by Paul Cude
Chapter 9: Here Today, Gun Tomorrow
On arriving at work the following day, the first thing Peter did was to email Richie, to ask if she would meet him for lunch in the staff restaurant. She replied almost instantaneously, agreeing to meet, much to his relief. He spent the rest of the morning doing staff appraisals in his office, whilst worrying about what he was going to say to his friend at lunch. Occasionally he would check the security monitors to see if he could pick up any sign of the elusive Manson, but the smug ex-officer remained absent all morning, despite the fact that his car was parked in its normal spot.
At five to twelve, Peter logged off his computer and took off through the building towards the restaurant. Normally preferring to bring in sandwiches for lunch, not because of the cost (as the restaurant was heavily subsidised) but mainly so that he could eat his lunch and work at the same time.
Rounding the corner, he caught sight of Richie standing outside the restaurant entrance, people pouring in on either side of her. Noticing his approach, she flashed him one of her classic grins. It was then that he knew everything was going to be okay. Greeting each other with a hug, unusually Peter gave Richie a kiss on the cheek, which managed to pleasantly surprise her, something she commented on as the pair of them took a tray each from the pile and joined the end of the queue. Shuffling forward as one, the two friends eyed up the menu for today.
Richie opted for lasagne, while Peter thought he would make the most of not having to cook a hot meal today and went for the roast of the day, which turned out to be his favourite, roast beef. Both added a soft drink to their tray, and, upon reaching the checkout, Peter offered to pay for both his and Richie's meals, thinking it might go some way to make amends for falling out. Richie didn't put up a fight, which Peter thought strange, right up until a very pleasant lady on the till announced that the grand total for the two meals was a hefty £3.45. Blushing upon realising his mistake, he quickly made his way to one of the few remaining free tables, with Richie following. As they both sat, Peter said,
"I didn't really think that through did I?"
Spooning a large chunk of lasagne into her mouth, Richie smiled and waited until she'd finished her mouthful.
"What a friend. Treating me to a slap up meal at one of the best restaurants in town," she said sarcastically.
"How about I promise to take you out somewhere really nice? You choose. Whenever you're next free in the evening," Peter said, taking a huge bite of his wall clock sized Yorkshire pudding.
"You don't have to do that Pete."
"I know I don't have to. But I really want to, to... make up for the way I acted," he pleaded awkwardly.
"A meal with my best friend would always be welcome. Anyway, we were both at fault for what happened. Let's just put it behind us and move on. Our behaviour is always put to shame by Tank. Good job we've got him to look after us and show us our flaws."
Peter nodded his agreement, as a huge slab of roast beef lathered in gravy slipped between his teeth.
"Yeah, he does always seem to know what to say. I bet his pet plants don't give him nearly as much trouble as we do, though."
Richie laughed and replied,
"They know not to give him any trouble, because if they do he'll just spend more time talking to them, and they can't run away. He puts Prince Charles to shame on that front."
"That sounds about right," agreed Peter, mopping up the last of the gravy on his plate with his Yorkshire.
Unexpectedly a figured loomed over their table.
"Sorry to disturb you Mr Bentwhistle, but could I have a quick word?"
Peter looked up into the face of one of the scientists from the industrial area, and try as he might, he just couldn't remember the man's name.
"Of course you can, um..."
"It's Jake. Jake Brown," said the scientist.
"Sorry Jake. What can I do for you?" Peter replied, wearing his best smile.
"Well it's uhhh... the new guards. We're all finding it quite hard to concentrate with... you know."
Looking as puzzled as ever, Peter replied,
"You're going to have to be a little more specific, Jake, I'm afraid."
"The new guards and their... equipment. It's making everybody over in industrial very... nervous, you might say," Jake said, looking up at the ceiling.
"I'm really sorry Jake, but I don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about. What exactly is making everyone so nervous?"
The scientist leaned in close and looked around to make sure nobody was listening in.
