by Ian McGuire
From Morris’s left came the soft, wet crash of wine bottle on concrete. He opened his eyes. The aisle was already filled with the dense, clingy aroma of ripe cherries and fried halibut. Someone had dropped a bottle of the East Texan Shiraz – reduced to £3.99 and recently recommended in the ‘Guzzle It Up’ column of the Telegraph. Morris walked across. A grey-haired man in a bottle-green blouson jacket and grey trousers was standing by the red puddle, staring at his hands.
‘May I help you sir?’ Morris was wondering whether this was a genuine accident or the result of an attempted robbery. The blouson jacket looked easily baggy enough for half a dozen bottles.
The man turned. It was Bernard. Morris stepped backwards and emitted a harsh guttural eek similar to the sound of a drawer jamming.
‘I do apologise, sir,’ Bernard said, not seeming to notice the noise. ‘I can only claim temporary insanity. The thought of East Texan Shiraz at under a fiver has obviously loosened my cogs.’
Morris removed his aviator shades. Bernard’s thin lips all of a sudden became the shade and shape of a loose elastic band.
‘Morris,’ he exhaled.
‘Bernard.’
There was a pause. Bernard noticed the uniform.
‘Have you joined the army?’
‘I’m a security guard.’
‘Oh.’ Bernard thought. ‘Here?’
‘Yes, here.’
‘Right … very nice.’ Morris looked at him. ‘No, I suppose not. Um, you won’t be charging me for …’ He waved his fingers at the red puddle. ‘Will you?’
Morris shook his head. Half the bottle was still intact – the neck and a jagged two prong crown. Morris looked at it. Bernard saw him looking. His eyes widened with alarm.
‘OK Morris,’ he said. ‘The phone call was unforgivable. But I was in a state of near hysteria, and all the indications were that you had shat on me from a very great height.’
‘I saved your pimply arse.’
‘In the event yes, you did. And my gratitude for that is unbounded. But how could I know in advance? That taffy bastard treated me like his punkah wallah. We’re both victims of a rotten system, Morris. We’re cannon fodder. They sit in their offices with their strategic bloody reviews in one hand and their carbuncular dicks in the other, and we’re the sods who go over the top.’
‘Not me, Bernard. I work for Alpaca Security.’
‘Alpaca is it?’ Bernard noticed the patch above Morris’s breast pocket. ‘Strange, not really an animal noted for its ferocity.’
‘Actually the owner’s Peruvian, but as I was saying you’ve got a career.’
‘I’m taking early retirement.’
‘What?’
‘Think about it, Morris. OK, after the investigation the Croc couldn’t touch me, but he doesn’t need to. All he has to do is check I do my marking, or get the Mad Monk to check for him. No one can complain about that. But without my system it’s undoable, I’m finished.’
‘Can’t you modify the system?’
‘There are new procedures: blind triple-marking, carbonised multiliths. They’ll drop them after I’m gone, but there’s no point in fighting it.’
‘What about Mordred?’
‘On sabbatical in Finland with an unlisted email. He doesn’t give a fuck. We’re prawns in their cocktail.’
Morris looked down at the broken bottle then back again at Bernard. Could he really have aged so visibly in a month? His skin looked like a part-defrosted chop and his body sagged all over as though his clothes were lead-lined.
Darren turned sharply into the wine and spirits aisle.
‘All right, Morris.’
‘All right, Darren.’
He looked at the red puddle.
‘I generally find it tastes better in a glass, sir.’ (He always said that).
He sniffed.
‘East Texan Shiraz. Quite a snip at £3.99. You’re right to come in early, sir. After that write-up in the Telegraph they’ll be none left by teatime. Need a clean-up, Morris?’
‘Please, Darren.’
Darren sloped off to make a staff announcement. Bernard, as though spurred on by Darren’s enthusiasm, put four fresh bottles in his trolley, then after a moment added two more.
‘£3.99 really is remarkable,’ he said.
Morris nodded. The veins in Bernard’s nose looked like a clutch of tiny bloodworms.
‘Listen, let me buy you a drink,’ Bernard said with renewed jollity. ‘The Cro-Magnon Arms isn’t far. They still do a serviceable pint of Postlethwaite.’
