She tried clearing her throat again, at maximum volume. Still nothing.
She looked around, then picked up a large book from atop one of the piles, surprised to discover it was a copy of Quirk’s Peerage. She dropped it to the ground with a loud thunk.
‘Gah!’
The man sat bolt upright, a sheet of paper stuck to his face with his own drool. ‘Ahhh! I’m blind, I’m blind!’
His arms flailed around his head, as if trying to fend off an attack of invisible wasps. The piece of paper fell to the floor just as his elbow encountered a half-full bottle of whiskey sitting on the desk, sending it toppling off the edge. With unexpectedly sharp reflexes, the man shot out his right hand and caught the bottle before it reached the floor.
‘Thank Christ!’
An unseen intercom sprang into life somewhere, delivering Grace’s voice into the room. ‘That’s one.’
The man looked around. ‘How is that one? That can’t be one. If I say it when there’s only me in the room, then it’s basically thinking out loud. You cannot deny a man his right to think!’
‘You’re not alone in the room.’
‘Yes, I …’
The man looked up, only now seeing Hannah.
‘Who is that?’
‘Hello, I’m—’
The man held his hand up to silence Hannah.
Grace’s voice continued. ‘Her name is Hannah Drinkwater—’
‘Willis,’ interjected Hannah.
‘Willis,’ continued Grace, ‘and she’s here for an interview.’
‘What? Why? Who put this in?’
‘You did. We need a new Tina.’
‘But we’ve already got a new Tina.’
‘He resigned, remember? He threw a stapler at your head.’
‘Right,’ said the man, holding his head in his hands. ‘That explains the splitting headache I’ve got.’
‘It was two weeks ago, and he missed.’
‘Ah yes, it hit whatshisname instead. That was enjoyable.’
‘Ox. And it wasn’t enjoyable for him. The reason you’ve got a splitting headache is the usual.’
‘Yes, all right.’ The man pulled a face.
‘Vincent Banecroft, don’t you pull a face at me!’
Banecroft looked around the room. ‘How could you possibly know that I—’
‘I know.’
‘Oh, for—’
‘That’s two.’
He held out his hands in outrage. ‘But I didn’t say anything.’
‘It was implied.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Rules are rules.’
‘And these rules are ridiculous.’
‘Would you like me to show you the agreement you signed, Vincent? Again?’
‘No, I would not. Legally, I’m not even sure it would hold up. I was drunk when I signed it.’
‘If I had to wait for you to be sober—’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ interrupted Banecroft. ‘Thank you, Grace. I do not need you to embarrass me in front of our interviewee.’
He looked properly at Hannah for the first time, blinking as he did so, as if trying to focus.
‘Ha,’ said Grace. ‘Like you were particularly impressive up until this point.’
‘Right, that’s it. As soon as this is done, I’m going to find wherever the hell the intercom is and I’m pulling it out.’
‘Best of luck finding anything in that pigsty.’
‘Enough. Turn it off immediately, Grace. I am about to conduct a private interview with Ms …’
‘Drinkwater,’ supplied Grace.
‘Willis, actually,’ corrected Hannah once more.
‘Yes,’ said Banecroft, ‘with all of the above. Turn it off.’
‘With pleasure.’
There was a loud beeping noise.
Banecroft shook his head in frustration, resulting in a cigarette dropping out of his hair and on to the table in front of him.
‘Ah, excellent.’ He snatched it up and started rummaging around on the desk. ‘Well, come on, then …’ He shot an irritated look at Hannah and nodded towards the chair opposite him. ‘I haven’t got all day – I’m a busy man. Where’s my bloody lighter?’
He looked at her as if expecting an answer. Hannah shrugged.
‘Well, you’ve failed the first test. Observation is a key skill. Grace?’
Grace’s shout carried down the hallway. ‘I can’t hear you. You told me to turn off the intercom.’
‘So how did she …? Never mind.’ Banecroft cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back. ‘WHERE’S MY LIGHTER?’
‘I DON’T KNOW.’
Hannah pulled out the chair she had been directed towards.
