by AJ Kirby
‘Wow,’ was all Hunter could say.
‘I know,’ said Stephenson, as though delighted that somebody shared his enthusiasm. ‘It can produce not only four different currencies but also is involved in the production of personal identification cards ready for mass introduction by the government in the near future.’
‘Wow,’ said Hunter again, but this time his lack of enthusiasm was obvious. Hunter noted a twitch of disappointment flash through Stephenson’s eyes; he clearly wanted people to share his awe at the beauty of the engineering artistry of the printer rather than the quick-fix, almost pornographic gratification of the pile of bank notes. But then Stephenson leaned in closer; so close that Hunter could have reached out and read the pock-marks underneath his beard like Braille. ‘Would you like to see it printing?’ he whispered.
‘Okay then, yes,’ said Hunter, feeling uneasy.
‘Oh, don’t worry, sir. I’m authorised to do small print-runs,’ said Stephenson. He moved over to the tiny printer and began fiddling about at the back of it. ‘At the moment, it’s set to print Mauritian Rupees, and in a minute, I’ll get it to print some Kenyan Shillings…’
Hunter waited as Stephenson continued to manipulate some controls at the back of the printer. He seemed to be struggling. In a way, Hunter was glad of the man’s struggle; that way the incessant torrent of information was dammed for a while. He’d almost expected to be told how bank notes came into existence, and what they were for.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked Hunter after a moment.
Underneath the beard, Stephenson’s face turned crimson with embarrassment.
‘Something funny about the settings,’ he sighed. Then he shrugged and bent down for another, closer look.
Hunter responded with a sigh of his own: ‘Is it serious?’
Stephenson talked as he worked, reverting to his tour-guide spiel it seemed, such was his unease: ‘We’ve been working on Mauritian Rupees for a couple of weeks now. They’ve just brought in a new banknote in Mauritius, and this batch is going to literally flood the marketplace; to wash out all the old notes which will be destroyed. They’ve had massive forgery problems there - that’s why they’ve come to Edison’s - we have made sure that we stay a couple of steps ahead of the forgers. Their technology keeps getting better, but we have to lead the way with ours. In a few years time, this country will probably have no bank notes at all - data such as your money will be stored in a chip on your ID card, but places like Mauritius are still way behind in those terms.’
‘I asked if the problem with the settings was serious?’ asked Hunter again.
‘I don’t know; I’m not properly trained on the diagnostics for a machine like this…’
‘If you’re using words like ‘diagnostics’, then it’s serious,’ said Hunter.
‘No, no. Don’t worry, sir. We’ll get one of the proper engineers down to have a look. Probably just something I’m doing wrong.’
But Mick Stephenson did not look like the kind of man that did things wrong, not where technology was concerned. The Precisioner printer was the crowning glory of the place. For it to malfunction on Hunter’s first day; well, that was cursed fate, wasn’t it? It was just another in a long line of disasters…
Hunter’s eyes unconsciously shot down to his wrists which were covered by a long-sleeved shirt as usual. The phrase ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire’ came to mind. He tried to talk himself out of his mood by reflecting that perhaps the job at Edison’s Printers would provide him with a new desire for life though; after all, there seemed to be a hell of a lot going on there underneath the surface.
‘Ever been to Mauritius?’ asked Stephenson, resolutely not monitoring the signs of unwillingness to talk which were written all over Hunter’s face.
They were walking back to the Security Lodge having called the specialist engineer out.
‘Mr. Burr has; fantastic place by all accounts,’ continued Stephenson.
From nowhere, the old antennae at the back of Hunter’s mind started to quiver. There was something at Edison’s that he could really get his teeth into, he reckoned. Perhaps the place wasn’t simply going to be his retirement home after all.
‘Burr?’ he asked, for once imploring Stephenson to tell him more.
‘Aye, Burr. He went out there a couple of months back. You should ask him about it.’
