The Folded Man

by Matt Hill

  Closer, they’re back on the road now, coming from the other direction with bits of fence in the radiator probably. There’s an extra building to goggle and gawp at. A low building, modern and brightly lit. Some daft assault course poking over the fence that runs round the whole compound – zip lines and poles, monkey bars and more.

  By night, without these spotlights, you probably couldn’t tell the place apart from others this way. From the other abandoned buildings. The dead squats at every turn. But now, here, in the deep end and pulling near, it’s clockwork. Alive on all fronts. And humming.

  Gates wide open; saw them coming.

  Camera lenses smiling, hello to you.

  Inner gates open, welcome to all.

  Across the gravel and dry mud. Over grass and down a path. Over a cattle grid and round the back. A man in hi-vis waving them to where they should park.

  The car park, it’s a field and a fleet. Loaded with a fleet of better cars on hard-standing, most black and blacker still with tinted windows. Executive and then some. Lexus. Mercedes. BMW. The cars you knew those years before; cars that spoke or even sang of money. The clichés all the same, but forever the cars that say plenty about the men who drive them.

  Between the cars, there are vans. Small business vans that carry tools for small projects. Vans with family names up their sides. For carrying people up on these moors –

  And it’s hard to miss the purple Transit.

  Makes our Sunny look a right shit-tip, Noah goes, pulling the old motor round the stacked out rows, all stretching longways down the yard. The engine really clatters in second gear.

  They find a spot between an Audi and a Beamer; swing too fast into the gap.

  Brian is burning up, starting to sweat –

  Noah forgets about second gear. Stalls it for certain this time. He grins and racks the handbrake, stretches and sits back. He slaps his cheeks and checks his teeth. Flattens his hair; fixes his jaw.

  There’s a purple Transit down the row.

  Hold up while I get your chair, he says to Brian. You all right? Want a quick fag?

  But Brian’s pale, drowning, wanting to be elsewhere.

  Noah gets out. Noah walks round the back. Noah comes round, leaning into the car. Passes Brian a hip-flask.

  Have a toot of this. And get that polo off your conk. No more bloody sniff tonight, right? Not having you forgetting your lines on my watch.

  They’re bastards, these doormen. Even from fifty yards you can tell. Twenty-something kids in too-big suits. But like all the lads on the doors here and back in town, back in the basin below these hills, they get these jobs by default now, don’t need trusting even. Not with shoulders wider than crash barriers.

  Their shirt collars are tight, rolling their necks into their faces. They spit a lot.

  Noah wheels Brian to the steps before them, tyres spitting gravel themselves. Here, at the entrance of the new building, they stop.

  Brian’s in his new jacket and war badges, the blanket tight round his legs. Brian with his bald head, sweating and forgetting his lines. Shaking. Waiting. His chest still crushed by the jacket.

  Evening, says the doorman on the left. Polite but dripping with that accent. Your Christian names please, gentlemen.

  I’m Kevin, says Noah. Just like that. Just like planned.

  Noah puts a hand on Brian’s shoulder.

  This is Michael.

  The doormen look at each other, down at their tablets. They tap screens and look at photos. They murmur under their breath. They umm and ahh.

  Brian doesn’t stir, doesn’t look up once.

  ’Fraid we don’t have you down mate, the doorman on the right says. He has a finger to his nostril, his eyes on Brian’s war medals.

  Noah opens his jacket to the doormen. Noah winks and chuckles.

  Noah says, I know. Noah, his jacket wide open –

  But God has laid us upon your hearts.

  They enter the new development between double-doors – doors like church doors. They’re taken aback. The new development, it’s bubbling over. A space ahead, a lobby in the centre, an atrium where men in suits stand in tight circles, toasting whatever, chiming glasses and laughing their heads off at crap jokes. From the atrium, the building opens outwards and upwards – to stairways on the left and right leading to mezzanine gangways above. There are rooms and hidey-holes, thick oak doors running either side of long corridors. Every floor is glazed with glassy marble.

