In Pieces Page 2

  Slimey Stevens, The Standard’s Diary Editor, sidled over to the desk where Si had spread out the paper. ‘Hi Si, how are you today?’ Slimey was forty-three, thin on top, squeezed ridiculously into a yellow check waistcoat, and in the last couple of years had been forced to concede that his parabolic career curve had irrevocably flattened out and could only descend. As a result he had added spite to his rich collection of personality defects, which already included insecurity and bitchiness. Talented and attractive but inaccessible young men, such as Si, had become favourite targets for Slimey’s queening acerbity.

  Si looked up at Slimey’s approach. ‘Fine… Well actually, no. I’m bloody pissed off.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’ Slimey was doing a bad job of hiding his schadenfreude.

  ‘Because you pulled my story, that’s why.’ Si knew he had to hold back and control his temper. Otherwise he’d be out of a job.

  ‘Oh that. Yes, I know, sorry luv. But it just wasn’t up to it. That’s all.’ Slimey made to move off. ‘It’s a tough old world, journalism. You’ll just have to get used to it.’

  ‘But it was a perfectly good story. You know it was.’ Si was about to accuse his boss of doing him down deliberately, but just bit his tongue in time.

  ‘No it wasn’t. It was crap. Far too political for us. If you can’t understand that, then you’d better reassess your options, I’d say.’

  ‘You would, would you?’

  But Slimey didn’t bother to reply. He’d had his fun. He turned his back and walked over to his own desk to start the day’s work. If Simpson could be riled so easily, then he’d have no problem getting rid of him before long. But not quite yet; he wanted to enjoy the situation a bit more first.

  Si watched Slimey waddle away. He ran his fingers through his mop of wavy hair and rested his head in his hands, crumpled over the desk. This was awful. Where had things gone wrong? Until only a few weeks ago he’d been doing great. ‘The high-flyer’ was how he’d heard someone describe him. But now it was all about to go down the pan. When the phone rang he watched it for about ten seconds, too depressed to answer.

  ‘Why don’t you answer your phone?’ Slimey called across. ‘It might be a story and, God knows, honey, you need one…’

  ‘Hello, Standard Diary…’

  ‘Hi, can I speak to Simon Simpson please?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Hi, Simon. This is Martha Rogers. I work for Douglas McCormack.’

  Si sat up. Like the rest of the media world, Si was very aware that McCormack had just been appointed to succeed Mini Bournemouth at The Courier. ‘Yes, of course…’

  ‘Mr McCormack was wondering if you could pop into the office later today. He has a proposition for you.’

  ‘Really? Can you tell me what exactly?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. Only that you may find it worth your while. Mr McCormack has seen your work and he likes it. I think you’ll be interested in what he has to say.’

  ‘Oh, right. What time?’

  ‘Say about three?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good. See you then. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’ Si’s heart was thumping. The excitement was almost painful. Could this be it? The break that would take him out and above the likes of Slimey Stevens? He didn’t dare to hope, but it was impossible not to. Three o’clock seemed an eternity away.

  ~

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘It’d be rude not to, eh?’

  ‘I guess so.’ Jimmy stood up, pulled up his jeans and tucked in his tee shirt. He wandered over to the bar and returned soon after with two handsome pints.

  Si and his best mate Jimmy were in their local, The Feathers. The pub provided them with a refuge and a second home. They sat on high backed chairs in the corner at their usual table, a rough wooden rectangle covered in beer mats and the circular stains of a thousand pints, many consumed by Si and Jimmy. A dozen other tables clung to the walls, but most of the pub was given over to space before the long L-shaped bar. On Friday night this space would be filled by a heaving mass of drinkers celebrating the end of the working week, but during the day it was empty and the bare boards, uncluttered by drinkers, made the pub seem much larger and lighter than it really was. On the other side of the polished oak barrier, the bar staff shuttled up and down in the deep slot as if attached to a rail. Their reflections flickered in the hanging beer glasses and stencilled mirror, which ran the length of the bar. The Feathers was nothing special really—much like several hundred other Edwardian pubs in southwest London. But it was important to Si and Jimmy and associated inextricably with their friendship.

