Ghosts and Hauntings

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  So why was Suzanne, an attractive twenty two year old with a degree in economics and business, attending an interview for a job with a man whose name was a byword for fear and violence?

  The lift could go no further. Suzanne had reached the top. If only my career would do that. First things first. Pass the interview.

  Her father had coached her, but she wasn’t sure how up to date his methods were. Still she heard herself saying, ‘Thanks for your advice and tips. It’ll really help give me an insight into what to expect.’

  She had never had an interview before, the student council she discounted, seeing as it was set in a bar and seemed to consist of matching the two supposedly interviewers drink for drink. It was true to say that as she stepped out of the lift she felt a bit intimidated.

  Let the interview go well and don’t forget to smile.

  She found herself in a spacious reception hall. The lift door closed behind her and she actually started with surprise. Tugging at her skirt, not too short, matched with dark tights, she smoothed at her long blonde hair, tied carefully into a business like pony tail.

  The reception space was filled with muted lighting, a light oak desk to one side, computer screen flat and discreet next to a telephone. There was no one on the black leather chair behind it.

  She hesitated. Her father had said that sometimes they play games at the start of the interview process to test initiative.

  Should she call out, or wait? There was a door set to one side and behind the desk. Perhaps she should knock? No need, the door opened.

  The man who opened it was tall, muscular, handsome if cruel faced and had more confidence than was good for him. It was Protheroe.

  ‘You’ll be Suzanne.’

  She strode forwards, purposefully, hand outstretched.

  Smile. She was grinning from ear to there.

  Shake hands firmly – one or two pumps and let go. She did, and he did and his face gave no clue if he was pleased, impressed, or checking out her body.

  Wear smart but conservative clothes – nothing short, low or tight. She knew she had a body to look at but she wasn’t putting it on display today.

  ‘Come on.’ He turned and walked into the room behind the door that turned out to be vast. It was his office. It looked like it doubled up as living room as well. Couches, a huge TV on the wall, a desk the size of the Wembley pitch.

  He sat behind the desk and indicated with a brisk wave of his arm where she should sit. She did and tried to get comfortable.

  ‘So what do you think this job is all about?’

  Interviews are often Competency based her Internet searches had said. This means they will ask you questions based on the companies Competencies listed on the advert. Often the interview would be an introduction from them, then two or three questions based on these competencies, and then you can ask anything you like, then another two or three questions.

  He had gone straight in at the deep end.

  ‘It’s as your Personal Assistant.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Running your diary, setting up meetings, that kind of thing.’

  ‘It means keeping me happy. Keep your hair on, not like that. I’ve got a wife and a girlfriend to look after what I need. I mean keeping my life as sweet as it can be so that I can think. Ever had the luxury of thinking?’

  ‘Of course…what do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve got your degree.’ He held up some papers. ‘I’ve read your CV, very nice. But have you ever been so relaxed that everything is being taken care of, that you can just drift away and think in a way that can bring you new opportunities?’

  ‘If you put it like that…’

  ‘Course you haven’t. You’re young. You’ve never had to duck and dive, never had to live on your wits. That’s all I’ve done since I popped out of dear old mum back at the North Middlesex. Eight pounds six I was, made her eyes water.’

  Dad had said that sometimes the first part of the interview might be a role play, something that just didn't occur to Suzanne. Was this a role play?

  Johnny Protheroe stood and stretched. ‘I’m just popping out for a bit. Get your notes ready, eh,’

  There was another door at the rear of the room and he left quickly and quietly.

  Suzanne shifted in her seat. That hadn’t gone according to plan. She had some notes in her bag and she leaned down to get them when there was some noise behind her. She half stood, half leaned back in her chair.

  A man and a woman were setting themselves up behind the massive desk.

  ‘Um, I’m in the middle of an interview. With Mr. Protheroe.’

  The woman looked up and smiled. She was in her forties, short dark hair and modern rimless glasses. She looked like Suzanne’s doctor. The man said, ‘Who?’

  ‘Johnny Protheroe. I’m being interviewed for the job as his PA.’

  ‘So you don’t want the Business Analyst position with Associated?’

  ‘Yes I do, I’m qualified for the post and I’m enthusiastic about the company.’ Why did she say that? What was the company?

  ‘Excellent. I shall be asking the questions and my colleague, Mr. Tate will take notes.’

  There will be one person asking the questions and another taking notes. That one may ask occasional questions as well. The notes are what you say and do. They will then mark you out of say ten for each question and often the person with the highest score gets the job.

  ‘So.’ The woman had quite a deep voice. ‘Tell me about a time when you’ve had to deal with a customer complaint.’

  Suzanne fumbled for her conference pad where she had her notes. Have notes with you if you want – nothing wrong with referring to notes as you go through. Have some replies to possible questions – or customer situations you can use. Have a pen with you.

  This was just like her father had said it would be. ‘I would structure your replies around STAR. So when they ask you a question such as “tell me about a time when you resolved a customer complaint,” you outline it like this -

  Situation – the situation was this – and outline briefly what the customer complaint was

  Task – what you had to do to resolve it but not what you did, that comes next – just the task you faced

  Actions – the longest bit of the reply – the actions YOU took to resolve. Not my team or we – must be what you did – even if you might feel you are boasting.