  It’s a maze, strip-lit and deceiving. A house of wrong turns. A labyrinth.

  Brian takes it in. Brian, lost with the minotaur.

  Thinking about the driver of that damn purple Transit.

  Brian’s wheelchair squeaks on the floor since the rubber won’t stick. Noah pushes him gently, purposefully; keeps him near while they’re met with champagne and stares. As they’re met with people chatting on, people choking on their drinks. Fabulous, fabulous, they hear on all sides. Superb and tremendous. Men proud of their proverbs.

  Noah leans in close, whispers: It’s a bloody sausage-fest.

  The wheels lose traction. The wheels gain traction.

  Somebody clocks the medals. The chair skating along. Somebody wants to play philanthropist. A veteran! Brian hears.

  Somebody comes over. He’s round and roly-poly, big red cheeks on him. An honour sir, he says to Brian. An honour.

  Brian’s stomach churns. Brian nods.

  Here privately or for pressing business? the man asks. His eyes are set close, only just far enough apart.

  Bit of both, says Noah, taking point.

  Brian nods again.

  The man shakes Brian’s clammy hand. Tells Brian his name.

  Brian doesn’t listen.

  The man tries with more small-talk. Brian doesn’t speak back – doesn’t speak at all.

  Secrets best kept, Brian reckons.

  Well, keep up the good fight, son, the man eventually says. Very much hope you enjoy this evening.

  The man gives up with a wink and leaves them be.

  Noah pushes Brian ahead and into the crowd. They keep having to stop and start and smile their thanks.

  Excuse me, please, Noah says. Excuse us, cheers.

  And from all corners the eyes of others are on their own – eyes poking out from the conversations and the executive patter; the deal closers and thoughts on the war. Conversations that change to cruel whispers of a spazz and his minder; the wounded soldier by there – over there, yes him, that’s the one – him and his keeper.

  The lion and the lamb.

  Beyond the staring crowd, between the legs, beyond the backs, Brian can see another pair of church doors now. The auditorium, or so at least the signs say. They move forward. Slowly. Inching between the gaps. The backs always in his face. Thin-stemmed glasses swinging around at eyeball height.

  And through the gaps, Brian sees him.

  Sees the man in the corner.

  The man staring back.

  Another man from the margins. A man with a beard, a beard and a slim suit, staring. A man staring and following their passage through suits, dodging wine glasses and elbows. A man watching and waiting for something.

  Brian feels studied. Brian feels hot.

  The man in the gaps doesn’t blink. His face flickers as Noah weaves Brian through this forest of men. Gone and there. Vanished and waiting as Brian’s view cuts fast ­between arms, over sleeves, the Vs cut by legs.

  Brian looks away. Brian pretends he hasn’t noticed. Looks sidelong. Looks back.

  The gaze doesn’t falter.

  Ten metres now. Less.

  Sweating. Blinking. Adrenaline. Something wrong. Noah isn’t noticing and Brian can’t make a scene.

  Outside, the night tips fully into black.

  Into the auditorium. It’s a narrow room but tremendously long. Bigger here than it looks outside and no mistake – all Victorian details and garish curtains. A kind of theatreland. A theatreland beyond the noise and the lights.


  Hidden back here with the red-backed chairs and the sticky floors, it’s quieter. The odd bod sitting in a chair here and there.

  It’s not completely quiet though. There’s some god-awful music on the PA. Big jugs of water down the front. The stage is small – barely a few metres wide – and the lectern is stained wood, handsome.

  An usher sees Brian and Noah. He’s dressed up like a twat. He jogs along the aisle and tells them to head down the central ramp. He makes some uncomfortable joke about disabled parking at the front. He laughs and skips away. Noah chuckles. Noah points two fingers at the usher. Cocks with his thumb.

  Come the revolution, brother, he says to Brian, and wheels Brian down the incline, between the rows.

  Brian tips his head back, looking up at the smooth, smooth ceiling. His heart’s going like the clappers. He says, Something’s wrong, Noah. Everything’s wrong.