I might well do that, thought Hunter. Callum Burr seems like the kind of person that I’d like to know a lot more about.
The Awakening
Although his eyes were still firmly sealed closed by the nights’ collection of waxy residue, the first glimmering rays of light broke through the still-open blinds in the room and permeated through his eyelids, gently cajoling Danny back into consciousness. Through closed eyes, this light took on a shimmering, underwater quality. It was an inert consciousness; ripples and movement, but no clarity or sharpness of image.
And then pockets of sound began to seep through the amniotic blanket which had swathed him, white noise became more distinct and separate whilst still playing a part in the composition as a whole. Distant drilling provided the rhythm, complemented by the purr and throb of car engines. The melody of birdsong faded in and out, whilst closer, the insistent murmur of a television was the bass-line.
It was, however, the sense of smell which finally completed the resuscitation of Danny Morris. The familiar, seductively boorish smell of bacon was the beacon which finally guided him back into the world of the living. The anaesthetic was wearing off now and although Danny still kept his eyes securely clamped shut, there was no way back into the oblivion from which he had just come.
Awareness came one step closer with the insistence of a nagging pain which he could pinpoint geographically on his body; his right thigh. Danny awoke groaning.
It was hard to pinpoint Danny’s first coherent thought. Instead, a sixth sense was awakened. With renewed consciousness came dread; the fear. An all-purpose foreboding at the day’s new world into which he has been borne. He gave silent words to this feeling:
I will not open my eyes, maybe I can still go back to sleep. Maybe I’m still in the gloaming; the grey area between being awake and asleep. Just don’t think. Don’t think about what that dread is. Don’t think. It must have something to do with last night. Don’t think. What about last night? Don’t think. What was I doing? Don’t think.
I remember smiling faces, laughing, dancing. Singing. Shouting. I remember angry faces. Why? I remember a strong grip on my arm. I remember a smashed milk-bottle, or maybe a flower-pot. I remember blinding lights. I remember smashing a glass down onto a bar, its contents drained. I remember my forehead resting against something cold. Where was I? Who was I with? Who was shouting at me? Oh fuck. What did I do?
Danny gingerly opened his eyes to survey the train wreck he fully expected to see; not even knowing what room he would be in. A police cell? Some girl’s bed? As the kaleidoscope turned into focus, however he was immeasurably relieved to discover that he was actually amongst familiar surroundings; his own couch. And there plugged safely into its charger was the serial escapologist, Danny’s mobile phone.
Maybe I’m just getting the fear because it’s now some kind of automatic response to waking up in a daze after a night out. Maybe I never did anything bad. Maybe I’m just half-asleep and that’s why I can’t remember. Maybe I’ll get phone calls all day from new people I met last night telling me how great it was to meet me, how good a time we all had, and how we should do it again some time. Maybe I just got happy drunk, and went around telling everyone that I loved them, and everyone loved me back…
But hang on, the very fact that I’m on the couch tells me that I’m probably kidding myself, that I’m in trouble, and at the very least, with Cheryl. It’s all about damage limitation now.
Maybe I just passed out before I could do any real harm. After all, the room looks virtually untouched, apart from the pile of clothes, maybe I simply knew my limits and came home when I
knew I was too drunk to continue... As if; I may be an eternal optimist but even I know wishful thinking when I see it.
Danny pulled the blanket under his chin in an unconsciously child-like way; reassuring himself whilst also hiding himself away. Initial pangs of the fear slowly subsided into an undercurrent of unease, and a new feeling: one of disappointment. He felt almost bestial in his lack of control over himself when drinking; he knew that he was a creature that acted according to whim, with no heed ever paid to consequence, reaction or others around him. He simply careered about like an unbroken horse, unable to be tamed.
That morning, the full effects of a bucking bronco of a hangover started to punish him. What would you do to avoid ever having to feel like that again? Stop drinking? Danny asked himself that same question on countless occasions, only to ignore his conclusions within very short spaces of time. He could have a memory like the top of a drip tray when he wanted to.