  Results – what the end result was – the customer bought a product, that kind of thing.

  ‘The situation was,’ Suzanne began, and glanced at the man just as he wrote something down. ‘The situation I faced…’

  ‘Two situations?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You said situation twice.’

  ‘No just the one situation. And it was…’

  ‘Followed by the task, the actions and the results no doubt.’

  ‘Do you want to hear my answer or not?’

  The man scribbled soundlessly away.

  ’How do you handle pressure?’

  ‘I managed well with my exams, and…’

  ‘What about with people? Do you like people?’

  ‘I have lots of friends…’

  ‘Real or FaceBook?’

  ‘Real life of course, though online as well, who doesn’t these days?’

  ‘People online get killed did you know that? Sometimes you think you’re chatting to some nice young chap, and you agree to meet up, and bang, he’s a psychopath and you’re dead.’ The woman smiled and looked at the man. ‘Do you have FaceBook friends, Malcolm?’

  Malcolm put down his pencil and scratched his nose. ‘Time for a coffee break I think? I take mine black.’

  The woman sat back. ‘Yes, I’ll have a Latte. The machine is in the kitchen area outside.’ She pointed at the door at the rear of the office.

  Suzanne stood up, a little uncertainly. She put her notepad on the seat and walked slowly to the door. Part of her wanted to tell them to stuff their cof
fee where the sun doesn’t shine but then another part, a small voice inside her head, said this was all part of the interview process.

  Beyond the door was a small vestibule but no kitchen, just a lift. She pressed the button and the doors opened. Inside the only option was down to floor two so she pressed and descended.

  Stepping out she was greeted by an enthusiastic young man not much older than she was.

  ‘Hi, Graeme. Find us okay?’

  ‘I’m getting coffee for Malcolm and…’

  ‘Who? Anyway come on through we’re all waiting for you. Not that you’re late, just that we’re all so excited by your application. The plans you outlined for the development of the Cambridge office were what swung the interview. Still, mustn’t ramble on.’

  Suzanne found herself shepherded into a small conference room with a mahogany table surrounded by seven chairs, all but one occupied by an array of eager faces ranging in age from early twenties to late fifties.

  ‘Everyone,’ Graeme announced. ‘This,’ and there was a definite emphasis on the word, ‘This is Suzanne.’

  A couple of the people nearest to her stood and shook her hand. Shake hands firmly – one or two pumps and let go, she remembered.

  ‘Well, we’re all dying to hear your presentation. We’ve got the laptop set up. Do you have a USB or something, Bluetooth?’

  Suzanne put her hand in her suit jacket pocket and triumphantly produced a 16GB flash stick.

  ‘Great,’ Graeme said and inserted it into the laptop. Almost immediately the flat screen TV on the end wall leapt into life. A PowerPoint presentation.

  Cambridge – The New London by Suzanne Connolly.

  What the…what was this?

  For the next half an hour she ran through slides she knew off by heart, outlining plans she had for transforming a dormant part of this business into a throbbing IT base for years to come. She used every ounce of her university studies, even bits she didn’t remember learning.

  They clapped at the end of it.

  She sat and they began to ask questions.

  When they ask a question there is nothing wrong in thinking about it. Repeat the question aloud if that helps you frame a reply.

  Have any questions prepared for when they ask you. Perfectly fair to ask who you will report to, hours, staff numbers and experience, targets, salary, performance of the present incumbent so far, what they want from you. That kind of thing.

  They seemed keen but she needed to think. What had Johnny said about thinking? She made an excuse about using the bathroom and left them talking and enthusing.

  Outside the conference room there seemed to be a factory of some kind, a production line.

  ‘Are you here about the managerial job?’

  Suzanne turned and found herself shaking hands with a man who must have been in his early seventies though he had a twinkle in his eye that suggested inside his head he might still be seventeen. His twinkling eyes cast an approving glance over Suzanne.

  ‘Let’s go up to my office and we’ll have a little chat. Suppose I’ll have to interview you. Never mind we’ll have a nice cup of tea.’

  His office was up some stairs and with each step the noise of the factory dimmed. At the top it was all but silent. Suzanne sat on an old armchair that he might have brought in from home when he upgraded.

  Don’t fidget, crossing and uncrossing of legs, fiddling with hands – inside you may be screaming but outside you are calm and relaxed.

  Also it always goes down well if you have researched – ask the present manager what the job is like and make sure the interviewers know you have done that.

  That will give you ideas on how you want to do the job – and make sure you get those ideas out as well.

  ‘You’re the Dave Philpott of Dave Philpott Electrical.’

  He beamed his agreement. ‘Good to see you’ve done your research. What else do you know about us?’

  She told him his grandfather had started the company, his father had expanded it and the son, the current Dave, had moved into Europe and as technology progressed at lightning speed they had been the fastest for a while until the thunder of big business competition caught up with them.

