Felix Shill Deserves to Die

by Gareth Busson

  I nodded cautiously.

  ‘What’s that worth nowadays?’ he said, doing up his fly. ‘Twenty-five kay?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ I crossed the room to the washbasins, hoping that would be the end of the discussion. Blondie, however, was determined to continue his little interrogation.

  ‘So what do you drive? I’m guessing you’re an Aston man, am I right? DB7? Hey, listen. You got any tips from the inside track? Any options I should know about? I’ll cut you in for a percentage.’

  I sighed and looked at him in the mirror.

  ‘Money and objects,’ I said. ‘That’s all it boils down to with you people, isn’t it? Lazy money and pretty objects. You really are that simple.’

  My questions diluted his enthusiastic grin, but still he looked back in anticipation.

  ‘Just answer me one question,’ I said, and held my wrist out in front of him. ‘When you look at this, what do you actually see? Is it an expensive watch or simply another trinket that you don’t own?’

  He looked at me, as if he half expected it all to be a joke of some sort. Unfortunately for him, I was past humour.

  ‘Yeah, I thought as much,’ I said. ‘This time it’s a watch, but it could be anything, couldn’t it? Maybe a car. A house. A boat. A wife even. Whatever, it makes no difference. You deadheads are all the fucking same. You think that owning expensive stuff sets you out from the herd. But I know the truth.’

  ‘The truth? What truth?’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s just social camouflage, isn’t it? Protection. Something you use to hide behind. Keep people focussed on the brush strokes and they don’t notice the banality of the bigger picture.’

  Hell’s teeth, this coke was good.

  ‘Isn’t that right?’ I said, and pointed him in the chest.

  The man finally discovered his balls. ‘I say, I don’t know who you think you are, but how dare you. It’s not that at all. A person is allowed to appreciate the nicer things in life, you know?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up about ‘appreciate’. The only thing you’ve ever appreciated is the fagging that you got at the school that Mummy and Daddy used to board you off to.’

  His face began to burn. Was that guilt? Had I hit a nerve somewhere?

  ‘You lemmings never appreciate anything. You’re trapped. The second you get your hands on what you’ve been after you realise that it hasn’t changed a thing. You’re still the same arsehole that you’ve always been. And so the only way to bolster your fragile egos is to set your sights on something else. You’re like a junkie, always looking for the next fix. You’ll do anything to prevent yourself from facing up to the real issue.’

  The man looked behind him. I don’t think he could believe that anyone would dare to be so direct when they were alone.

  ‘Don’t look so pissed off, pal,’ I said. ‘It’s not your fault, and if it’s any consolation, you’re not the only one. We’re all bought up to behave this way. That’s the way that the system works, but sooner or later you come to realise that it’s a waste of time. I mean, what’s the point in working yourself into an early grave just to impress a bunch of people that you don’t even like. It’s time to wake up.’

  The man’s pride kicked in. ‘Time to wake up?’ He bit back sarcastically. ‘Wake up to what? The spiritual fruits of Jesus, I suppose?’

  Stepping to within a foot of his face, I answered, ‘Fuck Jesus in the arse while he’s nailed to the bastard beams. Do you think a religious fanatic would threaten to beat your face against these taps until your teeth were nothing but stubs?’

  The man gave an uneasy grimace and I knew I was on safe ground. He hadn’t the attitude for physicals, which was good because right at that moment, I didn’t have the physicals for attitude. I looked him up and down for a couple of seconds longer before walking out, secretly impressed by his ‘spiritual fruits’ jibe.

  Back in the auditorium, the presentation was well underway. The company’s CEO, dressed in regulation dark suit, blue shirt and red tie was just hitting his stride, but there was no sign of Waters. I fidgeted at the back of the room, drawing disapproving looks from those around me, and vowed to get the hell out of there as soon as I’d handed his stash back.

  Throughout the CEO’s speech, all I wanted to do was interrupt. I wanted to shout out and let him know that his graphs and tables were of no interest to anyone. They were certainly of no interest to me, because they were not about me. I was the one they should be discussing. I was the strategic advantage they were searching for, the one making strides along the critical path to success. It was all about me. Everything was. The cocaine said so.

