairly sure that he could cross it off the list of possibilities straight away. He’d fallen in love before - how many times? Six? Narrow the search parameters; he’d fallen in love at first sight before, twice. Match not found; the symptoms had been different. Now, technically this wasn’t first sight, since he’d seen Cassie before, at the meeting. It still didn’t compute. It was more like something else—

Deja vu? He wasn’t a hundred per cent sure what that meant, but what he understood by the term was an uncanny feeling that you’re replaying something that’s happened to you before. That was closer to it, but not the whole story, not by a long way. Pause to review progress to date. Refine search—

It had been the moment when he’d confessed to the pins and needles, and she’d said something (but he couldn’t actually remember what it was; something about the pins and needles, a suggestion). That was the flashback moment. He was certain of it. That was it - she’d said try rubbing it, and he’d been on the point of saying, you told me that the last time and it didn’t work.

Of course, there hadn’t been a last time. They’d met before, once, briefly, at that stupid meeting, but at that time his feet had been pinless and needle-free. More to the point; hadn’t Cassie looked at him, just after he’d apologised for being embarrassing? He’d seen that look in her eyes before, somewhere, somewhen, and at the time it had puzzled him rotten, because he couldn’t understand what had been bothering her. Now, though, he did. That look on her face was what he’d have seen if, at that exact moment, he’d been looking into a mirror.

Colin had drunk half his second pint without noticing. He put the glass down and scowled at it. This was starting to get weird, and weirdness was something that he preferred to shy away from, the way a wise dog avoids an electric fence, the second time. But I do know her from somewhere, he conceded unwillingly.

Screw this, he thought. He left the rest of his beer and went outside. A bus was just pulling up; on the front, in the list of destinations, was Fleet Street.

Well, he thought.

Twenty minutes of trudging, and he found it; a little less than seventy yards up the street from the Cheshire Cheese. A simple brass plate that read:

MORTIMER & Co

Mortimers in Fleet Street, she’d said. He shrugged and went in.

Just inside was a reception desk. Behind it was a girl; a singularly attractive blonde. She smiled at him, and said hello.

Colin closed his eyes and counted to five. Originally he’d intended counting to ten, but patience wasn’t one of his principal virtues.

‘You again,’ he said.

She looked at him. ‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s you, isn’t it? I saw you just now, at the other place.’

The smile was still there, but it was doing that thing that happened to the J537/Z3 reed valve when incorrectly installed. What was it called? Work-hardening. ‘What other place?’

‘Where I just came from. St Mary Axe. You were behind the front desk.’

Slight, brittle pause. ‘Well, no, actually. I’ve been here all day.’

‘No, it was you,’ Colin insisted. ‘I know it was. Or, hang on. Have you got a twin sister?’

‘Me? No.’ She’d moved her left hand off the desk and was fumbling for something under the ledge; the sort of place you’d wire in a panic button.

‘Oh. My mistake. Sorry.’

‘That’s all right. Look, who is it you wanted to see?’

‘See?’ For a moment it was as though she was speaking a foreign language. ‘Oh, see. No, nobody. No, I just, um, sort of dropped in. Well, I was passing, and I wondered what it is you do here. Just curiosity, really.’

The blonde girl was definitely looking past him; chances were that the door through which Security would be likely to enter was directly behind his left shoulder. ‘How do you mean, exactly?’ she was saying.

Colin applauded her training, or her common sense. Keep the nutsos talking and they’re less likely to attack. Defending her employer’s premises against the invading hordes of fruitcakes and weirdos is all in a day’s work for your highly trained and motivated elite-force receptionist. The thin blonde line, and all that.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, taking a few steps back. ‘Very sorry to have bothered you. Bloody hell, is that the time?’ He turned and fled from the building.

No more pratting around; it wasn’t safe, here in the big city. Only when he was safely on the District Line heading for home did he feel secure enough to open his mind to what he’d just seen.

