Having avoided him at first, Barney finally looked up and met Bethlehem's eyes. Once more the others picked up on the interplay between two of the principal characters.
'What d'you know about TV Contracts?' asked Bethlehem bluntly, although without having the confidence the question suggested. It demanded a negative answer. It demanded that Barney know nothing about it, that he could tear Barney apart in front of these people.
'Nothing,' said Barney, with equal bluntness. No reason for him to get sucked into gunslinging, particularly when the way for him to win was to walk away without any fight whatsoever.
'So,' said Bethlehem, voice dropping a notch or two, a more sadistic coldness creeping in, although he knew himself that it was only for the benefit of the others in the room, 'what is it that makes you qualified to be Head of TV Contracts at a firm like Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane?'
Barney contemplated a few minutes of Mexican stand-off, winding him up perhaps, some mischief-making, capitalising on a situation where he didn't care and Bethlehem did. However, he didn't even have the heart or the interest for that. Might as well be honest, because no one cared any more, and the man who had hired him to this position had been completely defeated.
'Your man,' said Barney, indicating Orwell without taking his eyes off Bethlehem, 'paid me large sums of money to sit here and back him up, notwithstanding the fact that I haven't actually had to do it, as it's hard to back someone up when they're not contributing anything to a meeting. Subsequent to this, however, I intend going on my way and never setting foot amidst your sad collective ever again. So, I know nothing about TV contracts, and I don't care.'
Bethlehem snorted, looked with disgust at Barney. Annoyed at himself for having started a conversation he'd realistically known he was never going to win.
'You're fired,' he said abruptly.
'I've already resigned effective the end of this meeting,' said Barney.
'Is the meeting over? No. So I'm firing you before you resign.'
Barney smiled, kept Bethlehem's gaze. Bethlehem was angry at himself for creating this ridiculous situation, yet he couldn't stop himself.
'Nigel,' he said, 'you'll be the new man in charge of TV, you cool with that?'
Nigel Achebe nodded, tried not to gush, re-assuming a position of voting rights, and in marketing too, not in that stupid position that Orwell had given to him.
Bethlehem quickly looked around the rest of the room. Everyone else of one accord apart from the broken Orwell, all rebellions quashed. He was once more able to walk away and get on with the major business of the evening, safe in the knowledge that the Prince Johns of the firm had either been killed or at the very least, kicked soundly into touch.
'We're done,' he said brusquely. 'I've got an hour or two to look over a few things before I'm back at the airport. I'll be gone a few days, will likely return to the office Friday. I want to see every position filled by then, Beckett, we clear on that? Imelda can work with you on staffing.'
Beckett nodded, unimpressed with the boss's sudden change in humour, and with the fact of having to work with the receptionist.
'And I want you two,' he continued, looking at Bergerac and Achebe, 'to coordinate with Beckett to make sure you've got the right people behind you.'
Achebe nodded. Taylor Bergerac looked Bethlehem in the eye and wondered what the Hell he thought he was doing speaking to her as if she was some lackey. Remained silent.
Bethlehem rose to his feet, pushing the chair away behind him. Another quick look at the collective, checked the clock.
'Those of you who are staying, start making calls. I want progress this evening. Jude, write the letter and get the fuck out of the building by 1800hrs. You,' he said, looking at Barney, 'just get the fuck out.'
Barney saluted. Bethlehem fizzed and was quickly on his heels and out of the room, leaving the door open as he went. The others watched him go, then there were a few uncomfortable looks around the room, mostly directed the way of Orwell, the defeated general.
No need to linger, thought the spared few, and Marcos, Beckett and Achebe were quickly on the hoof, following their intrepid leader back out into the wilds of the company floor.
Three little Indians left in the room. Taylor Bergerac drilling holes into Orwell's skull, Orwell staring at the table, Barney Thomson getting to his feet, preparing to take his newly enforced leave from company headquarters. Orwell finally managed to lift his head and look someone in the eye; Barney as opposed to the woman who had just wholly buggered him.