  Eh? Give over, goes Noah. What’s this now?

  I saw something. Somebody. I don’t know; I feel –

  Like you’ve had a G of dust’s how you feel, Noah says. Talk a long talk, don’t you our kid. Just sit still and wait this out. Tape’ll be running now – can’t be filling it up with this clap-trap.

  Noah parks Brian just three feet from the stage edge.

  There, he goes. These are the perks. Knew this’d be a good idea.

  But Brian’s thinking too hard to enjoy perks; thinking too fast and too loose. Who was he, why is he here what does he want with me –

  Noah comes round his front and straightens the badges at Brian’s breast. Asks if they’re right yet, him and him. If they’re ready to kiss and make up.

  Brian doesn’t nod. Brian doesn’t shake his head. Noah takes it as encouragement.

  The pair of them sit at the foot of the stage. Brian imagines so many eyes upon his back. Eyes that drill and mine and bore above the whispers, under the hot stage lights.

  Sitting under the foot of a new world taking aim.

  Brian, a thorn among nails.

  6.

  Bob on six, the room grows quiet. Filled, still filling; hushed and hushing. And he walks on then, their man. Flash suit, no tie. Sharp shiny shoes, no stubble. A good six feet longways, taller by the angle.

  Noah nudges Brian. Noah has a notepad and a pencil. Noah angles the notepad so Brian can see. He’s written a single word. A short, nasty summary.

  Brian fidgets, still too warm.

  Their host taps his microphone, feeding back a little. He gestures upstairs, taps again. Thumbs up. A better volume. He looks into the crowd. He has hand on his brow, smiling at all he sees – this room already feeling like his kingdom and his glory.

  They clap and whistle.

  Gentlemen, their host says. Or one hopes at least most of you are. A warm welcome to my home. To this evening.

  Clapping.

  It is my privilege – it’s always a privilege – to collect you and your colleagues in this room. To your left, and to your right, you see the ambitious. The ruthless. The arrogant, be as that may. But not the wrong. Never the wrong.

  Clapping.

  It is my privilege to provide an alternative, up in these hills, their host says.

  Of course, we have the watchtowers outside, our watchtowers and our armed friends from all over the North. And there is sharpline, yes. Strong barriers against the great unwashed beyond our view.

  But here, in these hills, I have created a clearing; a clearing in which the tendrils of their councils will cast no shadow. And I’m honoured because we – we, in this room – represent a new private sector, my friends.

  Their host puts his hands together. Flexes his fingers against fingers. Listens to the clapping.

  We are the entrepreneurs, now. Entrepreneurs in a time where contracts are secured only by traitors and the hive-mind that runs our city. Entrepreneurs in a stagnant state – a state in stasis. A state that has wilfully starved our companies’ development and stolen some of our finest to shore up their own.

  Their host pauses. He frowns. He raises his voice.

  We are here because the city does not want us. Because the council has found its own way – through martial law and through terror. Through lying and through spying. Taking our intellect and with it our property.

  But my friends, no longer. My friends, there are people who do want us. Those who’ll give us the means to create a better way. Because now, we have donors and benefactors from all over this globe – men from here and abroad who recognise that to save our country, we need strength. Technological strength. Moral strength.

  It will not be a coup we create. It will be a true and righteous progression. Progression from an economy we none of us benefit from. From a society that stumbled during the riots. Stumbled in the decades before them. And is still down and out.

  Their host paces. Paces along and around his stage, the audience in his hands. Him in their hearts.

  Their host continues. He says, The things we showcase here, we will sell. We will outsell our competition – perhaps even each other. And in selling, we will arm a financial struggle against our state. This state that has allowed the enemy in, and the enemy to flourish.

  This state built on corruption and filthy backhanders. A state built on intervention and wars we’ve no need to fight. A state that has burnt international bridges, turned off our internet. A state that has left our infrastructure to entropy, our satellites to fall.

  A state not built on honour, nor Britishness.