"The guards, they've all got... well, see for yourself," observed Jake, standing up and pointing in the direction of the restaurant's entrance.
All around the restaurant heads turned and conversations suddenly dried up, as everybody started to notice the pair of guards that stood at the back of the queue. Dressed from head to toe in a light blue uniform, the guards certainly stood out from the mixture of smart casual that most of the other employees wore. That, however, was not the main talking point. Strapped around each of the guards’ waists was a shiny black belt that held a holster on one side. Poking out from the holster, the dark metallic grip of a gun was just visible. As if to make matters worse, dangling from the back of each belt was a serious looking baton, a handheld radio, and a silver pair of handcuffs. Peter was visibly taken aback, along with half the restaurant by the look of things.
"What the hell...?" he muttered to nobody in particular. Shaking his head and giving Richie a kind of 'I told you so' look, he got up, mumbling,
"This just can't be happening..."
With the restaurant reaching perhaps its busiest time, nearly two hundred employees watched, fascinated, by what Peter's next action would be. Taking a deep breath, he made his way through the mass of tables, winding like a snake as he headed for the two guards towards the end of the line, all eyes watching him like a reality TV freak show. Eventually reaching the guards, his mood had darkened no end by now, which was highlighted by the scowl on his normally friendly face. Peter leaned in close and whispered,
"Can you please tell me what the hell is going on?"
"Step back please, sir," commanded the taller of the two guards.
Feeling unbelievably lonely and realising that not a single sound could now be heard in the entire restaurant, Peter began to get just a little hot under the collar. The situation rested on a knife edge and was rapidly becoming as tense as walking into the shower and catching your granny in nothing but her beard.
Poking his finger into the guard's chest, Peter fumed,
"Listen sonny, don't you know who I am?" for all to hear.
The other guard began to fumble with the cover of his holster nervously, not sure quite what to do with the furious man close to abusing his partner. Peter spotted the second guard's hand straying towards his gun and something inside him snapped. Feeling like a volcano about to erupt, he sought to convert all of his built up rage into dragon power and knock the two idiots fully across the room. The guards looked panic stricken and confused as Peter finally seemed like he was about to lose the plot.
Out of nowhere, a slender, freckled arm weaved its way around Peter's waist and pulled him gently away from the guards and towards the exit.
"You'll have to excuse my friend," prompted Richie, leaning away from Peter towards the two guards. "I think some of his roast beef went down the wrong way, and with him not having taken his medication today, he can sometimes get a little... cranky. He's a little... SPECIAL," she said, giving them a wink and a smile, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, as she whisked Peter out through the double doors and into the corridor. Her vice-like grip didn't diminish even though they were now out of the restaurant. Maintaining her hold, she guided Peter subtly along until they reached an innocuous looking glass door, leading out to a very small, secluded courtyard, right in the middle of the building. About half the size of a tennis court, the space was awash with many varieties of ferns and other large plants, which a
ll provided shade and a certain degree of privacy. A small rectangular pond, packed to the brim with koi carp of every different colour stood, raised above the ground, in one corner, camouflaged by the giant green plants that towered above it.
Richie led Peter out into the courtyard, steering him through the fern leaves, round a raised flower bed and onto a small wooden bench that looked as though it could do with a fresh coat of varnish. Looking up, Peter could just make out a couple of white fluffy clouds through the tangled mess of leaves and branches. It took a few seconds for it to dawn on him, but then he realised he was right, smack bang in the middle of the office complex. Looking more than a little perplexed, he also realised that he had previously had no idea this place even existed. Richie, having taken a seat on the bench, looked at him in a very peculiar manner.
"This is a turn up for the books," she scoffed, a big smile blossoming onto her face. "ME, having to take you away before you do something you'll regret for a very long time to come."
The surprise at having found this place, coupled with the relaxing sound of the tiny movements of water in the pond, had drained Peter of all his pent up aggression and anger. As quickly as his rage had appeared, it was now nowhere to be seen, and the normally quiet and reserved, awkward youth was back to his shy self.