Feeling a stabbing sensation in his bladder, Danny was finally coaxed from his pit by another bestial need: the need to piss. He now had no choice but to leave the warmth and familiar comfort of his blanket. And he knew that his introspection would continue apace as he would not be able to avoid staring himself out in the mirror in the bathroom.
Shakily, he ventured one leg from underneath the duvet and then another, before dragging himself upright into a sitting position. Head bowed and sweating profusely from the effort, he steeled himself for the next move.
Like an old man whose legs have seized up from sitting in one place too long, Danny unsteadily climbed to his feet, using the bed’s head-board for support. He staggered up the evolutionary ladder from crouched ape to something resembling a human being and groaned his way across the front room towards the door.
Moving as quickly as his pained thigh would allow, Neanderthal man crawled up the stairs and was relieved by the sight of the empty bathroom. He was struck by the unmistakable tart, alcoholic aroma of a recently liberally applied cleaning fluid frenzy. Something had been covered up, but he didn’t want to know what.
Choking back the vomit, Danny contemplated his broken face in the bathroom mirror; he traced unfamiliar new contours with his dirty fingers, winced as he uncovered yellowed bruising on his cheek. He had been numb to this pain earlier, more concerned with the immediate stabbing sensation in his thigh but the sight of the wreckage of his face made the pain more visceral. Breathing, he noted, with an almost medical detachment, had become laborious, stunted, due to a jagged cut down the left hand side of his nose.
What is wrong with me?
The familiar self-pitying Danny had made his appearance in the mirror’s reflection.
Why do I persist in getting so outrageously drunk? Why does a night out become some kind of black hole into which I do not dare enter in case I see the real me. I know that I have failed Cheryl, failed even Chris again, and I bear the external signs of my guilt, of my torment. And I deserve it. But then, is guilt an integral part of a hangover?
It was a good job that Cheryl kept her make-up in the bathroom. With a practiced ease, Danny began to apply a working-day mask. There was no way that he could avoid work. He had to try to make that sale which could keep him afloat financially. A bottom layer of foundation covered the yellow bruising on his cheek; fake-tan, Chris’s favourite disguise had been liberally applied all over his face. Yes, Danny looked a strange sight, but one would have to look pretty closely to notice his bruises. He had undertaken similar cover-ups before. Surely the sheer number of them should have sent burglar alarm bells ringing in his head, but if there was one thing Danny was good at; it was being stuck in a rut. He needed something, some project, to act as the ladder which he could climb up and out of that underground cell.
He was startled out of his contemplation by the slam of the front door. Cheryl had left without saying a word to him. He galloped downstairs, and flung open the door, but saw only the lingering exhaust fumes of Cheryl’s car. In his state, Danny wasn’t about to start some domestic scene chasing down their homely cul-de-sac shouting after her. Resigned, he went back into the house and into the kitchen. Propped up against the kettle - where she knew he would not fail to see it - was the note. It snapped:
Going to stay at my sister’s for a couple of weeks. Sort your head out Danny, and do it now.
Danny turned the note over and over, looking for some other clue about his wife’s state of mind, but there was no other writing on the paper. In two days, he was confronted with the very real fact that he could lose his job, his house, and his wife. And that’s more than just carelessness.
Danny sat in his kitchen trying to hold back the worst of his hangover with liberal helpings of coffee; he was fighting a losing battle. It was as though he was trying to put out a rampaging forest fire with a water pistol. And the forest fire was now creeping into his very thoughts, biting with forked-tongued flames at his ravaged brain. It made him analytical; made him think about his life and how he was consigning it all to some fiery inferno of misplaced desire. Yes, Danny was very good at undertaking thorough reviews of each particular charred remains of an evening; he just wasn’t any good at acting upon the results of these findings.