  ‘Still, we had a good run while it lasted. I’m too old to take it to another level and I need someone to work with my daughter to get us back to the front of the queue again. Think you’re up for it?’

  Just then a siren type bell went off drowning out all thought. Dave waved his hands about telling her to stay where she was or to come with him she wasn’t sure. Next thing she knew he was off back down the stairs at the speed of a much younger man.

  Suzanne had a bit of a headache starting up. She pressed her fingers to her temple and was surprised to find blood. Her eyes were a bit glazed but when she shook her head that helped, though it did get some blood on her knees.

  She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut and when she opened them she was sitting on a raised dais in an ultra modern gym facility. Looking across the brushed wooden floors there was every kind of equipment imaginable and every type of person using it.

  The leather sofa opposite her made a sound and when she looked there was a blonde woman wearing tracksuit bottoms and a sweat top.

  ‘Hi, I’m Mandy. I’m the manager, owner, general dogsbody, and I’m knackered. That’s why I need a manager. Is that you, Suzanne?’

  ‘Absolutely, this is my outline of the development I’ve worked on. Building on what you’ve achieved, naturally.’

  ‘Sounds great. Let’s hear it. Don’t want this interview process to go on forever do we?’

  PRICE

  The young policeman called Pearson lies in the Bedford Street gutter, his uniform sticky with blood. Shot twice, the exit holes in his back are big enough to sink a fist into. He isn’t moving. A dark bundle picked out by the spotlight.

  Faces are grim. A senior officer with a two-way radio link is trying to negotiate with the gunmen, trying to secure the hostages’ release without further bloodshed. It is not working.

  Another bullet thumps into Pearson’s body, lifting his arm, making it look as if he is waving to the sniper who fired the shot.

  ‘Turn that bloody spotlight off!’ Jim Price screams at the officer in charge. ‘They’re using him as target practice!’

  Another shot, kicking up the dust and stone chippings just inches away from the young policeman’s head.

  Wrong place at the wrong time. He had walked into the siege situation blindly, answering a call from the house opposite; a domestic disturbance. The sight of his uniform panicking the terrorists and so they shot him, bringing the whole house of cards crashing down on top of them.

  The smell of cordite is heavy in the air. The police have not fired a shot in return, but the terrorists seem to have an arsenal in that small semi-detached house. The police have their marksmen positioned, poised at their strategic points, rifle butts locked into their shoulders, eyes squinting down their telescopic sights, waiting for the order to fire.

  ‘I said turn off the spotlight…’

  Someone flicks a switch, but not before another bullet hits Pearson’s body; the leg this time.

  Price moves forward, shrugging off the hands that try to restrain him. He runs in a low crouch, making himself as small a target as possible, reaches Pearson and kneels down beside the body, fingers quickly checking for a pulse, finding a flutter so weak that the boy can have only minutes of life left to him. The road is wet with his blood and it soaks through the knees of Price’s trousers, warm when it left the body, now cold and clammy. He struggles with the boy’s body, lifting it, hoisting it onto his shoulder.

  He glances back at the ranks of police surrounding the house. All there, officers and men, cowards and glory seekers, and some genuine heroes who may eventually bring this siege to an end. They stand watching from behind the cover of their cars.

  Ten yards away. Not far.

  He rises to his feet, Pearson’s body a dead weight across his shoulder
.

  Halfway across the road. Sure to make it now. And then someone turns on the spotlight again. Others screaming at him to turn it off. Bloody fool!

  Too late. A shot.

  The first bullet takes Price in the leg, making him stumble and fall to one knee. He struggles to keep hold of Pearson, but the boy is slipping from his shoulder, falling into the road.

  He feels the second shot before he hears it. Boring into his back, just under his shoulder blade, burning through him like a thermal lance.

  The third shot hits him in the head. For a moment there is nothing to feel, no physical sensation. Only the sheer mental horror of the fact that he was going to die. I’ve been shot in the head. The bullet has dug a tunnel in my brain. Why am I still standing? Why don’t I fall?

  The spotlight goes out again and he hears voices. ‘Come on, Jim, run!’

  But he cannot run. His body is melting away, sinking down into the tarmac surface of the road. Withering away to nothing. He hears the voices, familiar. His boss, DCI Royce, screaming at him. He turns to the voice and sees Royce’s face in the crowd. His boss has tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Falling. When you’ve been shot you fall over. He knew that. He had seen it in a film. He hits the ground face first, feeling his front teeth splinter against the hard surface of the road. He should feel pain but he doesn’t.

  Lying flat on the road, sideways on, he sees the faces and the dozens of emotions captured in the straining mouths shouting a hundred messages to him. He sees the eyes, some shut against the horror, some open and wide with the terror of the scene. Sees the faces contorted with pain and anger, helplessness and frustration.

  Pearson is besides him, his eyes open and wide but sightless now, glazing over with the blurred gauze of lifelessness.

  Price can see the faces of his colleagues, in the far distance, seen through the wrong end of a telescope. Young faces with uncertainty of their roles, older faces with the cynical reality of calculating the next move that won’t involve him.