Fractured (Unreel series Book 1)

by Sanna Wolf-Watz

  Sofia spied a woman with a bright blue suit seated behind a reception desk and headed over, unconcerned as to whether Thomas followed or not.

  “Excuse me,” she said as she reached the desk. Then she temporarily lost track of her thoughts as the woman behind it looked up.

  Thomas was seething. Ever since that party he found himself in a constant state of either anger or abject sadness. It didn’t matter how far he ran or how many hours he spent batting, those feelings wouldn’t go away. He preferred the anger to the sadness so being around Sofia was actually helpful. She tended to set him off without trying.

  He watched her walk up to the big reception desk at the other end of the hall and hurried after her. For so small a person, and despite wearing such impractical shoes, she was walking surprisingly fast. A young woman with a perm sat behind the counter chewing gum. She looked up at them with tired, yet ambitiously painted eyes.

  ”Yes?”

  ”Er…” Sofia was staring at the woman’s eyelids. They were shock pink. Thomas gave her a shove with his elbow.

  ”…hi. I called earlier, we have an appointment with Mr. Stevens… Did you just elbow me?” Sofia said and turned to Thomas.

  “You seemed distracted.”

  He barred his teeth at her in something that couldn’t be mistaken for a smile. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to smile properly again.

  Sofia bared her teeth right back. “How kind of you to notice.”

  “He’ll be here in ten minutes If you’d like to wait over there until he arrives,” the receptionist cut in and motioned them towards a couch in the corner below a small escalator.

  “Thank you,” Sofia said and strode off towards the escalator, Thomas following closely behind her.

  He was not enthusiastic about the prospect of spending an hour with Sofia. Sure, there’d be a guide with them as well, but he always forgot that there were other people present when she was near.

  Right now she was busying herself with reading one of the information brochures they’d received. He suspected that she was pretending to study so that she wouldn’t have to talk to him. He couldn’t blame her. He’d been picking fights with her all week and she’d been surprisingly tolerant. He didn’t know if it was because at the party they had managed to have an actual, although yelled, conversation or because she had witnessed his humiliation. The whole thing made him uncomfortable. She’d sent his friends after him, which was nice of her, sure, but she should stay out of his…

  “What is it?” she asked without looking up from her papers.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re staring at me. What do you want?”

  “Nothing. And I’m not staring.”

  She opened her mouth to retort, but just then Mr. Stevens, their e-mail contact, came up to them and greeted them kindly. He was a rather short, round man with residing hair line and a complexion in a nuance remarkably alike that of a boiled lobster.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he said dramatically as though he was speaking to a crowd of people and not just two kids from the local high school.

  “I’m going to give you the grand tour and if you have anymore questions afterwards we’ll discuss them as soon as the tour has ended. Now, where do you want me to begin? Ah, no don’t tell me, the entrance hall where we’re currently standing, yes? This magnificent creation in white marble so different from the brutalist exterior of this master piece of American architecture! Are you all right, dear?”

  Sofia shook her head and Thomas glared at her. She was behaving childishly again. She had barely managed to transform her laughter into a cough and now she couldn’t stop coughing. She was making sounds the like of which are usually associated with severe lung diseases.

  “Fine, fine,” she coughed.

  “Are you sure? My aunt Millie sounded exactly like that before she had her lung transplant.”

  Sofia coughed harder.

  “She’s fine. She’s always making weird noises. Some sort of mental issue,” Thomas told him offhandedly.

  Sofia immediately stopped coughing.

  “Ah, yes. Complicated thing, the human mind. So easy to break,” Mr. Stevens said and looked at Sofia, his piggy little eyes filled with sympathy.

  “It is, isn’t it? Just like the human neck,” Sofia said with a threatening glare at Thomas.

  “Ah, the neck, young lady, is harder to break than you'd think. Oh, yes. This whole company was founded thanks to an accident. It happened right here in this house! It must have been thirty years ago. This place was a bank at the time. He fell from up there, you see? The balustrade to your right, the sixth floor.”

  It must have been at least forty feet up to the place where Mr. Stevens pointed. Thomas looked from there to the marble floor and wondered how anyone would survive a fall like that.

  “Apparently he slipped. The doctors said that it was a miracle that he survived. He should’ve broken his neck or at least cracked his skull on the marble floor. Broke his back in three places instead,” Mr. Stevens said and sighed wistfully. “Yes, a happy story.”

  “A happy story? How can someone breaking his back in three places be a happy story?” Sofia asked.

  “Well, first of all he didn’t die. More importantly, he sued the bank for all they were worth, bought the building and created his own broadcasting and, later on, production company with the money he made from the settlement. That plunge made him a billionaire,” Mr. Stevens concluded and looked longingly at the landing on the sixth floor as if he wished that the idea to fall from it had occurred to him first.

  “Ah, well. The tour must go on. Come with me,” Mr. Stevens said after a moment of silent contemplation and turned, leading the way through the hall. Sofia and Thomas followed slowly.

  Mr. Stevens took them on an extensive tour of the TV-house. They were not allowed to film anywhere on the premises. Thomas found this ironic since broadcasting companies themselves believed that they should be able to film wherever they wanted, going so far as to use a hidden camera if they had to.