Rolling his eyes and pointing discreetly with his finger in an upwards direction, he said,
"Uh... Rich, we're surrounded by three storeys of windows on all sides. I'm sure everyone at their desks doesn't want to listen to our conversation."
Richie just sat there and smiled at him.
"Not only are all the windows double glazed, but none of them actually open up. We're perfectly secluded here. I can't believe you didn't know about this place. Some security co-ordinator you are," she mocked.
He looked up at all the windows looming over the courtyard, trying to confirm what his friend had just said.
"Of course I knew about this place."
"Oh please, don't try and hide it from me. I could feel your shock the moment I opened the door to come out here. You had absolutely no idea it even existed, did you?"
Peter just nodded his head. He knew it was impossible to hide anything from his friend.
"I can't believe it. It's like a little oasis of calm tucked away where no one can find it.”
"So anyway, back to what happened in the restaurant," challenged Richie, knocking Peter out of his daydream.
"Yeah... sorry about that," replied Peter, not able to look his friend in the eye. "And thanks for pulling me out of there before I lost my temper and did something really stupid."
Richie shook her head and laughed.
"I just kept looking at your aura with my dragon abilities," she whispered. "It looked like you were going to explode at one point. I thought it best to get you out of there... although I have to admit a big part of me was desperate to see the dashing Peter Bentwhistle, head of Cropptech security, in handcuffs," she confessed, a big toothy grin on her face.
"Wasn't gonna happen, trust me."
Winking, Richie said,
"You should give it go. You don't know what you're missing."
Shaking his head and starting to blush, Peter replied,
"You know my feelings about that Rich. One day, you're going to get into so much trouble with your... your... human dalliances."
"Not gonna happen, trust me," Richie said, imitating her friend. "Seriously though, Pete, what happened? I've never seen you lose your temper at all. Yet if I'm not mistaken, you were ready to finish those guards off."
Sitting on the old bench, head in his hands, he let out a long breath, before looking up at the huge fern leaf that was currently providing him with shade. Watching intently as a brightly coloured ladybird crawled across the leaf's arched centre, his emotions barely in check as his mind struggled to answer Richie's question.
"It just seemed like the straw that broke the camel's back. Head of security? My arse! Oh I might sign off the timesheets and do the appraisals, but obviously I'm no longer in charge here."
Richie sat and listened, fully aware that her lunch hour had long since passed, but not really caring very much.
Riveted by the ladybird's delicate actions, he watched as it unfolded its precise, flimsy looking wings, seeming as though it was about to take flight.
"Guns, armed guards... What the hell is this place coming to? The security provisions that were already in place were more than adequate for the site we have here. In its entire history, Cropptech has never been the victim of a major theft or incident of any kind."
In the meantime, the ladybird had decided not to fly away, instead just fluttering its wings for no apparent reason.
"I know you might have disagreed with me before about Manson's motives Rich, but can you not see now what's going on? Something here is very, very wrong. I just can't seem to work out exactly what it is, and it's driving me crazy. It's as if, as if... the answer is right in front of my face, but for the life of me I just can't seem to see it. It's so frustrating."
Richie studied her friend, while he in turn continued to study the ladybird. They had been friends for such a long time, and she had never seen him so... out of sorts. Not wanting to upset him and fall out again, she considered her words carefully.
"I know it seems strange Pete, but perhaps Manson is just doing his job. Maybe armed guards are a little over the top, but the Cropptech industrial unit does house a variety of valuable metal and gems. Not to mention the reason you and I are here... the laminium! We both know how valuable that is," she added, raising her eyebrows.
"It's much more than that, it really is," Peter pleaded with his friend. "Don't ask me how I know, I just do."
Not wishing to press the point any further, whilst also recognising that Peter seemed to have reached the end of his tether, Richie leaned over and kissed her friend smack in the middle of his forehead.