‘I don’t get a break until twelve.’
Bernard looked at his watch and whistled.
‘Let’s say twelve then.’
The Cro-Magnon Arms was a hostelry of many rooms, each of which smelt faintly like a fish tank. After a brief search, Morris found Bernard sitting in the snug with half a pint of Postlethwaite and a copy of The Ecclesiastical History of Bedfordshire.
‘Morris!’ Bernard raised a finger and Morris waited an awkward and unbelieving few seconds for him to finish his paragraph and replace his leather bookmark.
‘You know, Morris,’ he said, closing the book with a dusty phut, ‘as I get older I find myself increasingly drawn to the literature of dullness.’ He waved The Ecclesiastical History of Bedfordshire. ‘Now why should that be?’
Morris shrugged.
‘Preparation perhaps. I imagine eternity is terribly tedious.’
Bernard guffawed.
‘Cheeky git.’ He stood up. ‘Pint of Postlethwaite? I’ll get a couple of pasties while I’m up.’
Morris lit a cigarette. He felt inexplicably nervous, as if this meeting with Bernard were some kind of date, as if it contained the possibility of yet more failure. He took off his brown hexagonal hat and placed it next to the ashtray.
Bernard came back holding the drinks and shaking his head.
‘I’ve known that landlord for years,’ he said. ‘Terence. He’s a funny old bugger, he really is.’
They sipped. Bernard inhaled suddenly and with evident discomfort, as though breathing were new to him. Morris waved away his cigarette smoke. He was experiencing uncomfortable memories of the last time they drank together.
‘Want to frisk me?’ he joked.
Bernard grimaced.
‘Come on Morris,’ he said.
Morris blushed.
After another weighty pause Bernard spoke again.
‘What’s all this about then?’
‘What?’
‘This?’ He gestured at the uniform as if it were an offensive and deliberately inexplicable work of art.
‘Bernard,’ Morris said, ‘I’m a convicted plagiarist. You may have read about me in the Guardian.’
‘Bullshit. That’s all stuff and nonsense. Whatsisname, Dirck van Camper. He’s a bloody quisling. He’s got his tongue so far up the Crocodile’s arse it’s a form of colonie bloody irrigation. I don’t believe a word of it.’
Morris felt a sudden crushing sense of love for Bernard and this irrational, misguided show of faith.
‘What can I do though?’
‘If the union weren’t so fucking useless they’d have got you off already. That Yacob Macomb, he looks like a syphilitic Art Garfunkel and he’s got about the same amount of gumption. They’re quick enough to chase you for your dues but when it comes to the crunch it’s union officials and children first. It’s a bloody scandal.’ He bit into his pasty. ‘Have you tried talking to them?’
‘The union?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘I don’t blame you, they’re bloody useless.’
Morris looked out of the leaded window. There was a ten-foot with wheely bins. He only had half an hour for lunch and drinking on duty was a dismissible offence.
‘It’s over with Zoe,’ he said.
‘Hate to say I told you so.’ Bernard pushed the other pasty across to Morris. He took a bite – its vague, wet meatiness struck him as strangely delicious.<
br />
‘So this security job, is it all right? Do you actually like it?’
The question, which Morris had never dared ask himself before, was like a plumb line dropped into his inner emptiness. It fell and fell and fell then thumped to a stop.
‘It’s a living death,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t believe the people.’
‘They’re proles. I hate to say it, Morris. It’s not PC, but face the facts. Their idea of culture is some fat tart banging out “Nessun Dorma” on karaoke night. That may be where we come from Morris, you and I, but we’ve grown. We’ve tasted the ambrosia of knowledge. There’s no going back. This job, this uniform, this is not you. I know that. You’re a scholar, an intellect. I’ve read your work on Alderley.’ (Morris seriously doubted that, but he let it pass.) ‘Magnificent! Old-fashioned of course, but all the better for that I say. Your time will come again. This plagiarism nonsense will blow over.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Of course it will. My time is gone.’ Morris opened his mouth to object, but Bernard swept on. ‘But you are young. Play the long game Morris, the long game. That’s my advice to you.’ He took a long swig of Postlethwaite. ‘Another pint?’