'Barney,' he said.
'You made an arse of that,' said Barney.
Orwell nodded. 'Yeah,' he said.
'Or,' said Barney, indicating the demure but vicious figure of Taylor Bergerac sitting across the table, 'you had an arse of it made for you.'
Orwell breathed deeply. Barney shrugged. Another idiot bites the dust. But Orwell could be back, with another firm, if he could resuscitate his confidence. That itself would probably be in doubt, however.
'See you around, boss,' he said.
'Yeah,' said Orwell.
There was a certain camaraderie in the look that passed between them, but these were two men who would never see each other again, and they could afford to be dishonest in their presumptions of solidarity. Barney took a look at Bergerac, thought maybe there was something he recognised about her, couldn't really tell without her looking into his eyes, but she was still digging into Orwell's brain. There's a commonality between all women, thought Barney. That capability to betray and destroy men that is always there, no matter now dormant it might lie.
As he was about to move away she suddenly turned and looked at him, so that he got the insight into who she really was. Deep into her eyes, and he knew her. Got the shiver all across his back, felt the hairs on the back of his head tingle, the uncomfortable feelings of uneasiness and maybe even fear, that came with the realisation. He faced her for a few seconds, with Orwell looking between the two of them wondering what was being played out, and then Barney Thomson turned quickly and left the room.
He closed the door behind him, another barrier between him and the woman he'd just left – as if that would be enough – and walked quickly along the corridor to his new office, the room was also instantly about to become his old office.
'Time to get the F out of D, Barney,' he said to himself.
***
In the conference room, there were only two remaining. Jude Orwell and Taylor Bergerac, in a position that he had dreamt about for much of the previous four days. Him, her and a table. There were so many things he could do. But these were not the circumstances he'd anticipated. What was about to happen was not what he'd worked so hard to achieve.
Having said that, he was about to get fucked right enough.
'Right, you,' said Bergerac. 'I believe we've got a few things to sort out.'
Orwell swallowed, and for no reason that he could explain, suddenly felt very, very frightened.
The Battlefield Of Good And Evil
Barney walked for the last time into the reception area of Bethlehem, Forsyth and Crane, on his way to the front door. He stopped and looked at Imelda, as she enjoyed her final shift as Receptionist before heading upstairs. He walked slowly over and bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.
'Imelda,' he said, 'it's been a pleasure. Good luck with your new powers.'
'Thank you very much, Mr Thomson,' she replied.
They smiled at the formality, and then she walked round the desk and held her hand out towards him. He hesitated and then took it, shook it, drew her in towards him and gave her a long, lingering kiss on the lips. He drew away from her and nodded. Imelda blushed, and had a quick sensation of who was that masked man? as he turned and walked to the door.
'Mr Thomson.'
Barney stopped, closed his eyes. Just let me go, he thought. Hesitated with his hand at the door, but something made him turn, something made him realise that his work here was not finished, this story was not yet
closed.
Thomas Bethlehem was walking briskly through reception. Imelda returned to her position to watch events.
'Mr Thomson,' said Bethlehem, 'you intrigue me.'
'Good,' said Barney, 'then let me go. Honestly, there's nothing beneath the intriguing front. No depth, no substance.'
'Oh, I doubt that,' said Bethlehem. 'I'm about to head off for a thing, a big piece of business we've been working on. Maybe you could join us.'
'No,' said Barney.
'I'd pay you a one-off consultancy fee,' he said sharply. 'And, as a matter of fact, I can give you a lift back to Glasgow.'
Barney stared into the smooth marketing eyes.