Definitely the same woman, Colin could swear to that, because he never forgot a pretty face. On the other hand, it was highly improbable, verging on outright impossibility. Even if the receptionist at 70 St Mary Axe was moonlighting or job-sharing in Fleet Street, she’d have had to take a taxi and gone like a rocket to get from one office to the other in the time his bus had taken to cross that relatively small distance; and if that was what had happened, why on earth should she deny it? Far more likely that he’d imagined it. It’d be consistent, anyhow, since he’d quite obviously imagined having met the Cassandra Clay female before, and received the benefit of her advice on what to do when pins and needles strike. For some reason (explained Colin’s inner Spock) he was going through a phase of thinking that he’d recognised people when he hadn’t. There could be any number of explanations for that, ranging from failing eyesight to incipient looniness, without the need to postulate a world haunted by forgotten meetings and duplicate blondes. Served him right, anyhow, for playing truant from the office.

As he walked from the station to the H&F works, he noticed that the John Menzies that had moved in where Boots used to be was now a Virgin Megastore, while the Monsoon three doors down from it had at some point turned into a Halfords. Evolution in action, he supposed.

Dad was on the phone when he reached the office; he scowled and gestured for the green file, and Colin gave it to him. The scowl deepened, and Colin backed out of the room. Back to stuffing brochures into envelopes, then. What fun.

Cassandra Clay, he thought as he worked (fold, fold again, lift flap, stuff, lick flap, press, take another from the pile). While his conscious mind had been on other things, the backroom boys in his subconscious hadn’t been idle; they’d produced their report and were ready to discuss their findings. Not, they were pretty sure, love. The symptoms just weren’t there, for a start. They’d been through the files (Jackie Ibbotson, May to August 1994; Pauline Fletcher, January 1997 to April 1998; Melanie Mackintosh, September 2000 to June 2002 and 16 to 21 February 2003) and assessed the data. There were a few superficial similarities - daydreaming, wandering about bumping into things, feelings of embarrassment, self-deprecation and general despair - but the really significant features were conspicuous by their absence. True, he was having difficulties evicting her from his mind; she kept popping back, like a computer virus, and scrambling his train of thought, and he’d already played over the dialogue from their brief conversation three times, analysing it for anything that might be considered even remotely encouraging - but it didn’t feel like the other times. Really.

The door flew open. Not a SWAT team or Customs & Excise; just Dad not knocking, as usual. And, as usual, Colin was a fifth of a second too late getting his feet off the desk.

‘Right,’ Dad said, dropping into the other chair and frowning at him. ‘So what did she say?’

It only took Colin a second and a half to find the place. ‘Not a lot, really,’ he replied. ‘She gave me the file, I brought it home with me. That’s about it.’

Dad’s frown thickened. ‘Yes, but she went through it with you line by line, so you could report back to me.’

Colin shook his head. ‘She’s going to write you a letter.’

‘A letter?’

‘Yes.’

A sigh; such a small sound to come out of such a large body, but it got the message across with perfect efficiency. ‘Fine,’ Dad said. ‘She’s going to write me a letter.’

Colin’s turn to frown, though it was a pretty feeble effort in comparison. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s not much point me going through it with her when I haven’t got a clue what it’s all about. Wouldn’t have meant anything to me.’

‘Only because you can’t be arsed to take an interest in the business.’

Well, yes, there was that. ‘I thought it’d be a waste of money,’ Colin offered meekly.

‘Right. So instead, they’re going to charge me a hundred quid for writing a letter.’

‘Sorry,’ Colin said. He always apologised. With all the breath he’d wasted on apologies over the past quarter-century he could’ve inflated a skyful of Zeppelins. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s it all about?’

Dad looked at him. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘You get on with doing the brochures. There’ll be a memo in a day or so.’

Colin smiled weakly, and Dad erupted out of the room. One of these days, Colin promised himself, I’ll leave home. I’ll rent a nice little cottage on the lip of Vesuvius, for the peace and quiet. In the meantime, I’ll go on stuffing things in envelopes and honing my esprit de l’escalier. Actually, it’d serve the old bastard right if the company did go bust; which means it won’t, of course, because there’s no justice.