‘I bet she’s nicked it. She’s always throwing out stuff she doesn’t like. That’s probably why she’s had three husbands. Do you have a lighter?’
Hannah didn’t respond.
Banecroft clicked his fingers irritably. ‘Hello, Earth to blondie. Come in, blondie.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t listening. There are things on this chair.’
‘Well, move them off and sit down. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. I’ve not got all day.’
Hannah wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘There’s a slice of pizza here.’
‘Ah, excellent.’ Banecroft reached across the desk and plucked the pizza from its perch on the pile of books, revealing a Zippo lighter underneath it. ‘Ohhh, double bubble. Today is starting to look up.’ He snatched up the lighter in his other hand and sat back down.
Hannah carefully removed the pile of books and placed them on the floor. She did so slowly, to avoid having to look at Banecroft and confirm her strong suspicion that he was eating the slice of pizza.
The chair cleared, Hannah sat down on it, trying not to focus on how the stains on its worn upholstery might now be transferring themselves on to her best suit.
Once in position, she got her first proper look at Vincent Banecroft. Under the destroyed bird’s nest of hair sat grey-green bloodshot eyes in a face of pale, unshaven skin. He wore a suit that a charity shop would politely thank you for donating and then burn as soon as you’d walked out the door. He was probably somewhere in his forties, but the generally unhealthy air of the man threw off Hannah’s readings. He somehow managed to look both fat and skinny. His face had a hangdog air to it, although that might be explained in part by the chewy piece of prehistoric pizza he was grimly masticating. In short, he looked like his own corpse waiting to happen.
With difficulty, Banecroft swallowed, belched loudly and then leaned back in his chair before placing his feet on the desk. He retrieved the cigarette he had discovered earlier and positioned it in his mouth.
‘Is smoking allowed in this building?’ asked Hannah.
‘Well now, that depends. You are not allowed to smoke. I, however, am positively encouraged to do so. It is one of the few comforts I have for being shipwrecked among this confederacy of dunces.’ He spoke with an Irish accent, more on the growling than the lilting end of the scale.
‘I have asthma.’
Banecroft shrugged. ‘We all have our crosses to bear. I myself have crippling athlete’s foot.’ He lit the cigarette. ‘So, let’s do this, shall we? Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’
‘Well, I …’ Hannah was thrown. She tried to remember what she had read in Dynamite Answers to Interview Questions, which she had pored over the night before. ‘I look forward to developing my skill set and building on my—’
‘Trick question. Nobody comes here if they have any future. This is where futures come to die. Take it from one who knows.’
Banecroft leaned forward and pulled two sheets of stapled A4 paper from a pile of other papers on his desk, causing several of them to tumble on to the larger pile on the ground below. ‘Let’s take a gander at the old curriculum vitae, then, shall we?’
Hannah recognized her CV, although when she had sent it in there hadn’t been quite so many food and drink stains on it.
> ‘Page one – you’ve been to school. Well done on fulfilling a basic legal requirement.’
‘Well, yes, I—’
He flipped the page. ‘Page two – you went to Durham University to study English.’
‘Yes, I have always been—’
‘Which you did not finish. And then … you disappeared.’
‘I was—’
‘No, wait – tell a lie – you organized a couple of charity fun runs and a ball. Well, well. “Fun run”. That surely ranks up there with “friendly fire” and “vegetarian meal” in the list of oxymorons.’
Hannah said nothing.
Banecroft looked up from the CV. ‘Nothing you’d like to add?’
‘Do I get to speak now? I was getting the impression you just wanted to monologue.’
‘Ohhh, the kitty has claws. Good to know. So, who was it? Nanny? Personal trainer?’
‘Excuse me?’
Banecroft took his feet off the table and picked up the bottle of whiskey. ‘Who was he screwing?’