***
Jude Orwell faced his Nemesis. Had thought all along that his Nemesis would be Bethlehem, or maybe even the late Waugh, but instead it had turned out to be Taylor Bergerac, the previous object of his desire and affections. Bergerac sat back, looking strangely across the table. Orwell was having trouble holding her gaze, his eyes drifting to and from her, head all over the place, no idea what to do or to think. Finally cracked, stood up, turned his back and walked to the window. Heart thumping stupidly, the instant he turned his back the sensation of two holes being drilled in his spine. He leaned on the sill, looked down at the grey river ten floors below, the snow all around. Closed his eyes, wished he could be swallowed up.
He knew what the night held for him. Get hold of Weird Johnny down at the Pink Flamingo, and he'd have these feelings of unease and inadequacy sorted out in minutes. It was the only way, for the moment. Lock himself into that shit world for a few days, feel the weird that Johnny always promised, then come back in a week or two, in a fit state to return to business. At the moment, though, he felt so low that it was hard to imagine ever being in such a state again. Corrupted and broken.
'You're a stupid, snivelling little shit,' said Bergerac behind him. 'How could you imagine for one second that I was going to go for you?'
Orwell swallowed. Couldn't turn and look at her, couldn't trust himself to say anything. Already accepted that he would just have to stand there until she chose to leave, and if she chose instead to stay to ridicule and belittle him, to pound and crush him into the carpet even more than Bethlehem had done, then he was just going to have to take being pounded and crushed into the carpet.
'Look at me,' she said, the words spat out with scorn.
Taylor Bergerac was here to finish him off. Jude Orwell was not destined to walk out of the conference room; due to be dispatched the same way as the five other fools from BF&C. He would be wheeled out on a stretcher, along with the two police officers who were currently standing outside the room, finally aware of the true identity of the outrageously attractive woman who had consumed his mind.
'Look at me,' she repeated. 'Turn your pathetic little head. Now!'
Orwell was broken and deconstructed. Felt bruised and battered, crushed, put through the wringer, tossed from the eighty-fifth floor, splattered on the pavement. He turned slowly, a dismal wretch.
Looked into Bergerac's eyes, as slowly she raised herself to her feet.
'What goes around comes around,' she said, smiling all of a sudden.
'What?'
Her hand reached into the pocket of her long coat, where the small gun nestled, itching to blow a hole in Orwell's face.
'You pay for everything in life,' said Bergerac, 'and sometimes you have to pay more quickly than anticipated.'
'What d'you mean?' said Orwell, who was feeling lost.
'Just depends on who you owe,' said Bergerac, 'and unfortunately for you, you're in debt to a complete bastard.'
'What? What?' said Orwell, continuing his slide into total mental confusion.
Bergerac gripped the gun and felt the glorious tension of the kill in her arms and neck.
The door opened. A man stepped into the room. Orwell started, tore his eyes from Bergerac. Recognised the visitor, but couldn't place Him, thus sinking even further into commotion and bewilderment than he had previously. Bergerac turned slowly, recognised the one who had just entered, and settled back down into her seat, gun hidden, eyes rolling.
'Hey, Dude,' said God, nodding at Orwell. 'Miss,' he said to Bergerac. Bergerac nodded without looking at Him. There was always some idiot liable to come along and get in the way of a good murder.
'Jesus,' said Orwell, 'who are you again? You're a client?'
'What d'you mean, who am I?' said God, annoyed. 'I'm God, you idiot, who the Hell d'you think I am?'
'Jesus,' said Orwell, 'God. The other day. I am so all over the place.'
'Yeah, I know,' said God, 'I've been watching.'
He pulled out a seat and sat at the far end of the table, the chair which had been vacant during Bethlehem's demolition job. Drummed His fingers on the table, waited to see if Orwell was going to say anything for himself. Had been making all His approaches over the previous few days to people while they'd been alone, but it'd been obvious that He couldn't afford to wait until Orwell was alone or his soul would already be gone.
'What can I do for you?' asked Orwell.
'As the man said,' said God, 'it's not about you doing something for me, it's about me doing something for you.'
'What?' said Orwell. 'What?' And he looked at Bergerac, who was sitting submissively staring at the table, and almost wanted her to start up on him again, just to give him some continuity, some certainty in his life.