How he wished to be more like Mark; the man who never even allowed the flame to get anywhere near the blue-touch paper of his emotions. He knew that Mark’s weakness was not greed, it was not an overwhelming desire for adventure, and it was not addiction. No, Mark’s weakness was that he was simply too loyal, too uncomplaining, too prepared to take the shit that life threw at him. And Danny had been round to Mark’s house; that was a lot of shit to put up with. It was the kind of place that they showed as the before picture, before the designers and the architects, the plumbers and the electricians came in and performed a wholesale makeover in one of those awful reality TV programmes. Reality? Try living in a reality like Mark’s house. It looked as though it was a reality which would fit only somebody like Jackie or Fish-Eye or Accy.
Mark lived in squalid conditions which approximated the tormented state of Danny’s brain. Danny, feeling miserably sorry for himself, could see himself ending up in a place like Mark’s; it was the most likely destination for his rickety runaway-train alcoholism and gambling compulsion. Wortley, and specifically Mark’s house, seemed like some haunting Ghost of Christmas Future, and once again he filled the kettle in a futile attempt to douse his flames of self-hatred, he recognised that he had reached some kind of fork in the tracks; he needed to build himself a new reality; he wanted to be proud of himself for once.
Danny’s mobile phone began to trill its’ annoyingly chirpy tune; a true morning chorus to herald the fold in time; the start of a new working day. Answering it, he heard the soft-spoken Geordie lilt of his colleague, Mark Birch.
‘Morning mate; you feeling okay today?’
Danny groaned his answer, and then: ‘Were we fishing yesterday or something, chief? I have some very strange recollections about a lake…’
A laugh from the other end of the line. ‘You tried to push me in that lake! Cheeky bastard.’
‘Oops; sorry mate. Had a few too many yesterday; won’t be happening again. Anyway, what’s up?’
‘Just checking you were up… It’s that presentation at work today. I was going to offer to pick you up on the way in.’
Reality really does bite; with snarling, jagged edge fangs; the presentation! Danny had completely forgotten.
‘Shit… where are you?’
‘At home; had to wait in this morning; the landlord has been round to try and tell me that the creeping mould on the walls is actually just dust or something…’
‘Why the hell do you still rent that place?’
‘Well, it’s close to the motorway Dan,’ laughed Mark, self-depreciatingly. ‘You know that I need to be available for work at the drop of a hat… and work’s my life.’
Danny had sudden, murky recollections of a previous conversation, from somewhere in the mists of time. Maybe he’d inadvertently said somet
hing to really offend Mark at the lake… something to do with Mark seeming to be all work, and no play… a dull boy.
‘Did I- have I- what did I say yesterday… Whatever it was, just ignore it mate. Take it with an ocean full of salt.’
‘Don’t worry; you were actually fairly calm, considering the amount of booze you’d thrown down yourself.’
‘Well, I’m still sorry, mate. And Mark? Thanks for agreeing to help me out today.’
Danny signed off the conversation and thought about Mark for a moment. Because of his easy-going attitude, people tended to take advantage of Mark. Managers at work would not hesitate to pass on the most distant call-outs onto him, knowing that they wouldn’t be spoiling his night, or perhaps simply not caring; colleagues would call in sick in the knowledge that Mark would cover them.
As well as his reliability, Mark was also very adept at his job. He fixed security systems as if it was a labour of love. Some people love to tinker around inside car engines in their spare time; Danny had the suspicion that Mark would have be elbow deep in control panels, or camera circuit boards even on the rare Saturdays he wasn’t working or on call or fishing. But he wasn’t looked at as some kind of freak for his dedication; he was, after all, a likeable young man.
It was Mark’s approachability, and his ability to convey technical expertise in simple, layman’s terms, which had prompted Danny Morris to call in the engineer to assist him with a sales presentation that morning to a group of potential customers. Mark would be able to hold a straight bat to any curve-ball questions lobbed in by the group, and would also be a shining beacon of the honesty and reliability of the company. And maybe, just maybe, between them they’d be able to cover up the monstrous reality of the new day.
