by Tom Fletcher
“Hello?” he said.
“Arthur, it’s Bony,” said Bony. “Where are you? Are you in?”
“No,” said Arthur. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I’m on the train,” Bony said. “I’m on my way through. I’m coming to see you. I’ve found something amazing.”
“OK,” said Arthur.
“So where are you?”
“I’m … I’m on my way to Bens.”
“Bens? Why the fuck are you going to Bens?” Bony’s voice was edged with mockery.
Arthur looked around him. The pavement outside the bar was clogged with smokers. The sky above lurked threateningly.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Well, I’ll see you there, anyway,” Bony said. “Won’t be long.”
He hung up.
Captain Bens was a total shithole. It was not a seedy yet atmospheric dive; it was just a total shithole. A soulless box with sticky, patterned carpets and a psychotically bland taste in pop which was played at stupefying volume. There was a dance-floor, too, above which hung a giant screen. Depending on the time of day, the screen would either show sports events or music videos. When it was showing music videos, though, they were never fully synched to the actual music being played, so the general effect was to make everybody feel just a little bit more drunk.
The taps in the toilets never worked, but the sink was usually full of vomit anyway. You could often see vomit spattered around in the bar and on the dance-floor as well, because the place was always so full that it became a real struggle to get to the toilet in a hurry. Somebody Arthur had gone to school with had actually once seen a disconcertingly fat man voiding his bowels on to the floor in a darkened corner of the main room. The bouncers, apparently, had rolled him down the steps on to Benjamin Street before proceeding to break his nose and one of his legs.
This story made Arthur feel uncomfortable in lots of ways, and he hated Captain Bens. For a start, he thought it should be spelled “Captain Ben’s,” with an apostrophe. That missing apostrophe always wound him up even before he got inside the door. Usually, he never set foot in the place, but tonight … well, it was where most of the people were. People that Arthur worked with or had gone to school with. People that he vaguely knew, which at that particular moment was better than people he didn’t know at all.
Once inside, Arthur started to feel that he’d made a mistake. He immediately felt hot, and disorientated by all the loud sounds. He moved around, trying to look purposeful, like he was on his way somewhere in particular, so that nobody would realize that he was on his own. He did sometimes see people that he recognized—a best friend from primary school, a girl he’d once asked out online—but on these occasions he just nodded and smiled, and kept on pushing his way through the crowd. The sheer density of people made him feel a bit sick and after doing two full circuits of the sweaty, smelly room he just leaned against the wall near the door and tried not to stare at cleavage, which he found difficult.
Bony materialized, grabbing Arthur’s elbow and shaking it.
“I’m sorry,” he mouthed, and then, louder, “I’m really sorry. I had to pick up some stuff. Now, then, let’s get out of this pit.”
He made for the steps and the exit, without waiting for an answer.
Arthur shook his head and followed.
“I had to find somebody else to pick up from, now Ollie’s been arrested,” Bony explained, holding a crisp near his mouth. “He was late. That’s why I was late. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” Arthur replied slowly and quietly, trying not to sound drunk.
“Jesus,” Bony said, “you’re steaming.”
“I am,” Arthur said. “Yes, I am.”
They were in the Three Tuns, which was a small, dim pub with a jukebox full of rock. The place was frequented by men in military-style gear with long hair, and girls with lip piercings and big black boots. The bartender was extraordinarily old and short, and she sat on a very high stool behind the bar, scowling into a newspaper. There were a lot of stuffed animals attached to the walls. Some song by Metallica blared from the sound system. Arthur tried to nod his head in time as he watched Nazi Dave dancing slouchily around on his own, the swastika patches peeling from his old denim jacket. Nazi Dave was in his fifties, and was always drunk and sunburnt. He was friendly enough, supposed Arthur, but espoused ugly values. Ultimately he was a right prick.
“Why the hell were you in Bens, anyway?” Bony asked.
“I was looking for somebody.”