‘I’ll get them.’
As Morris walked to the bar he felt a strange, dizzying surge of hope. Perhaps Bernard was right. Perhaps things weren’t quite as desperate and final as he had imagined. ‘The long game.’ He liked the sound of that.
‘You need to position yourself,’ Bernard continued after Morris had returned with the drinks. ‘Bide your time. These things are cyclical. The Crocodile won’t last forever. Zoe Cable will burn out. I’ve seen it before. Couple of years’ time he’ll have a bypass and retire to Guernsey; she’ll come down with neurasthenia and turn to organic gardening. I’ve seen it before, Morris, believe me.’
‘The long game.’
‘The long game.’
Morris looked at his watch. It was twelve thirty-five.
‘I’ve got to be getting back.’ He stood up. Bernard waved him back down.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an old mate, Rupert Tong, runs Trident Education. Have you heard of them?’
Morris shook his head.
‘I’ve worked for them for years, on and off. Rupert and I go back to the old, extramural days. It’s lectures for A Level students mainly – Lord of the Flies, The Handmaid’s Tale, whatever Shakespeare they’re doing that year. Then occasional Adult Ed. trips – Stratford, the West End. I’ve even done the odd bus tour – Brontë country with eminent Victorianist Dr Bernard Littlejohn, an afternoon’s nattering, a hundred quid plus tips. I just do it for pocket money, but there have been people who’ve lived off it. You can do three or four lectures a week if you’re prepared to travel. Plus expenses. The money’s not bad.’
‘Would he take me even after the Guardian article?’
‘Christ, Rupert hates the Guardian. The Racing Post and the Telegraph crossword are as far as he gets. Anyway, I’ll put in a word for you. He’s always on the lookout. Here’s his telephone number.’
Bernard took out his fountain pen, pulled the facing off a beermat and wrote the number with a flourish.
Morris looked at it carefully. He found the thought that someone might actually want him, for whatever reason, rather moving. He looked again at his watch.
‘I’m late and I’m pissed.’ He said it as much to himself as to Bernard. ‘I could lose my job again.’
Bernard leaned back and looked quizzically into his glass.
‘Far be it from me to sway you Morris,’ he said, ‘but I will merely point out that a) it is my round and b) that uniform makes you look like Flash fucking Gordon.’
The offices of Trident Education were above a ladies’ hairdressers in Glodshaw. As Morris climbed the narrow, blue-carpeted staircase he felt full of nervousness. Another bloody interview. He had imagined that the one advantage of being fired and disgraced was that he would never have to do this again. Yet here he was. It was hardly Coketown University, he reasoned, hardly even the Eccles Institute, but then again neither was it Alpaca Security Services, where the interview had consisted of checking for a criminal record and ensuring he had a full set of teeth. Morris knocked on the door.
‘Enter.’
Rupert Tong had floppy white hair and was dressed in a baggy teal sweatshirt, black exercise trousers and flip-flops. He was pedalling an antiquated exercise bike, which was squeezed into a corner between two paper-strewn desks.
‘Do excuse me,’ he panted. ‘I’ve been put on a most rigorous exercise programme by my GP. My arteries apparently resemble the inside of an electric kettle. Ten more minutes of this madness I’m afraid. Do sit down. There’s a chair under there somewhere.’
Morris put some box files on the floor and sat. Rupert continued to pedal.
‘Are you able to talk?’ Morris asked.
‘Oh God yes. I’m always able to talk. I’ll still be talking when they box me up and put me in the ground. Now, let me remember what old Bernard said about you.’ He clenched his damp, pink face for a second in an effort at recollection. Morris held his breath. Bernard had promised to talk him up, but you never knew with Bernard; he could easily have let something slip.
‘No good,’ said Rupert after a moment. ‘My memory’s completely shot. I blame the male menopause. Although, of course, they’ll all tell you it doesn’t exist. But anyway, I know he raved, positively raved. And Bernard rarely raves you know. He can be rather dour, Bernard, rather …’ Rupert paused for a moment as if selecting precisely the right adjective from a rank of worthy candidates. His feet continued their slow rotations.
‘Gloomy,’ he finally said.