  Instead they were given pamphlets. Lots and lots of pamphlets. By the end of the two hour long tour, they had been given so many folders and printouts of information that he wasn't sure how they were going to have time to go through them all. At least they wouldn't have to worry about having enough information to put together a presentation.

  He suppressed a yawn for the third time and tried to concentrate on what their guide was telling them.

  Mr. Stevens seemed to think highly of the broadcasting company. In fact, the only things he seemed to think higher of was himself and his voice, which he used to dramatically present every nook and cranny of the twenty floor complex. Or at least of the five floors they were allowed to visit.

  Thomas stifled another yawn. They had to be done soon, they had to. It was ironic how much he had been looking forward to going here. Having never been inside this building before, it had seemed like a cool place to discover and a nice distraction from the acute pain in his chest that set in whenever he was left alone.

  His thoughts turned to Rachel again. He’d been prepared to forgive her. Jock and Wayne had told him, repeatedly, that he should move on after they found him by the lake and made him tell them what had happened. Thomas didn’t understand what they meant. Move on? You didn’t move on from the best thing that had ever happened to you. You didn’t throw away your whole future simply because someone had made a drunken mistake.

  When Rachel texted him and asked him to come over so that she could explain he’d gone there right away. He had planned on telling her that he was angry, that he would be angry for a while, but that he’d prayed about it and he was willing to forgive her. She hadn’t so much as let him open his mouth before she launched into a spiel about how they weren’t right for each other and because they wanted different things.

  They wanted different things alright. Rachel wanted some guy studying business in college and Thomas wanted her. When she took his hand and told him she wanted t
o remain his friend he’d merely sat there, a hole in his chest the size of Kansas. It took him a long time after she left the car and headed back inside to get his head on straight and drive off.

  He hadn’t talked to Rachel since. When they met in the corridors he ran to the boys’ room because he knew she wouldn’t follow. It wasn’t very manly of him to run away, but he couldn’t bare to look at her. It hurt too much.

  Instead he concentrated on schoolwork and baseball. Maybe if he hadn’t made such a mess of that game a few weeks back Rachel wouldn’t have…

  “What’s wrong? You’re supposed to be taking notes,” Sofia hissed, startling him.

  “I am taking notes. Not that we need them with all these flyers and things,” he hissed back.

  “We still need quotes to make it more interesting now that we don’t have video.”

  “I have several. Why don’t you concentrate on the tour instead of nagging me?”

  She looked like she wanted to hit him, but instead she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Thomas felt strangely disappointed. She’d been doing that a lot this last week. Whenever he tried to rile her up she’d close her eyes for a moment, then back off. She was definitely trying to be considerate because of what she’d seen at the party and it pissed him off. He didn’t need her pity. Or her concern. At least she’d stopped trying to talk to him about what had happened.

  “Fine,” she snapped at him and moved closer to Mr. Stevens.

  “Fine,” he ground out. Not that she was paying him any attention. She asked Mr. Stevens a question and sent a glare over her shoulder as if she knew that he was staring at her. Shaking his head he pretended to be engrossed in Mr. Stevens’s reply, and took notes.

  Soon they were walking again and while Thomas did his best to jot down everything coming out of the man’s mouth, he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate.

  Sofia ran her foot into some of the debris that was littering the stairs. She swore to herself in that weird, singsong language of hers, but Thomas was so antsy he couldn’t even find delight in Sofia’s self-flagellation. He had to get out of here, go for a run or bat a few balls. Anything that would get his body going and his mind to shut down.

  When they finally got back to the escalator on the ground floor, Thomas was so eager to get out of the building he was jumping from one foot to another.

  “There, lady and gentleman, our tour is concluded. I hope you’ve had a pleasant visit with us here at the JBC!” Mr. Stevens ended his two hour long monologue and smiled as if he expected applause.

  Sofia was the first to recover and smile at Mr. Stevens. Thomas scowled. She looked nearly pretty when she smiled. He didn’t like it at all.

  “Thank you Mr. Stevens. That was a wonderfully… informative tour,” Sofia said.

  Mr. Stevens beamed at her. “Why thank you miss. It was a pleasure. Please don’t hesitate to contact me should you need any more help with your assignment. I am, of course, extremely busy, but I do so appreciate young talents who are willing to learn.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Thomas muttered. Sofia elbowed him.

  “We understand that and we can’t say how grateful we are that you put so much time aside to guide us today,” Sofia said with a voice so chirpy it made Thomas's skin crawl.

  He somehow managed to smile and shake Mr. Stevens hand anyway. They made their goodbyes and were finally able to head towards the exit.

  “Well I’m glad that’s over,” Sofia muttered.

  “I thought you appreciated the tour. ‘We are so grateful Mr. Stevens,’” he mimicked her. “Never knew you were such a brown nose.”

  “I’m a brown nose? Me?” Sofia asked, her nose all wrinkled up in disgust. “What about when you were sucking up to him on the third floor? ‘Who is the genius behind this building’s so compelling architectural facade?’ You made me want to puke.”