By a strange coincidence, Colin shoved the last brochure into the last envelope at exactly twenty-nine minutes past five. The felicity of timing made him smile, and he stood up to leave. Home; dinner (overcooked pasta in slimy green sauce; some irresponsible clown had given Mum the latest Delia Smith for her birthday), the telly, bed. I’d get a life, only I wouldn’t know what to do with it.

The phone on his desk rang. He frowned. It didn’t usually do that. He picked it up.

‘Someone from J. W. Wells for you,’ said Carol from the front office. She sounded as bewildered as Colin felt. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Put them through.’

‘Mr Hollingshead?’

That voice. ‘Urn, yes,’ Colin replied.

‘Cassie Clay, J. W. Wells. We met earlier.’

‘That’s right,’ Colin said. ‘You gave me the documents.’ Yes. She knows that, you imbecile.

‘Yes.’ Pause. ‘Just making sure everything was in order.’

She’s lying, he realised. That’s not why she’s phoning me. ‘You’re going to write us a letter,’ he said.

‘Yes, it’ll be in tonight’s post.’

‘That’s great, thanks.’

‘No problem.’

Pause. Now, Colin thought, if it was me phoning her, the motivation would be obvious. I’d be phoning her on the flimsiest of pretexts just so that I could talk to her again, because I’m a pathetic loser. But she’s phoning me.

‘So,’ Cassie went on, ‘with any luck, you should get the letter tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’

‘And if there’s anything in it that you want to talk over, please don’t hesitate to call.’

‘Thanks, I’ll do that. Or at least, my dad will. I’ll pass on the message.’

‘Oh. Right, that’s excellent, thanks. You’ve been most helpful.’

‘Not at all.’

At the back of Colin’s mind, a small voice conceded the possibility that it might have been wrong. He ignored it. It wasn’t me who picked up the phone and dialled a number, he pointed out.

‘So,’ she said, ‘how’s the pins and needles?’

‘What? Oh, fine. Completely better.’

Actually, that was a lie, too; they’d come back, but not in his foot. Sharp, tiny pinpricks were driving into his brain, worse than any hangover he’d ever inflicted on himself; it was a bit like bee-stings or really savage nettles, and it was something to do with something he’d just said, and if he put the phone down it’d get better right away. On the other hand—

‘Sorry,’ he said quickly, ‘call for me on the other line. Thanks again, bye.’

Click; purr; clunk as the receiver went down on its cradle. The pain (miniature fireworks going off half an inch in from his temples) stopped as abruptly as it had started, so completely that he found it difficult, a second later, to remember how they’d felt.

Bloody odd.

Colin picked the phone up again and looked at it. Seemed harmless enough - he put it to his ear, but nothing happened. Just the phone, something so mundane and ordinary that you’d never spare it a second’s thought, but a moment ago he could’ve sworn it was hurting him, eating his brain, like something from an old B movie. (Query: what sort of monstrous life-form would cross the galaxy at x times the speed of light just to eat Colin Hollingshead’s brain? An alien on a diet?) There must be something wrong with it, he decided, maybe it was sending out an incredibly high-pitched squeal that he could feel but not hear. Better get the engineer in, or scrap it and get another one. Not that it mattered, because it never rang. Until today.

Perplexity; and on his own time, too. But the oddness of it all was nagging at him like an abscess under a favourite tooth. He dialled a number, and waited.

‘Tony?’

‘Hello, mate. Haven’t heard from you in a long time. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s all right,’ Colin said. ‘I’m just ringing to see if my phone hurts my head.’

That hadn’t come out quite right; but he and Tony had been at school together, known each other for years and years, all through adolescence. It wasn’t the weirdest thing one of them had said to the other, not by a long way. ‘Does it?’ Tony enquired with interest.

‘Doesn’t seem to. Keep talking.’

‘All right. What about?’

‘I don’t know, do I? How’s things?’