The Last Stand Down

by Philip J Bradbury

  "Yes, that's fine, I'll see you both then."

  As she strode out, her solid figure and business suit created a small wind, rustling the leaves of his peace lily. He slumped back into his chair and felt anything but peaceful. A royal edict and attendance with the master executioner - what could it all mean? Redundancy? There'd been enough of them in this place and he was proud that he had hung in there, though precariously. Demotion? He wasn't sure how a fifty-two-year-old should feel with all those youngsters flying up the ranks - probably worse than redundancy, he thought. Promotion? Not likely. Transfer? He knew his wife wouldn't leave the street she was born in. A reprimand? No, Sam Lord left the petty stuff to his subordinates, like Mary. His only real conclusion was redundancy ... it was the not knowing that scared him the most.

  My God, an hour to fret over it! Okay, old chap, remain calm, act busy and professional, smile, breathe, think, be logical. Oh God, redundancy! How humiliating, after all the years of service. People walked past his office looking in, smiling. What did they know? Probably deciding who would get his office this afternoon; smirking that it wasn't them.

  He turned his computer on, retrieved a few random files from his filing cabinet, tried to look busy and tried not to imagine the awful things Mary and Sam had probably said about him, were saying about him right now. He felt so little, so out of control, so sad that it had all come to this, that none of his dreams had eventuated, that he had retired, been retired and, well, just faded into the woodwork - unseen, without achievement, without purpose, without acclaim or even acknowledgement. Arthur ... Arthur who?

  His hands busied themselves as his mind went berserk, driving him deeper into depression by the minute. Why couldn't they get it over now? Still forty minutes to go and on and on his thoughts stumbled, conjuring up the embarrassment of the "wee chat", the humility of leaving in front of everyone else in the office, of explaining to Joan, his wife. He could imagine her hands running through her thick, greying hair, standing there looking stunned for a minute. And then there'd be the accusing looks he knew so well. And the studied judgement she was so good at, so practised at. Never shouting or getting agitated, she'd give her measured opinion - his blandness, his lack of ambition, his lack of anything approaching exciting or passionate, his nothingness destined for nothing but nothingness. And on and on she'd go. As usual, he'd not have the words or the power to reply which would prick her ire even more and her flow of words would quicken and rise in volume, imperceptibly. Eventually, when she'd repeated herself often enough, she'd turn and walk out, head high, and commiserate with her mother, six houses up the street.

  Then he'd have to tell his son, Martin, if his wife didn't first. Martin was always pleasant, polite and respectful with his father but Arthur knew there was disappointment, even shame, there. Martin was a partner in the law firm, Shaftsbury Burton, and could never understand his father sticking with the boring insurance job, with no hope or ambition for promotion. The unsaid disappointment of his father's redundancy - let's be honest, his father's sacking - would be harder to bear than the studied wrath from his wife. At least there was something to argue against, with her, if he'd ever have the gall to do it.

  Oh dear, five minutes to go! He quickly tidied his desk a little, trying to keep his trembling hands busy. With a deep breath he mentally girded his loins, stood up and purposefully strode from his office, slipping on a pen that Mary must have dropped. He lurched into the door frame. Nothing hurt except his pride. He looked left and right in acute embarrassment, composed himself as best he could and strode up the corridor towards the lift with a little more caution. Thankfully, in the lift, he had a sweet moment when no one was looking and he was safe. At the twelfth floor the doors opened and he emerged into the corridor which exuded the smell and feel of power and opulence, somehow. He walked the long walk to the receptionist's desk. A young girl looked up and he announced himself. She put down her nail polish, asked him to take a seat and said she wouldn't be a minute. She spoke into her intercom machine and then disappeared through double doors. She returned, seven and a half minutes later, and asked him to go in as Mr Lord was expecting him.

  He stood up, adjusted tie, suit, brushed shoes on legs, sighed, breathed and marched off through the large doors that proved to be heavier than he expected. A trifle embarrassed in front of a slip of a girl, he heaved again and burst into the spacious office, looking around quickly for falling guillotines.

  Stood Down

  Monday, 5th March 2012, 10.07 a.m.