“Yasmin? But she hates it in there.”
“No,” Arthur said, “not Yasmin.”
“Oh.” Bony looked confused. He pondered for a moment. “Who, then?” he said.
“Not really anybody in particular,” Arthur replied. He was slurring badly by this point. He looked at the pint he had in front of him. It seemed like he’d been drinking it for ages but the glass still looked quite full. The beer was dark and there were bits in the bottom. “Just, y’know … just felt like it.”
“Is there something wrong?” Bony inquired.
“Yasmin likes you,” said Arthur. “But I like her.”
“Oh,” Bony said. He ate a few crisps thoughtfully—their yellow greasy crumbs spotting his dark-gray woolen gloves—and then he pursed his lips. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Arthur. I had no idea.”
“I told her you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Well!” Bony said, and he laughed. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”
“I wouldn’t be angry,” Arthur said. “I would be sad if you got together, but I wouldn’t be angry.”
“We won’t get together,” Bony said.
“OK,” Arthur said.
Neither of them said anything further for a few minutes. Arthur just drank, and Bony just sat there. Nazi Dave turned clumsily around and around, near the bar, like a small flying insect near a river at dusk. The bartender shook her newspaper impatiently, but it couldn’t be heard rustling above the Korn track from the jukebox.
Bony suddenly laid his hands flat on the table. “I came here tonight to tell you something,” he said. “To buy some drugs and to tell you something.”
“What is it?” Arthur asked.
“I found something on the beach,” Bony said. “If I could buy that beach and have it all to myself, I would. I would bury myself somewhere in the middle of it, looking up at the seagulls.”
“They’d peck your eyes out.”
“Not my eyes,” Bony said. “Not mine, they wouldn’t. I think we have an understanding.”
“What did you find?” Arthur asked, looking up wearily.
“I don’t know what it is,” Bony answered, grinning now, “but it’s huge and fleshy and mysterious. I think you’d like it.”
“It does sound like something I’d like.”
“Oh, you would. Come down tomorrow.”
“OK!” Arthur offered a wonky smile and looked momentarily excited. Then his face crumpled. “Oh no!” he said. “Oh shit! I’m working tomorrow! I forgot!” He put his hands over his face. Bony heard him say the words, “I’m such a fucking fuck-up,” but they were muffled.
“Saturday shift?” asked Bony.
“Fucking overtime,” Arthur said, “so I’m on the phone all day. And now I’m three fucking sheets. I forgot, Bony. Oh, God, what time is it? ”
“It’s about half eleven,” Bony said, after glancing at his watch. “You can come down in the evening though?”
“What? Yeah, sure I can … I can do that.”
“I wouldn’t worry about work,” Bony said. “I mean, you’re fucked now. You can’t change that. May as well really go for it. You’re going to be hungover whatever happens, right? Here, I’ll get you another drink.”
Arthur wanted to stop him but could not marshal his thoughts quickly enough to raise an arm or shape a word. He just looked despairingly at Bony’s back as Bony placed his elbows on the bar and waited for the old woman to put her newspaper dow
n and serve him. The huge, fleshy mysterious thing was forgotten.
*
Harry was still up and about when Arthur and Bony entered the living room. He had a can in one hand and the telephone in the other.
“I’ll … I’ll call you back,” he said into the receiver upon seeing his son, and put the phone down.
“Hi, Dad,” Arthur said.
“Hi, Harry,” Bony said.
“Hello,” Harry replied. “I was just going to bed.”
“OK, then,” said Arthur. “Goodnight.”
Harry stood up, putting his hand against the wall to steady himself. “Goodnight, lads,” he said, and smiled slightly, then exited the room. He left behind him some dandruff or something on the back of the chair. Arthur looked at it for a moment and then quickly brushed it away. Arthur was starting to feel ill again. The light seemed dim and overly yellow.
“You can have the sofa,” Arthur said.