  Clapping –

  Roaring, in fact –

  Their host smiles to his crowd.

  Their host traces a circle round the auditorium with a single fingertip.

  You may have noticed the cameras around this room. These cameras are sending images of this stage to those friends of ours elsewhere. Sending a message by the satellite we’ve hijacked to our friends upstairs. That is why I ask that you do not see any of the men that follow me up here as a keynote speaker. Don’t listen to the words of any one man and mistake them as part of some keynote address.

  This is your forum. Our forum. This is where we show the country how we can take back the industries we helped to build.

  This venue is where you, representing the companies our state will no longer buy from, have your chance. This venue is one of many in this country where similar words are resonant.

  Do they know we’re here? Undoubtedly. I would ­wager we have their agents amongst us this evening. That’s fine by me. They say we are a democracy, so let them listen. Trust me when I say they will not act for fear of looking weak. They are weak, and that is why they will not act.

  I know there’s a feeling among you that time is against us. That without our old communications and without free motorways, we are short on resources, too. Tonight, however, I will introduce a series of men who say differently. Men who will say that both time and resources are yours; yours alone. We can be patient in this decaying city, this dying country. Patient because your ideas will brighten it all.

  Their host stops. Their host looks down at Brian on the front row. Brian with his shaved head, in his chair. His chair at the centre of this world.

  Brian sweats. Wants to throw up. Brian shrinks into his seat. Into himself. Wants to pull his blanket over his head. Wants nobody behind to see.

  His lies. Their lies. A road too far.

  Their host points at Brian from the stage –

  Noah grins. Noah smiles. Noah laughs. Noah getting what he wants and more.

  Look at this man. We’re doing all of this for the men our state has betrayed. Like this brave gentleman here. Because God himself smiles on our war.

  The room claps violently for Brian.

  Their host looks on, eyes glassy. Their host is smiling.

  Please enjoy your evening.

  From the PA comes a circus of bluster. On the stage, a ­cycle of tall men with agendas written on the back of their hands.

  Never again, Brian’s whispering to Noah. Seething. Too far by half this, he�
��s saying.

  Noah is making notes. Noah’s listening to the men on rotation on a platform three feet above.

  Shush up you mopey bastard, he says. You’re doing just fine. Kidded him, didn’t you.

  Only Brian wants the bar. Beers and chasers. Cigarettes. Joints. The end of bloody days.

  And the men, they keep coming. Coming out to the handsome wood podium, photocards on ribbon round their necks, to talk about problems and solutions. Strategies, profit margins, expansion. Engineering by Great British engineers. Words that don’t mean much, but words that still raise applause.

  They’ve built robots for agriculture. Stainless robots for rich, free farmers. They’ve built new machines to manufacture better field guns. Bomb disposal units. Bombs altogether. Panic rooms. Micro IR cameras for God-knows-what and God-knows-where.

  These entrepreneurs. These captains of industry.

  Brian watches them all while Noah sits next to him, scribbling in his notepad.

  Brian falling on some kind of savage comedown. On some kind of comedown already – the coke bad, the headache worse. The walls bending and buckling and closing.

  Brian, who’s yet to hear how they’ll help him walk.

  War has always been good for state business, the men say on stage. War drives medicine, civil engineering, weapon technology. War drives exploration.

  War is a business, other men say. And it’s time we shared the spoils again.

  Why would you attack the Beetham? other men ask. What’s the philosophy of civic attacks, and where’s the causality? They’re exploring the point; the purpose.

  Beetham Tower was not an economic target, other men say. Bringing it down didn’t disrupt national interests. Manchester Piccadilly would have been a better target.

  And the acolytes simply go on clapping. Noah and Brian both thinking of the advert Noah put at the top of that tower.

  Luddites bombed our museum of science and industry, other men say. They bombed what the Beetham tower could not touch as it fell. They bombed heritage to free themselves. They bombed it because they’re not proud of the cotton mills. Not proud of the chimneys, of Lowry or the waterwheels. The canals and the pigeons –