  “That was not sucking up, that was an honest compliment.”

  “Come on!”

  “The exterior of this building is an important architectural… statement,” Thomas lied.

  “Yeah, right, it’s the important architectural statement of fugly.”

  Mr. Jones sipped his soda while he pensively observed the reporters, actors and camera men hurrying across the marble floor through his thick glasses. They were doing a good impression of merely carrying on with their normal, everyday stuff. He drummed his fingers against the armrest of his wheelchair and took another sip.

  He liked visiting this place to observe the comings and goings of the people here. He could sit for hours watching how they ran this way and that. He liked the pulse, the charge. At the moment, however, his mind was focused on more important matters. This was the day. His phone pinged as he received an update. It was starting.

  He held out his now empty glass for Mr. Sims to refill when shouts reached them from the other end of the marble hall. Mr. Jones handed the glass to his assistant and pushed a button in his chair to roll closer to the voices.

  ”What is that supposed to mean?” the girl screamed.

  Mr. Jones looked from her to the boy she was yelling at and smiled smugly. The girl was all fire while the boy looked like a block of ice. Mr. Jones smiled hadn’t seen this kind of chemistry in years. They were so caught up in the fight they didn’t notice that they had an accumulating audience.

  ”It means that you come here, to the best country in the world, which welcomes you with open arms, and the next moment you’re complaining about everything you see!” the boy shouted back.

  He had a nice voice, Mr. Jones decided. Even when he was yelling at the top of his lungs.

  ”You preposterous little…How do you know that this is the best country in the world? Have you been to the others? To any other?”

  Mr. Jones leaned forward in his chair, eager to hear what else she had to say.

  “What has that got to do with anything? I see what happens in them on TV, I don’t have to go there to…”

  “What is so great about this country? The lack of public health care? The universities’ outrageous tuition fees?”

  ”That’s exactly what I’m saying! You’re always having opinions… and what about our healthcare? Just because we’re not a bunch of tax-loving communists who…”

  “Oh cut it out!”

  “You cut it out! You don’t know anything!”

  ”Yes I do!”

  ”No you don’t!”

  Mr. Jones changed his focus to the reporters, photographers and cameramen gathered around. They were looking from the boy to the girl like spectators at a tennis game.

  ”Do too!”

  “Don’t!”

  Mr. Jones winced as the argument descended to kindergarten-level. Ah, well. At least they were nice to look at.

  ”If this house is the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen then I suggest you take a closer look in the mirror!” the boy shouted triumphantly.

  There was a collective, shocked sound from the small crowd surrounding them and Mr. Jones cringed. Comparing a beautiful girl to what had to be the world’s ugliest building was taking things too far. The girl also inhaled, but not in shock, no, she just needed air to be able to keep shouting.

  ”Considering how many hours you spend in front of the mirror fixing your hair and trying to look handsome, you should have discovered by now that without massive plastic surgery you’ll always be butt ugly!”

  The boy gaped, unable to form a reply. He had probably never been called ugly in his life. Not with those chiseled features.

  Mr. Jones gave a start when he saw two security guards approach them. That would never do.

  “Have the guards sent away, Sims,” he ordered.

  “Huh? Oh, yes, of course,” he said and hurried off to intercept the guards before they could break up the argument.

  Mr. Jones turned back to the boy who was having trouble finding a good comeback.

  ”You… At least I can speak properly!” he finally managed, stepping closer to
the girl.

  ”I’d love to hear you say one word in Swedish! Or French! Or German! Or Chinese!” she said, walking up so that she was toe-to-toe with him.

  ”Those are just small shitty languages that no one cares about anyway! Just like no one cares about you!”

  Another loud gasp went through their audience and Mr. Jones nearly applauded when the wonderful girl hit the guy hard over the head with the large bunch of papers and brochures she’d been holding in her hands.

  She let go and the pages fell like a papery waterfall from the boy's head, over his shoulder to finally end up all over the floor. It was dramatic, it was outrageous, and it was perfect.

  “I’m a genius,” Mr. Jones murmured and held out his hand for his drink.

  15

  Chloroform and a Cup of Coffee

  Thomas didn’t know for how long he stood there, staring after her as the papers slowly spread all over the floor, courtesy of the powerful air condition unit.

  He glared at her back as she strode through the entrance hall and started walking towards her. When he got his hands on her he would…

  ”Do you need any help with that?”

  He stopped when a stunningly beautiful reporter stepped into his line of vision. She had to be a reporter, she was too pretty to be anything else. He couldn't picture her carrying around cameras and microphones.

  “Huh?”

  “Do you need some help picking all of this up?” she asked and bent to gather up some of the brochures. She grinned at him as she handed them to him and he realized that she was tall, almost as tall as he was.

  ”Thanks,” he said, surprised to notice that he was grinning back.

  He quickly bent and snatched up some papers from the floor. Within minutes they had collected all of them. The rest of the people who, he had been mortified to discover, had been watching the row were nowhere to be seen. They had disappeared as soon as there was talk about offering a helping hand.

  ”Here you are, those were the last,” she said.