“Thank you,” Bony said. He took his coat off and laid it carefully on the floor. “Remember when we used to stay at each other’s houses and watch Karaoke Fishtank at three in the morning, or whatever?”
“I remember,” Arthur said. “What was the name of the fish presenter? Vince Finn, I remember.” He sat down and put his head in his hands. “I feel terrible,” he said.
“I’ll get you some water,” Bony said, and left the room.
Arthur felt blurry and uncertain of himself. He saw that something had fallen out of Bony’s coat pocket: a small re-sealable plastic bag. In it were a couple of acid tabs.
“You can take one of those, if you like,” Bony said from the doorway. Arthur looked up at him. Without really thinking about it, he opened the bag, tipped the tabs into his hand and put one of them into his mouth. He had never taken acid before.
“Shit, Arthur! I didn’t mean now. I meant you could take one for, you know, when you’re in a better mood—or not drunk, or not about to go to bed!” Bony put down the two glasses of water he was holding and flapped his arms around. “That probably wasn’t a good idea!”
“Oh,” Arthur said. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t apologize,” Bony said. “I just don’t know if you’ll enjoy it very much.”
“It just felt like I had to do something,” Arthur said.
“Yeah, I know,” Bony said.
“I need to go to bed,” Arthur said. The room was starting to spin now. He kept focusing on an old picture on the wall. In a dark wooden frame, it was a print of a painting of the exterior of a farmhouse. He kept focusing on it, but it kept sliding away. He remembered the first time he’d been drunk and had experienced a room spinning round him. He had been lying in bed and it had felt like he was on a fairground ride. He had thought it wonderful; it had felt nice.
“I know,” Bony said.
It was a good ten minutes before either of them moved or spoke. Arthur broke the silence.
“If Captain Ben was a real person, he’d be a cunt,” he said.
OVERTIME
“The room is still spinning,” Arthur said. “Even now. Even here.”
Yasmin felt sorry for him. She didn’t tend to feel sympathy for anyone who was hungover, but it wasn’t like Arthur to get himself into such a state. He sat at his desk with his eyes closed, a blue biro trembling between his fingers. He wore a white shirt with a yellowing collar and ink on the cuffs, even though more casual dress was allowed on Saturdays. “Why were you out so late?” she asked. “Who were you with?”
“Bony,” Arthur said. “He came through to buy some acid or something.”
“You should have told me,” Yasmin said.
“I didn’t think,” Arthur said. “Oh no … Yasmin. I took some of it, I think. Before I went to bed.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know!” Arthur said.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Arthur tapped his teeth with the pen. “It was very disappointing—or it would have been if I’d been hoping for anything better.”
On Saturdays far fewer call center staff were required, so those who were present had to abandon their usual seats and sit clustered around the command center where they were easier to oversee. This left the periphery of the massive room empty and echoey. Artemis sat up on the command center, glowering intently at his screen like a painted gargoyle.
“At least it’s dead,” Yasmin said.
“What?” Arthur asked, looking up at her over the low partition screen separating their desks.
“It’s dead.” Yasmin gestured at her telephone. “No calls. The nation must have better things to do today than ring us up.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.” Arthur held up a stress-ball shaped like a lightbulb. It looked like Pinhead from Hellraiser because somebody had drawn a little face on it and then stuck it full of countless straightened-out paperclips. “Can you remember what incentive or initiative these things were handed out for?” he asked.
“Not the slightest idea. I lose track.” Yasmin said. “I don’t know why Bony takes acid. Why does he take so much acid?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur said. “But he goes out on to the beach on his own and takes it.”
“Why does he do that?”
“Because he’s a massive freak,” Arthur said. “That’s why.”
Yasmin didn’t pursue the line of questioning. There was a slight bitterness to Arthur’s tone that made everything clear to her. She played with the cord that connected her headset to the telephone and regretted saying anything at all about how she felt. This was the seventh Saturday in a row that she’d worked.