Morris nodded eagerly. ‘Well he has had a hard time with the Department lately.’
‘God yes, he told me about that, harrowing, absolutely harrowing. Some of the stories he tells.’ Rupert shook his head. ‘It seems to me, Morris,’ he said, ‘that something has gone rather terribly wrong, that the true meaning of a literary education has been forgotten. It’s been Balkanised – queer this, women’s that. I taught Declan Monk at Cambridge, but now,’ Rupert rolled his eyes, ‘it sounds like he’s completely bonkers.’
In response to this unnerving speech Morris offered a selection of pleasing but non-committal facial gestures. Rupert continued to talk.
‘Bernard tells me you’ve had a run-in with that lot too.’ Morris flinched. ‘Well as far as I’m concerned that’s a badge of honour. You’ll find the work we do here quite traditional – character analysis, plot summary, patterns of symbolism, that kind of thing. It’s not nuclear physics, but it changes lives. You should see the letters I get. I keep a file. It’s the Adult Ed. people especially. They’ve been working in a works canteen all their lives and someone talks them through Jude the Obscure. Pow! Pow! Pow!’ Rupert made little explosions in the air with his hands. ‘They’re never the same.’
‘I’m very interested,’ said Morris. ‘Bernard spoke very highly of your programme. Would you like to see my CV?’ He reached across and handed it to Rupert.
Rupert’s reading glasses were on a cord around his neck. He put them on and peered. After a minute or so he unexpectedly stopped pedalling. Morris steeled himself. This was it. What would it be this time he wondered? Overqualified? Under qualified? Too many holes in his career? Too few? Previously he had been shot down from so many angles he had no idea which direction this particular bullet would come from.
Rupert continued to peer.
‘This,’ he said after a long moment, ‘is remarkable, quite remarkable. Not only Coketown, but the Eccles Institute, the University of Ipswich, the College of West Mercia! I’d go so far as to say that for someone of your age your wealth of experience is unparalleled. Not to mention your Ph.D. with Conrad Under-seel, author of that wonderful Alderley biography. You’re absolutely perfect for us.’ Rupert took off his reading glasses and beamed.
Morris beamed back. Despite the doubtful provenance of Ru
pert’s lavishness (how terribly little he really knew) it made him feel instantly bigger and more powerful.
‘How much work would you be interested in?’ Rupert asked. ‘I assume you have other commitments.’ The pedalling had recommenced.
‘Well, not so many at the moment,’ Morris admitted. ‘I can probably take as much work as you’ve got.’
‘Ah!’ Rupert called out in joy. ‘Even better. I’ll tell you we have a pretty full schedule this year and one of our regulars has dropped out with angina. How are you on Gerard Manley Hopkins?’
‘I could brush up.’
‘Course you could. “Soft sift in an hourglass”. It’s a piece of cake. Our usual fee is a hundred pounds per session plus expenses. You can make a decent living if you like.’
I’m in, thought Morris, as easy as that. He could make four or five hundred pounds a week. More than he’d ever made at Coketown. It wouldn’t be much work either. He’d spend his days on the train, reading. He might begin to write again: more essays on Alderley, a textbook perhaps. He could get a reasonable flat, patch things up with E. Maybe the worst really was over. Bernard had saved him. Quid pro quo.
‘When could I start?’ he said.
‘Well, let’s see.’ Rupert’s egg timer went off. He dismounted stiffly and looked down at the saddle with a frown of comic contempt. ‘It may be good for my arteries,’ he winked, ‘but it’s doing bugger all for my piles’. He hobbled over to one of the desks and consulted a file. ‘26 November.’
‘26 November? That’s two months.’
Rupert looked up at the sheepdog wall calendar. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said. About two months.’
‘I was hoping it would be sooner.’ Morris’s university wages had stopped abruptly upon his resignation, and for the last month he had been surviving on four pounds fifty an hour from Alpaca Security plus his father’s old building society account, willed to him six years before and superstitiously untouched since then. He could still write cheques on the joint account of course, but he knew that E’s maternity pay would barely cover their bills and expenses. He reassured himself that once he started lecturing for Rupert, things would be fine. But still, two months was a long time.