  Arthur faltered, trying to reconcile the rich expanse of the room it with his glass box five floors below.

  "Yes, come on in, old chap," said Sam, easing his ample frame a little out of his upholstered leather, behind his expansive and clean desk. "By jove, we aren't going to eat you, you know. Take a seat here, Arthur." Sam had never used his name before - a bit disconcerting, really. Sam wore a dark, pin-stripe suit, white and blue checked shirt and white, black and red striped tie, an eye-straining combination that some fondly think of as good fashion sense.

  Arthur moved uncertainly over the deep carpet, determined not to trip up, and sat in the chair indicated. His head was now below Sam's and he felt intimidated by the big desk, big chair and big man before him. Mary sat in a similar chair to his and he felt a little comforted. Not much but a little.

  "Now, would you like a coffee or a tea?" Sam asked, smiling.

  "Oh, is there time? I mean, ah, yes please," said Arthur, expecting a handshake, a few words and a 'goodbye'.

  "Which one old chap - coffee or tea?" asked Sam, chuckling.

  "Oh, just a tea, thanks Sir."

  "Chinese, Japanese, Indian or good old English Breakfast tea, Arthur?"

  "Oh, gosh, ah, Chinese thanks, Sir," said Arthur.

  "A man after my own taste." said Sam, "And your usual, Mary?"

  "You know me well, Sir," she said, attempting to mix friendliness with deference.

  Sam spoke into his desk: "Two Chinese and Mary's coffee, thanks Tanya." Then he turned back to Arthur. "So, old chap, I suppose you're wondering why you're here, yeah?" asked Sam, leaning forward over his mahogany desk, probably unaware that he looked more threatening than reassuring.

  'Actually, no, I come here every day, you stupid irk,' his brain cried, while his mouth said, "Well, yes Sir, I am."

  "Right, just so ... er ... Arthur," said Sam, obviously keen to repeat Arthur's name for some reason. "Now, you've been here some time and Mary has been keeping an eye on you ..."

  'SOME TIME!' his head screamed, 'thirty monotonous years and no one's ever noticed me! Not once!'

  "... and now we need to review things," he said, obviously expecting applause.

  "Review, Sir?" asked Arthur.

  "Okay, Mary, you tell ... er ... Arthur," said Sam, waving his hand at Mary, as if passing a theatrical cue.

  Tanya interrupted with a tray of cups and silence ensued while sugar, milk and stirring were administered. Sam leaned back, sipping his tea with obvious delight while Arthur held his cup and saucer gingerly on his knee, desperate not to spill any.

  "Pop your cup on the desk here," said Sam. Now Arthur's cup was a shoulder height and more difficult to get at. Should he be rude and forget it or should he attempt to drink it? His cogitations were interrupted by Sam.

  "Now, where were we? Ah, yes, Mary ..."

  "Oh, thank you Sam ... Sir," said Mary, uncrossing her legs, brushing her skirt and turning to look directly at Arthur. "Now, Arthur, you've been here a long time ..."

  'I want NEW information and I want it NOW!' screamed his brain.

  "... You're a brick, Arthur, a brick. So reliable. Others have come and gone and you've always been here," said Mary, leaving a deliberate opening for him.

  "Oh," said Arthur as more words failed him.

  "As you know, however, nothing stays the same. The recent credit crunch has taken its toll and so have the new financial rules. We're being watched more closely now," said Mary.

  "H
ave I done something wrong?" asked Arthur.

  "No Arthur, not at all. Of course not," said Mary, smiling bravely. "It's just that some of our connections, some people we know, are coming under greater scrutiny. Now, I'm not quite sure how to say this without alarming you."

  "Oh?" Arthur said, alarmed.

  "Yes, I'll come out and say it bluntly, Arthur," said Mary, fiddling with her black, cropped hair. "You're working on the Atkinson case, right?"

  "Aah, yes, yes I am," said Arthur, wondering if it was a trick question.

  "And, well ..." said Mary, unusually reticent to speak. "Okay, I'll say it - there is a small security matter ..."

  "But I've kept everything quite confidential ..." said Arthur, feeling an accusation sneaking up on him.