THE LANDSCAPE
There had been worms around the bath again that morning, as usual. Arthur couldn’t now get them out of his head. Even here at his desk, talking to customers, he thought he could see them out of the corner of his eye, only to find that he was recoiling from nothing more than a squiggle of biro or a small fleck of dust.
Arthur didn’t normally do overtime. He was often asked, as he was a particularly capable customer adviser, but he refused it so regularly that saying no felt almost like a principle. It wasn’t a principle, really. He just couldn’t bear to spend any more time here than was necessary. Overtime was necessary now, though, because Arthur had decided that he and his father were going to get a new bathroom. He had decided, lying awake in bed one night recently, that this would make a significant difference to their quality of life.
At about eleven o’ clock on this Saturday morning, Arthur’s headset beeped and he launched into his scripted call opening. There was no response, though. All he could hear was music. Not hold music or anything like that, but music being played at the other end of the telephone line. He couldn’t identify it. It seemed to change from relaxing, summery classical music to some upbeat, fifties American rock with blurry, unclear vocals. And then it changed back again. The change was somehow seamless—Arthur couldn’t quite pinpoint it. He didn’t let it worry him, though. He just sat back and let the music keep his phone line engaged. It lasted for about five minutes before the line went abruptly dead. The silence rushed in like water, and like water it was threatening. The whole thing seemed momentarily awful, but then Arthur looked about him at his mundane environment and felt slightly less afraid, if a little sad at the end of the distraction.
Arthur was seated at Harry’s usual desk. He tended to sit there when he was on the rota to work a weekend shift to prevent anybody else sitting there and noticing the flakes of skin in the keyboard, the stray hairs littering the mouse mat.
Yasmin was talking to somebody, and laughing gently. It didn’t matter who Yasmin spoke to, she maintained her calmness and patience, her kindness of tone. She would sometimes have a rant about a call later on, or even a sob, but the customers would never know. Arthur wasn’t sure it was good for her, really. He watched her over the top of the screen. Maybe he should ring up and ask to speak to her, then pretend to be a customer and talk to her for a long time. That might be nice. Although she’
d probably recognize his voice.
Arthur took another call. As he spoke to the customer he looked through their account history and saw that Yasmin had spoken to the same customer in the past. There was a note from her on the system, date-stamped two years ago.
PTC Customer rang to set up direct debit. Explained charges scheme and possible allowances. Yasmin, Team Kansas.
This note had no bearing on the customer’s current query, but Arthur kept returning to it, moving the mouse cursor back and forth over her name. He suddenly realized that one day she might leave. He imagined coming across notes like this after she’d left, and considered the impact they might have on him. Whether or not he found them would be totally random; it would depend on which customers rang up, and which of them dropped through to his telephone line. But they would be there, buried in the depths of the system like little bright stones, waiting to be found. Like clues, almost, or notes that she’d left just for him, containing some kind of message. He would have to keep a record of the reference numbers for any accounts that she’d worked on. Starting straight away. After the customer had gone, he wrote down that same account number in the back of his notebook.
The day started to get a little busier. Call volumes were forecast according to bill dispatch dates, public holidays, time of day, previous volumes, that kind of thing, and the number of agents scheduled to work was varied accordingly. Sometimes, though, for reasons that nobody really understood, the forecasts were wrong. People up and down the country would all start ringing at the same time, as if in response to some kind of general signal. It didn’t make much sense, but it happened. The only explanation Arthur could think of was some kind of deeply buried, collective consciousness. Whatever the reason, the number of calls now coming in seemed higher than expected, and customers were obliged to queue to speak to the advisers. The leisurely tone of the place gradually changed, becoming harder.
Artemis started prowling around, shouting things. “If two percent or more of customers hang up before getting to speak to an adviser then the company gets fined billions of pounds!” he shouted. “Get the customer on, answer their questions, get them off again, then get the next one on!”