  Si watched Jimmy weave his way towards him. His friend was poised, the natural athlete balancing two full glasses carefully. A girl turned her head as Jimmy passed, clearly impressed by his trim body, clean-cut good looks and smiling eyes. The extra-short haircut was neat, and baggy jeans concealed large thighs—always, reflected Si, a winning factor with girls.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Si, sipping carefully so as to preserve the spumy head for as long as possible.

  ‘You look like you’re seducing it, not drinking it.’ Jimmy wasn’t malicious, just mucking about. He knew Si well, better than anyone probably. They’d grown up together and, although they’d now gone different ways, they still saw enough of each other to know what was what. ‘You take your tongue out of there, you pervert. You can get arrested for that, eh?’

  ‘Piss off,’ said Si matter-of-factly and resumed drinking.

  Jimmy laughed and took up his own pint purposefully. ‘So how’s it going?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The new job, what else?’

  ‘All right. It’s all right.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s really good now I come to think of it. Most of the time.’

  ‘I s’pose that’s true of everything.’

  ‘Not everything, but work anyway. I catch myself thinking there must be more to life than turning up to an office and working all day. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, suppose so.’

  ‘Not that you’ve ever worked in an office, mind…’

  ‘Hold on. Football is a job too, you know. Bloody hard work too…’

  ‘Yeah, sure. I wasn’t saying otherwise. Only you don’t work in an office, do you?’ They drank quietly. ‘The thing that gets me, you know, is how broken up modern life is… D’you see?’

  ‘No, can’t say I do,’ answered Jimmy. He was used to the reflective side of Si. He sat back expecting some obscure musing from his friend and was ready to humour him. He wouldn’t respond; he never did. Not that he minded listening. It was just that he didn’t understand what Si was on about half the time.

  ‘Well,’ said Si patiently, ‘we all run around like headless chickens doing things, work and going to the pub and meeting people and so on, but much of it doesn’t make sense. What’s lacking is something to hold it all together. You know, a structure.’

  For once Jimmy broke his rule and tried to get his head around Si’s philosophising. ‘You mean like a jigsaw puzzle in a box?’

  ‘No, not really,’ said Si gently, slightly surprised by Jimmy’s observation.

  He paused for thought and watched his friend drinking. He hadn’t expected his friend to participate and had been using Jimmy much as a dandy uses a mirror when dressing: to glance vainly into from time to time just to confirm and take pleasure in his wondrous appearance. But Si wasn’t an intellectual snob and was prepared to consider Jimmy’s simile.

  ‘That assumes it all fits together to make one picture. No, I’m not that optimistic. All I want is the sense that some of it matters… Some of the bits of my life, that is.’

  ‘Mmm, I see what you’re getting at,’ lied Jimmy happily. Through the warm fug of the bar he dimly perceived that this was a special moment. One of countless instantly forgotten good times which make life bearable. Jimmy valued his evenings in t
he pub almost as much as he prized his friendship with Si. Not that he’d ever articulated either idea, not even thought them through clearly. But they were the bedrock of his life.

  ~

  Si stood in his bathroom, horrified. He should have known; of course he should. The trouble was, he half-suspected he had known. But he’d ignored the signs and not bothered to take pre-emptive action. He looked down with a mixture of dismay and fascination.

  The shards of glass spread like a mosaic out from the epicentre of the explosion. Silvered slivers, sharp as needles and some as big as daggers. The morning light slanting through the blinds played with the blunt angles revealed by the broken mirror and refracted rainbows onto the white bathroom tiles. Si noticed how a yellow blur melted quickly into a hot orange just above the taps.

  ‘Damn,’ he muttered unconvincingly. What now? He couldn’t really move, standing as he was, barefoot in the middle of the broken glass. ‘Damn.’