  After ten minutes, and with Waters still nowhere to be seen, my self-absorbed fever was becoming too much to restrain. The next speaker was due, and so I took advantage of the slight break and started for the exit. That was when Pressman was proudly introduced to the audience.

  I was hoping to get out of there without any further scenes, but when the fucker strutted to the stage and gripped the lectern like a fascist dictator, I stopped moving. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘Thank you, Malcolm, and good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ he boomed. ‘I would like to personally thank you for joining us here today. The next few years will be eventful for White and Hurst, I can promise you that, but before I outline our operational ambitions in more detail, I would like us to take a moment to remember those people that were tragically taken from their family and friends last night, just a few miles away.’

  Pressman lowered his head.

  Across the room there was a series of uncomfortable exchanges. Then the crowd fell silent.

  I was stunned. What a beautiful touch. What a shamelessly political bastard. Don’t misunderstand me; there was nothing actually wrong with what Pressman was doing. It was the way in which he was doing it that infuriated me. If the company felt strongly enough about the disaster, the CEO would’ve asked for a minute at the start of the proceedings, not halfway through. As a result the gesture felt contrived and utterly inappropriate. But of course, Pressman knew exactly what he was doing, and he knew he was utterly beyond reproach. It was another one of his power games. Another way of showing that he was in control.

  Sixty seconds treacled by and then the lights suddenly dimmed. For a second I thought the power had been cut, but there was no such luck. It was only the start of Pressman’s presentation. A tinny fanfare pumped through the wall-mounted speakers, accompanied by a slideshow of would-be inspirational images. Production facilities, arrows hitting bull’s eyes, and white-collared WASPs all high fiving each other, flashed onto a screen behind the aloof Pressman.

  After a short while the music died down, allowing Pressman to throw himself into a rousing speech with all the theatrics of a late night evangelist. It was low in detail, but high in hyperbole. He remained true to his word, delivering his real intentions behind such a thick veneer that it was impossible for anyone but the initiated to see them. After a few minutes, I felt my leash slipping.

  ‘… will naturally complement and facilitate the five year plan that James outlined,’ Pressman said. ‘And the innovative operational strategies of White and Hurst’s don’t end there…’

  There was a momentary pause while he waited for the image behind him to change, and for a split second the room fell quiet. This was my chance. I pounced.

  ‘And what exactly is your definition of innovation?’ I shouted.

  Every head in the room craned to look in my direction.

  ‘Ah, excuse me?’ said Pressman, straining to work out where the voice was coming from.

  ‘I said, “What’s your definition of innovation?” because I think it differs from mine.’

  The reiterated question allowed Pressman to locate me. The instant he saw who the voice belonged to, his mouth tightened in anger. Glancing behind, he saw that his perfectly timed presentation was ruined. His only hope of salvation now was to slaughter me i
n public. With a casual air, he signalled the projectionist to stop the reel.

  ‘I feel that I must apologise to you all for this disruptive influence,’ he said to the audience. ‘Etiquette typically dictates that questions are taken at the end of a presentation. However, since this gentleman clearly feels that this is such a burning issue, I suppose I really must answer it now.’ He took a drink of water and cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m sure my definition is no different to anyone else’s. Innovation is ‘the practical application of original thinking.’

  Pressman looked snootily back at me for my reply.

  I nodded. ‘We at least agree on that.’

  ‘How kind of you to confirm that to us all. I’m sure the next time any of us requires any kind of semantic clarification you will be the first person we call upon. Now, if I may continue?’

  When I didn’t respond he nodded triumphantly and prepared to pick up his thread.

  ’But you see, now I have a problem,’ I called out again.

  Pressman looked exasperated, but he took the bait nevertheless. ‘Yes, I really believe that you do,’ he said, bringing the audience to life.

  ‘Yeah, well I wouldn’t laugh just yet, Mr. Pressman,’ I said. ‘See, if we both understand what it means to innovate then one of us is totally wrong somewhere along the line.’

  He smirked. ’Really? Well, you’ll forgive me for feeling confident.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t believe you can describe a plan to close down all your UK factories and relocate them to China as innovative. I mean, it’s been done too many times in recent years for it to be considered an original idea, surely?’

  A low murmur of whispering filled the room. Pressman shot a nervous glance over to where the board members were sitting.