"Well if there's anything I can do to help, don't hesitate to let me know. I've got to get back to work. Think you can find your way out?"
Waving his mobile phone in the air, he replied,
"I'll call you if I get lost."
The two friends waved goodbye to each other, with Peter remaining in the courtyard a little longer, trying to decide on a course of action. What could he do? Ranting and raving at Manson would clearly get him nowhere, and it might even get him fired like Dr Island. Al Garrett was about as visible as a needle in a haystack at the moment, so it wasn't as if he could just bump into him somewhere and raise the issue. What he needed was an excuse, an excuse to go and see Garrett and then tackle him about these armed guards and Manson in general.
Peter racked his brains trying desperately to find the answers that he needed, but after a few minutes he gave up. Nothing he could think of would be important enough to get him a one to one with the boss and still be credible enough to fool Manson, or at least not give Manson a reason to have him fired.
Sitting in the shade watching the fish glide gracefully through the water, Peter started to think about all the other things he had to do outside work. Top of his mental list was to go back to Mark's house and finish the packing, after which he had to go and visit the solicitors. Before he did that though, he was waiting on Gee Tee and Tank to see if they'd made any progress in finding a mantra to rid the house of whatever evil loitered inside.
Out of nowhere it came to him.
'That's it!' he thought. 'Mark.' Why hadn't it occurred to him before? The perfect excuse that he needed to visit Al Garrett was right in front of him: a memorial in Mark's memory. It had been done before, plenty of times in fact. Cropptech's grounds were littered with beautiful wooden benches, many dedicated to former employees who had passed away. Better still was the thought that Manson wouldn't even object to the idea, as he'd already claimed to be Mark's friend when Peter had caught him at the house.
'Perfect,' he thought, 'absolutely perfect.' So perfect in fact, that he was going to march up to Al Garrett's office right
now. Ducking in between the giant green leaves, he made his way back to the glass door. Instead of turning left and heading back towards the restaurant and his office, he turned right and headed for the nearest staircase. Once there, he climbed to the top floor, made his way through the open plan offices of the accounts department, and into the executive part of the building.
A rueful smile crossed his face as he exchanged the world of notice boards and narrow corridors filled with photocopiers and printers, for a world of lush carpets, hi tech coffee machines, oak panelled walls and polished brass fittings. Turning the corner, he spotted the shiny lift doors that he normally used. He swaggered confidently down the corridor towards Al Garrett's office, knowing that whoever was in there would already know he was on his way. He'd already noticed a couple of the security cameras tracking his every move. Rapping on the door, he forced himself to stand up straight. A husky voice resounded through the door.
"Come."
Taking a deep breath and forcing a smile onto his face, he turned the handle and entered. Just as last time, it was dark, only tiny slivers of light finding their way through the blinds on the full length window. Peter was struck dumb by the overpowering stench that pervaded the room. If he hadn't been totally convinced before that it was the same smell as in Mark's house, he was nothing short of one hundred percent sure now.
Stepping through the gloom, he stopped in front of Garrett's desk, staring intently at the old man slouched in the chair behind it. Although it hadn't been long since he'd last seen the ‘bald eagle’, the physical change in the man seemed quite remarkable. Previously, Peter would have regarded Garrett as being in pretty good shape for someone of his age, but now... he looked positively ancient. His skin seemed pale, clammy and gaunt. The trademark moustache and the small amount of hair on his head looked slick with grease, as if he hadn't washed in weeks. A closer inspection suggested Garrett's eyes were overly bloodshot and that the smell of severe body odour was so bad, it could nearly walk out of the room on its own accord.
Standing up tall and straight, he waited patiently for either the seated Garrett, or Manson who was standing by the window at the back of the room, to address him.
"It's... it's... Bent-thistle isn't it?" Garrett babbled, leaning across the desk to try and get a better view.
"Bentwhistle sir," replied Peter loudly.
"Ahhhh... Bentwhistle," said Garrett, as if trying to remember something important.