  He had an idea. He spotted the carved frame of the mirror—an Oriental design in dark, painted wood. The frame lay on the floor where it had fallen. Like a guillotine blade, the mirror had slipped off the loose hook and fallen softly to the floor, exploding with a surprisingly loud bang. More of a crack, really, like a whiplash at the circus or static electricity. As the smooth face of the mirror smashed and slid into itself, over itself, sending sheets of glass skidding across the floor, the wooden frame remained upright for a second, as if stunned. In shock, like a shot man realising that death is upon him. Then it had gently toppled over.

  Si retrieved the frame and shook the remaining glass out of it. Then he used it as a stepping-stone to reach the door. He decided not to bother sweeping up until later. There wasn’t time.

  ‘Damn,’ he muttered again as he closed the bathroom door on the scene. Now the prospect of cleaning up would hang over him like a black cloud all day. But worse, and he hated to admit it, he could feel the primitive suspicions of his childhood weighing upon him. He thought he’d laughed them off years ago. But the thought of what his mother would have said made him shiver.

  Si looked at his watch. Twelve ten. Time to get to the pub. Jimmy would be waiting.

  ~

  The Feathers was always quiet at lunchtime, even on Sundays. Si and Jimmy’s table faced the big video screen. When there were soccer matches on satellite TV, about twice a week, the screen would become the focus of the pub. At other times, like today, it would appear a strange appendage, hanging there like a drying sheet. Ugly.

  Jimmy was tired. After yet again scoring the winner in yesterday’s key Second Division match against York City, he’d gone for a few beers. Ignoring the manager’s injunctions against getting drunk during the season, he’d got plastered. He regretted it now.

  To deal with his hangover, he ordered a strong Bloody Mary. With everything. As he’d known it would, the vodka was already kicking in and making him feel better.

  Si had spent the previous evening watching a film on TV. Some instantly forgettable action movie with a thrilling if implausible plot. He’d gone to bed feeling faintly dissatisfied with his life. Normally, such feelings evaporated overnight. But when he woke up, he’d been surprised to find himself suffering from a mild depression.

  ‘D’you ever wish you were doing something else?’

  Jimmy looked up and stopped playing with his swizzle stick, which he’d been spinning on the edge of the glass. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Like, d’you ever want to do something else? For a job?’

  Jimmy looked thoughtful, raised his glass but didn’t drink. ‘Haven’t we had this conversation before?’

  No answer. Si seemed to be waiting for an answer. ‘Well, now you come to ask… no,’ he said.

  ‘You’re lucky… I do. Well, sometimes. Like now.’

  ‘Why? I thought you enjoyed being a journalist.’

  ‘I do sometimes.’

  ‘And you were telling me how wonderful your new job is.’

  ‘Have you ever read it?’

  ‘Read what?’

  ‘The Courier? You know, the paper I write for.’

  ‘No,’ Jimmy admitted coyly. He didn’t like it when Si went off on masochistic tracks like this. Si was his friend—he wanted him to be cheerful and crack a few jokes, not get all introspective. Jimmy tried to raise his spirits. ‘You know I don’t read much. But I’m sure it’s really good and you can influence people…’

  ‘Can I?’

  Jimmy sighed. It clearly hadn’t worked.

  ‘I wonder. Most of the time I think I’m writing rubbish and feel like I’m being manipulated by people whose real intentions I don’t understand.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It doesn’t matter.’ Si sighed in turn.

  Jimmy didn’t give up and looking at his friend said brightly, ‘You always wanted to be a journalist. You’re natural for it.’

  ‘I didn’t always want to be. It kind of happened, really. It seemed the best option at the time, but I never thought I’d spend the rest of my life doing it.’

  ‘Who said you would?’

  ‘Well, it’s difficult to change careers once you’ve got going.’

  ‘My arse. It’s only difficult if you think it is. And you’re being bloody stupid ’cause you’re only twenty-eight. You could stop tomorrow and become…whatever. No problem.’