Hannah shifted in her seat. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Banecroft fished a grimy glass from his desk drawer and filled it with a generous-verging-on-suicidal measure of whiskey. ‘Sure you do.’ He placed the whiskey bottle in the bottom drawer and looked across at Hannah. ‘You left university mid-degree and disappeared. Can’t have been to prison as, unless the rules have been even further relaxed, you can’t organize a charity ball from Wormwood Scrubs. That means the other kind of incarceration: marriage. Seeing as you didn’t have to work, I’m guessing he had a good job. City-boy type? He’s not dead, otherwise you’d be wearing the ring still, and you’d not be here, because being here is desperate and most big jobs have nice parachutes if your spouse pops his Gucci loafers. You were married, you’re at least separated, and the suit you’re wearing shows you had money, even if you don’t any more. Probably turned your back on all his ill-gotten gains to start a new life without the bastard. You’re a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need him – but you still kept a few of the outfits. So, who was he screwing? Nanny? Personal trainer? Do people still screw their secretaries? That seems like a bit of a cliché.’
Banecroft and Hannah locked eyes for a long moment.
‘We just grew apart as people.’
‘Poppycock.’
‘Poppycock?’
It was Banecroft’s turn to look put out. ‘I have an agreement with my receptionist.’
‘Office manager,’ interjected Grace’s voice, from the unseen intercom.
‘So help me, Grace, get off that accursed thing this instant!’
There was another loud beep.
Banecroft took a swig of whiskey from his glass. ‘I have signed an agreement with my … office manager, which states that I am not allowed to swear or take the Lord’s name in vain more than three times a day.’
‘What happens if you do?’
‘She leaves. It turns out the place cannot function without her. In this receptacle of ineptitude, broken dreams and hard-luck stories, she is that most dangerous of things – a bona fide useful employee. Speaking of leaving …’ Banecroft interrupted himself by coughing violently, requiring Hannah to duck as the lit cigarette flew out of his mouth and spiralled towards her head.
‘Damn it. Excellent reflexes, though – well done. You’ve passed the physical.’
Hannah glanced over her shoulder, but the cigarette was nowhere to be seen amidst the piles of newspapers. She looked back at Banecroft, who was in the process of lighting another one.
‘Shouldn’t you get that?’
‘It’ll probably be fine. The whole building is riddled with damp. Terrible kindling. What were we discussing?’
Banecroft leaned back once more and placed his feet on the desk again.
‘You were telling me what this job entails.’
‘No, that doesn’t sound like something I’d do.’
‘You were explaining how you’ve been emasculated by your own office manager.’
‘Before that.’
Hannah wasn’t looking at him at all.
‘I’m sorry, do I not have your full attention?’
‘Apologies, I was slightly distracted by your office now being on fire.’
Hannah leaned to one side to give Banecroft a clear view of the smoke coming from one of the newspaper stacks.
‘Oh, for— No need to be so dramatic – it’s not a big fire. GRACE! Can you …? We need a whatchamacallit …’
The door to the office flung open and Stella stomped in carrying a fire extinguisher.
‘Yes, one of them. Excellent.’
Stella sprayed foam on the smouldering papers while simultaneously glowering at Banecroft. When she eventually stopped, she kicked the papers with a well-placed Doc Marten to ensure no flames had survived.
‘Excellent. Have you met my protégée?’
Hannah looked between them and nodded. ‘Stella. Yes, I have.’
‘She’s just a bundle of joy, aren’t you, Stella? Big fan of old buildings such as this one. I first met her when she was clambering in our window for a midnight tour.’
‘Oh man, not this shit again?’
‘GRACE?’
‘She didn’t sign the deal – you did,’ came Grace’s voice.
‘How is that fair?’ Banecroft turned back to Hannah. ‘Anyway, she happened to catch me polishing my prized possession.’
‘Ain’t that the truth.’
Banecroft reached down and picked up an object that Hannah could best describe as a gun, although she had never seen one quite like it before. It started out like a normal rifle at its butt, but its muzzle resembled nothing so much as a trumpet. Banecroft held it aloft.
‘A one-of-a-kind Balander Blunderbuss. Passed down from Lord Balander to Lord Balander for generations, until the last of the line lost it to me in the mistaken belief that a full house beats a straight flush.’
‘It’s, umm, very nice.’