  "Yes, yes, of course you have, Arthur," said Mary, smiling. "The security situation has come from outside and ... and, well, we feel it's best ... oh gosh, it's best you're not in your office, not actually in the building for a time."

  "Oh," said Arthur as the ground began to dissolve beneath him.

  "Would you like to work from home?" asked Mary.

  "From home?" asked Arthur. "Would that make things safer?" Not sacking. Not redundancy. Not demotion. Nothing that he'd expected. He felt disoriented. His mind went out the back door and all went quiet. Eerily quiet.

  "Safer? Aah, yes safer, much safer," said Mary, looking hopeful and a little relieved.

  "How would my home be safer than this building?" asked Arthur. "We have no alarms and things at home." The sense of being tied to a pole at the cliff edge enveloped him. Secure but not.

  "No you don't, Arthur," said Sam, leaning forward, over his desk. "But the security risk would be gone when you're ... aah, not here," said Sam, starting to lose his air of mastery.

  "So I work from home and everyone's safe?" asked Arthur while finding it difficult to make things add up. The cliff edge started to crumble before him.

  "Exactly!" said Sam, sitting back, smiling. Arthur felt none of Sam's evident satisfaction.

  "Look, Arthur, we're not able to go into details at the moment and it's a big decision," said Mary, letting out a big breath. "Would you like to go home, discuss it with your wife and come back to us on it?"

  "And if we feel I can't do that?" asked Arthur, plucking up courage.

  "We hope you don't come to that conclusion," said Sam, smiling awkwardly.

  "Oh," said Arthur, feeling the word redundancy hovering somewhere close by. "And how long would this be for - days, weeks ...?"

  "Look Arthur, we wish we could tell you more but we just can't, at this time," said Mary, looking at Sam as if for support.

  "Right, yes, aah, I should go and talk about this to my wife, then?" suggested Arthur as his mind went in and out of focus. He knew he should do something here like stand up, shake hands and walk out but his body wasn't well connected to his thinking and wouldn't budge.

  "Yes, that's an excellent idea, Arthur," said Sam, looking relieved. "Go and talk about it with your wife."

  "Right, yes, I can do that," said Arthur, feeling as if he'd failed somehow.

  "Great!" said Sam, standing and extending his hand. "Nice to chat, what!"

  Arthur's body finally responded and got him shakily to his feet. His hand disappeared into Sam's corpulent fist and was thoroughly shaken and stirred - like his brain, really. "Right, Sir, of course," said Arthur, following Mary briskly out of the office and back down to his own desk. He expected Mary to go somewhere else but she plumped herself down on his slightly tatty vinyl swivel chair, while he seated himself behind his desk, feeling less secure by the minute. He looked around and wondered if the Russian spy was not in his imagination but real after all.

  "Look, Arthur, I know there's a lot to absorb," said Mary. "Why don't we just find all the parts of this Atkinson file you're working on and you take the rest of the day off. Go home. There's no need to tackle anything else after we've seen to the Atkinson file."

  Arthur showed her where all the Atkinson papers and computer files were. Mary shook his hand awkwardly and disappeared up the corridor.

  Thirty years in the same, safe job and, suddenly, it's all over. Or was it? His worst fear were realised but, then, were they? And what was this security thing? So many unanswered questions. So many walls and all made of sand. Nothing solid to lean on.

  He sat. Even his brain was silent, for a change. 'Right, I said I'd just go,' said his brain, weakly, after an interminable silence. 'Perhaps I'd better just do it. Just go.' No bodily response. Several people looked in as they passed. Oddly, Arthur didn't care what they thought, for the first time in his life. However, he did have to pick himself up, tidy his office, remember all his things and take them and himself from the building in a proper and dignified way. Not too much to ask, one would have thought. So he sat for another minute and planned all he was going to do - turn off computer, put files away, put pens and calculator away, stand up, put coat on, ensure he had everything with him and then just go, which he did, as quietly as he'd entered.

  Then, he was outside his office, on the street, at eleven thirty in the morning and he had never been here at that time before. He turned towards the underground station and started for home, as he had on at least eight thousand other occasions. He was about to enter the grimy, brick station but looked down the concrete steps and found he couldn't move.