  ‘A footballer?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Could I become a footballer? Tomorrow like?’

  Jimmy’s brow creased. ‘Well, no. It’s a bit late at twenty-eight.’

  ‘Exactly, that’s my point. It’s already too late to do most things. Even at twenty-eight. And the thing is, nobody tells you that when you’re twenty.’

  ‘I never knew you wanted to play soccer.’ Jimmy was clearly puzzled. ‘You were crap at school.’

  ‘I know. I don’t want to play soccer.’

  ‘So why did you say you did?’

  ‘I didn’t. I just meant… Anyway, the point is even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I don’t suppose there’s much I could do if I wanted to change.’

  ‘You could become a dustman. I had a cousin who became a dustman when he was made redundant at forty.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so. I could become a dustman. That’s a relief, isn’t it?’

  Jimmy failed to notice the irony and nodded. The conversation had woken him up and, combined with the healthy measure of vodka, had buried his hangover.

  ‘It’s not that I really want to change jobs…’

  ‘Great, I don’t think you’d make a very good dustman anyway. No offence, mind.’

  ‘None taken. I think really, I’d just like to know I could do something else if I wanted. To have the option. Often I feel like I’ve no real choice in how I lead my life. Know what I mean? Things just happen and we react to them. We have no control.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a bugger, isn’t it?’

  They lapsed into Sunday morning silence and sipped their drinks.

  ‘Gagging for a fag,’ said Jimmy.

  Si recognised the beginning of a well-practised routine. He took up the script. ‘Have one.’

  ‘Can’t. The manager’d kill me. Anyway, I don’t really want one. It’s three years since I last smoked and mostly I don’t miss it much.’

  ‘Never saw the appeal myself.’

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing like a cigarette. Especially with a cup of coffee after breakfast.’

  They fell silent. Si wondered what had happened to the rest of Jimmy’s habitual eulogy of smoking. He hadn’t even mentioned the post-coital bit, which he always did, with a great cheesy grin when it came to the most purple part of his speech. Instead, Jimmy slipped into a nostalgic reverie.

  ‘Sometimes I think that whatever we do we’ll end up at the same place.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you know, even if I’d stayed at The Standard and not moved to The Courier, I doubt it’d have made much difference in the end.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose we all
die eventually,’ said Jimmy cheerfully, the urge to smoke clearly conquered.

  Si looked dismayed. ‘No, I wasn’t being morbid. Only that I reckon we can probably follow a thousand different paths, maybe even simultaneously, and still end up at the same point. I’d probably end up a sad old lushed-out hack, whatever…’

  ‘Now you’re losing me.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter. But it does make a mockery of choice, I reckon.’

  ‘This is way too serious. Remember, I’ve still got a hangover. Treat my brain gently.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.’

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘Yeah. Another Bloody.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Jimmy slipped off to the bar. As he watched him go, Si chewed the lemon slice from his last drink and wondered why he spent so much time in the pub. It wasn’t as if he was an alcoholic or anything. The social conditioning of his generation, he concluded. Jimmy returned smiling, gripping two long red glasses firmly in his hands. Red, the colour of Sunday mornings.

  ~

  Si was working late. He flicked on the TV. It was tuned to the Parliamentary Channel. He’d sussed out from the start that the way to Dougy’s heart lay through his politics. And on several occasions when Si had been summoned to Dougy’s office, the TV had been tuned to the Parliamentary Channel.

  Now, as far as Si could work out, Dougy supported the Government. But it wasn’t always clear. And often Dougy would run stories as a favour to individual members of the Opposition. He obviously had a foot in both camps. This made it difficult for Si to know what he should and shouldn’t put in his column. He seemed to have got it right so far. But he knew that when he didn’t, he could expect a rollicking from Dougy. To minimise the risk of this, Si had taken to watching coverage of Parliament at every spare opportunity. He thought this would help him to tune into what made Dougy tick.