‘Yes. Angsty the Teenager didn’t think so when she first met it, but then some people don’t take a shine to me right off the bat. My young apprentice was given a choice – prison or an exciting career in the newspaper business.’
‘Yeah,’ said Stella. ‘If I knew what it was gonna be like, I’d have asked him to shoot me.’
‘Oh, she doesn’t mean that.’
With a two-fingered salute and a slam of the door, Stella left the room.
Banecroft sat back in his chair again. ‘I like that kid. She’s got a wonderful angry energy. Like she’s decided life is crap and we’re all just killing time until we meet a slow and painful death. She is well ahead of the game on that front. At her age, I still held out hope for something. Anyway, where were we?’
‘You were insulting me and then you set fire to your office.’
‘Now that does sound like me. Wait a second … Speaking of fire, Drinkwater!’
Hannah’s heart sank. ‘So, the role – exactly what does it—’
Banecroft drummed excitedly on the desk. ‘I remember now. You made the papers: the woman who burned down her cheating husband’s house. I can see why you’re so big into fire safety now.’
Hannah felt her anger rise. ‘I didn’t burn down a house. I was burning his clothes in the back garden and the wind changed.’
It had taken quite a lot of wrangling to avoid an arson charge.
‘I see,’ said Banecroft. ‘And was this before or after you, what was it, “just grew apart as people”?’
Hannah folded her arms. ‘Did you bring me here just to humiliate me?’
‘No, but it’s a fun bonus. So, to go back to my original question: nanny or personal trainer?’
Hannah felt something snap inside her. She was on her feet before she realized. ‘Oh, to hell with you. Who are you to pass judgement on anyone? Sitting here in your own filth. What kind of a place is this anyway? Listen to yourself, you disgusting man. “Nanny or personal trainer? Nanny or personal trainer?”
If you must know, marriage guidance counsellor. That’s right, I caught him banging the woman who was supposed to be saving our marriage after he’d already screwed his personal trainer, the neighbour’s nanny, a couple of my supposed friends and yes, a secretary. That is still a thing – at least in my crappy life. This is how bad things have got. My last chance of a job is begging some drunken sop whose own staff hate him so much that they have to blackmail him into signing agreements to behave with basic common decency, and even then one of them is outside right now, threatening to throw himself off the roof.’
Banecroft paused, the glass of whiskey halfway to his lips. ‘He’s what?’
Hannah took a deep breath, trying to regain some composure. ‘Yes. And to think, I was daft enough to try to talk him out of it.’
‘Bloody Mondays. Excuse me a moment.’
Blunderbuss still in hand, Banecroft turned, opened the stained-glass window behind him and leaned out.
‘Right!’ he hollered. ‘This is it!’
‘You stay away from me, you monster!’
The voice was that of Reggie, the man in the tartan three-piece suit whom Hannah had met earlier – although ‘met’ didn’t seem like the right word, given the circumstances.
‘Every bloody Monday,’ shouted Banecroft. ‘Enough is enough. I’m going to shoot you.’
Hannah watched as Banecroft dangled precariously out of the window, aiming the blunderbuss up at the roof.
‘You’re too late, I’m jumping.’
‘Good, I like a moving target. It’s been a while since I killed a man, but I guess it’s like riding a bike. You never forget.’
Banecroft cocked the hammer on the blunderbuss and placed the butt against his shoulder.
‘Leave me alone, you beast. That gun probably isn’t even loaded.’
‘Really? I’m an alcoholic with nothing to live for. You seriously think I’d have a gun and not keep it loaded?’
‘Well …’
‘And rest assured, I’ll definitely do it. Do you know why? Because I can’t stand the idea of you killing yourself, because then you’ll actually have achieved something. I can’t live in a world where someone of your ineptitude has even the briefest moment of accomplishment. Now get back inside and give me twelve hundred words on the banshee of wherever.’
‘Never.’
‘OK, then jump. I’ve had a better idea. I’m not going to shoot you. Instead, I’ll let you jump and then I’ll continue to publish your articles.’
The Stranger Times Page 3