"What is it you want, Bentwhistle?” Manson demanded, facing away, looking out of the window.
Addressing Garrett, Peter said,
"It's about Mark, sir. Some of us in the security department wondered if you'd made any plans for a memorial of some kind?"
Garrett looked bewildered.
"Mark. Who's Mark?” he asked, puzzled.
"Mark Hiscock sir," replied Peter. "You know, the ex head of security, who died about two weeks ago."
"Died! Why wasn't I informed?” snapped Garrett angrily.
Peter took a step back, shocked and outraged.
'How could he not know?' he thought.
Manson moved away from the window, wisp-like. Putting a hand on Garrett's shoulder, he whispered,
"It's alright Al. You've had a lot on your plate. We did tell you, but you've been so busy that it must have slipped your mind."
With Manson so close by, Garrett's mind seemed to be struggling to cope with the situation.
"Yessss... slipped my... mind," uttered Garrett, groggily.
"I'll personally make sure he gets the memorial he deserves," assured Manson, his hand still firmly connected to Garrett's shoulder.
"Was there anything else, Bentwhistle?"
Peter knew there was no point in bringing up the business with the armed guards, here and now. From the look of it, Garrett looked as though he was struggling to stay awake, let alone hold a meaningful conversation. Peter looked Manson directly in the eye, and said,
"No, I think that was everything."
"You'll have to excuse us then, Bentwhistle. We have a lot more work to be getting on with," stated Manson, waving his hand as if to dismiss Peter from the room.
Turning around, Peter headed straight for the door, determined not to show the worry that he felt for Garrett's safety on his face. Grasping the handle to open the door, Manson called out from behind him.
"I do hope you like my new guards, Bentwhistle."
He always managed to make the word 'Bentwhistle' sound like something you’d scrape off your shoe after a walk in the park. Turning the handle without looking back, he contemplated everything that had happened on the walk back to his office. Things seemed so wrong. He felt so helpless. And worst of all, he had no idea just how to put things right.
Filled with concern, later that evening Peter decided he was going to keep a diary of all the things that happened at work, relating to Manson and Garrett. Despite not needing to because of his eidetic memory, he thought it wise to have a back up and have something to show others if necessary. Finding a nice notebook that he'd won in a raffle, he opened up the front cover and began jotting down all of the details of today's encounter. Just as he'd finished writing up the day's occurrences, his phone chirped to indicate an incoming text message. It was from Tank. With a mixture of relief and disappointment flooding through him, Peter read that his friend would be coming round later to drop something off, and that he'd had no luck in procuring tickets to the much anticipated match that they'd both hoped to see.
Deleting the message, he decided to unwind by playing one of his favourite computer games, an MMORPG (Massively Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game). He'd tried out a few different games before settling on this particular one, which he really liked. What they all seemed to have in common though, which amused him no end, was the fact that at some point in each and every one of these games, you would wander across a dragon and no doubt have to slay it.
'If only they knew the truth,' he thought, as the start screen flickered into life.
At twenty to nine there was a knock at the door. Peter pulled open the front door to reveal a very out of breath Tank in a garishly red tracksuit, all sweaty and dishevelled. Briefly, the man mountain of a rugby player explained that he had run over from his house, in preparation for rugby training which started in less than two weeks time. Peter rolled his eyes and gave his friend a 'you really don't need to be doing that' look, but it just went straight over Tank's head.
With his breathing slowly recovering, Tank handed Peter a wooden prism, or as Peter liked to think of it, a Toblerone-shaped box. Tank explained that his boss had gone to great lengths to obtain both the box and its contents. He added that the items were very old and possibly unstable, and that the fine powder needed to be used in conjunction with the first item, but both should be fit for purpose. Ever so grateful, Peter thanked his friend and asked him to pass on his regards to his boss. With a wave and a nod, Tank headed off into the night, on the return leg of his run home. After watching his friend's giant frame disappear off into the distance, Peter returned to his gaming, not the least bit tired.