'That was good advice you gave me the other day,' said God. 'Buying souls. Very solid idea, got people queuing up. It's obviously a long term thing, you know, but there's going to be a big pay-off in a few decades, you know what I'm saying?'
Bergerac tutted loudly. God slung her a glance. Orwell hardly noticed.
'Well,' said Orwell, not entirely sure of what to say, 'that's great. It's good there's been something positive out of the last few days.'
'Definitely,' said God. 'So, been watching, I've seen the shit you're in, thought I might as well come round to see you with an offer, you know. Before it's too late. What d'you think, Bud? As good as it gets.'
From nowhere Orwell felt light-headed and he leaned more heavily back against the window sill. An offer from God. How would that manifest itself, what could he get in return for his soul?
'Jesus fuck,' he said, not attempting to moderate his language in any way, which to be honest was getting on God's wick a bit. 'I wouldn't know where to start at the moment.'
God looked at Bergerac, felt a little curious about her. Had kept her head down since He'd walked in. Wasn't about to suggest to Orwell that he could have Bergerac on a plate, because that would just be a total waste of the biggest payment he would ever make. Dealing with Bethlehem would be much more fulfilling for both of them.
'Think strategically,' said God. 'Big issue, rather than short term sexual gratification, eh?'
Bergerac tutted loudly again. God slung her a glance but didn't say anything. Beginning to contemplate just taking her out of the equation altogether with a thunderbolt or something.
Orwell was trying to get his head into gear, trying not to think of Taylor Bergerac and the contemptuous look with which she had destroyed him.
'So in return for you helping me nail Bethlehem and take control of the company, you get my soul for eternity?'
'You've nailed more than Bethlehem, friend,' said God. 'Right on the money. I'm obligated to point out the usual caveats about the lack of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll in Heaven, but you know that already.'
Bergerac muttered something under her breath. God was beginning to think the time was nigh to eliminate her from proceedings.
Orwell stared at God, the benign presence at the far end of the table. He didn't really believe of course, not for a second. Hadn't believed it was God when He'd walked into his office the first time, hadn't even believed it when He'd torched poor Joyce across the table. Believed strangely that He would be able to help him get rid of Bethlehem, but not that he would be required to spend an eternity in some d
ull-ass place with no rock music and no recreational pharmaceuticals.
'Yep,' said Orwell, 'I think I might take you up on that, but I'm hoping we're not talking an instant deal here, because I'd like an hour or two to think about your end of the bargain.'
God raised His eyebrows. Didn't like being dictated to, and certainly not by pointless little cretins like Orwell.
'I'll give you two minutes, then the offer closes,' He said.
'Right,' said Orwell, instantly capitulating.
'Fuck,' said Bergerac looking up, 'I've heard enough. Enough already!'
'God, what now?' said Orwell. 'Can't we just have two minutes' consistency of conversation here? Please!'
Bergerac ignored him and looked at God. God studied Bergerac properly for the first time, then suddenly realisation dawned, His shoulders dropped and He slumped back in His chair.
'Aw, crap,' said God. 'It's you. You damn well pop up everywhere, you son-of-a-bitch.'
'Not everywhere,' said Bergerac, 'just where I have a vested interest.'
God held out His hands and looked to the skies. Pleading to Himself.
'I'm just trying to do my job, here,' He said. 'I don't need you sticking your horny-headed tail-assed backside into my business.'
Bergerac leant across the table, eyes blazing red for the first time, getting into God's face.
'This sucker,' she said extremely slowly, doing that whole George Clooney From Dusk 'Til Dawn thing that God also had down pat, 'sold his soul to me fourteen years ago.'
'Oh for crying out loud,' said God.
'You are sticking your whiter than white ass into my business.'
God stood up, shaking His head.
'Sorry man, really, I'm sorry. No idea. I'm going to have to speak to my people. Someone obviously screwed up big.'
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