  What am I doing? his brain asked his mind. I have the rest of the day off and nothing to do. He decided on a whim - a slightly frightening whim - to just wander a little, to just go where he hadn't been before. As he was thinking these thoughts, he discovered his feet had already taken him beyond where he'd ever been before. It was little different from the small part of London he'd previously frequented (or scurried past) and he started to enjoy the pointless amble, the not-going-somewhere-for-the-point-of-it that he'd always done. He was reminded that other people frequented coffee bars and decided, on the spot, to do that ... if, indeed, one can frequent a café just once.

  The particular aroma drew him in and, as he sat at the tiny table, with a coffee and pastry before him, in the comfort of this strange café, his worst fears and his lack of safety suddenly washed over him. He dropped his head in his hands and felt like crying. It took all the force of his will to stop the tears. He now wished he had been made redundant as there would, at least, have been some certainty, some safety.

  He surveyed the passing parade of humanity. He'd never actually looked at people before and had just assumed that, unlike him, they were all happy and coping with their lives. However, from behind his watery eyes, he fancied he saw the same fear, uncertainty and lostness he felt. Despite the tears, a wry smile persisted. Have I got it so wrong all this time? Am I not the only one who feels lost and alone? Do others feel like me? he wondered.

  The pastry was adequate but the coffee was actually delicious - the first he had ever had. With a smile, he remembered that he'd made, and not drunk, his first coffee this morning and it was probably still sitting somewhere in his office, a testament to unfinished business ... or, he thought giddily, a testament to starting new business, maybe. About to finish his food and drink, he heard a chair scraping. A lanky blonde chap was sitting there, looking at him nervously.

  "I ... I'm sorry," the chap said, standing up again, looking embarrassed. "I just ... I just wanted, aah, I saw you before and something about you just ... I don't know, you know, kept me thinking ..."

  Arthur was stunned by this unexpected development.

  "Oh hell, I'm sorry," he said, looking around wildly. He stepped back, bumped the next table and spilled the two coffees there. He then bumped Arthur's remaining coffee. The men at the next table started chuckling, amid his myriad apologies.

  "Sir, please sit down," said Arthur, concerned more disasters were to follow.

  The chap looked around as chuckling spread through the café.

  "You really do know how to make a scene don't you, Greg Cousins!" said a waitress as she appeared at the ta
ble. "I didn't recognise the clothes but I sure know your tricks. Blondes might have more fun but they sure make a mess doing it! Get your arse on the seat and I'll get you all new coffees." She patted his bottom and he sat. She took orders, winked, and marched off giggling along with the rest of her customers.

  "A friend of yours?" asked Arthur.

  "Uh, oh, yeah, I guess so," he said, turning to watch her departing. "She cleans up after me a bit, I guess."

  "Maybe she likes you more than you realise."

  "Uh, you think?"

  "I'm not sure. Looks like it though," Arthur said, following his eyes. "So, aah, why did you come over here?" Arthur wondered who was speaking and realised it was himself. He'd never conversed with strangers before.

  "Oh hell, you're gonna' think I'm weird ..."

  "You maybe clumsy but let me decide about weird after you explain." Maybe the morning's disorientation had upset his balance, his psyche, but he felt strangely comfortable chatting with this chap.

  "Okay, I'll tell you," he said, taking a big breath. "I saw you across the café about twenty minutes ago. I don't know ... I just wanted to come over and say hello. Dunno'. Just wanted to do that for no other reason ... boy, that sounds stupid or weird or something, doesn't it."

  "It's certainly unusual but it seems to be quite brave," Arthur said, smiling. "Maybe we all see people we feel a connection with but few of us venture out of our shell and take the plunge." This other person speaking through his mouth seemed like a calm one. It was just so odd, feeling comfortable with a new person.

  "Sounds better when you put it that way," he said, exhaling heavily. "Now, I'm Greg, Greg Cousins, and I'm Britain's last sacked person and the cops seem to be after me. Can I ask who you are?"

  "Of course you can," he said, with a small laugh. "I'm Arthur, Arthur Bayly, and I'm Britain's second to last sort-of sacked person and the authorities - not sure which ones - seem to be after me!"

  "You've just been sacked?" he asked, looking shocked.