  ‘I… I… I don’t… I don’t recall ever having outlined any kind of relocation strategy during my presentation,’ he said, his eyelids flickering. ‘And with all due respect…’

  “With all due respect…” I love it when people start their sentences with that phrase, because you know that whatever follows will be anything but.

  ‘…with all due respect I suggest that you spend more of your energy listening to what I am actually saying, rather than jumping to inflammatory conclusions. Now I really must demand that you allow me to continue–’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Pressman. You haven’t said a thing about it in your presentation, in much the same way that you haven’t said much about anything else.’

  ‘If you would kindly allow me to continue then I might be able to–’

  ‘To what? Explain to us about the Shanghai facility that you’ve agreed to build without the boards consent? The one that goes live in two months time? Over three million pounds worth of capital equipment purchased in your name, wasn’t it?’

  Pressman opened his mouth to reply, but for probably the first time in his life nothing came out. A blockage was preventing a response and as the flow of blood welled up behind it his face became a blaze of guilt. When a few moments passed with still no retort, the audience began to draw their own conclusions.

  Recognising the danger signs, the CEO quickly ushered Pressman from the stage and did his best to restore calm, but it was too late. The gathering was already dispersing. With my mission accomplished, I joined in.

  I was almost at the exit when I saw Waters motioning me furiously on the other side of the main bar. Of course! I never once stopped to think about the implications my outburst might have on him.

  ‘Listen, Waters,’ I said, as I approached, ‘I’m really sorry if I dropped you in the shit back there. I just couldn’t help myself,’

  He grinned like a dervish. ‘Don’t give it another thought, my boy. You’ve whipped up so much dust no one will ever find me. After this our friend Pressman will be lucky if he’s left to manage the photocopier, let alone our operational facilities.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. By the way, I still owe you that cola.’

  He took a moment to scan the room and then placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Now’s not really the time or the place, I’d say. Tell you what, let’s just write that off, shall we? I rather think you’ve earned it.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure?’

  He never got the chance to answer. With his corporate grapevine now well and truly alight, Waters was heavily in demand. His mobile phone rang and after a short conversation he explained that his presence was requested back upstairs.

  ‘Damage limitations, don’t you know,’ he said, with an elated flourish.

  We shook hands and parted company at the main entrance. I ran into the street, ignoring the hoards that were waiting outside for further copy. The cocaine was wearing off, but it didn’t matter anymore. My mind was crackling with a more focused kind of high. For the first time in my life I had taken them on and won. Right at that moment there was nothing that I couldn’t tackle. And so, when I saw a cluster of telephone booths on the edge of Soho Square, I dived straight in.

  Thirty seconds later I heard her voice again.

  10.15, Saturday, December 21, 1985

  Felix teetered atop the high wrought iron gates like a giant, squat bird. For one panic-filled moment he stared down at the fleur-de-lis spikes and imagined the damage they would do if he were to slip on the frozen metalwork. It was almost a relief then when he felt himself pitching forward.

  Felix expected the orange gravel to splash out on impact and cushion his landing, but he had not allowed for the conditions. The stones remained solid, buckling his ankle and making him cry out in pain.

  Praying that no one had seen or heard his feeble acrobatics, Felix picked himself up and shuffled noisily towards the great white house. He checked the crumpled mess of wrapping paper beneath his coat. At least her present was undamaged.

  He was still some way from the porch way when the front doors opened and a tanned man dressed in a double-breasted suit stepped out. Felix immediately ducked behind a nearby bush and watched as the giant man walked to the side of the house and leaned over a low wall. At first Felix imagined he was simply going about his day-to-day business, but when the man turned around Felix saw he was holding a long steel bar in one hand.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, eh?’ the man asked, looking directly at Felix’s hiding place. He came forward and swung the heavy rod effortlessly in front of him, as though he was preparing to beat grouse from the shrubbery.

  ‘I– I–,’ Felix stammered, limping back out onto the drive. ‘I can explain.’

  But his assailant was in no mood for explanations and strode purposefully on. Felix pivoted to run, but in doing so his ankle gave way, sending him reeling to the ground. The man was on him in an instant.

  ‘What you after nicking this time, eh?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m not after nicking anything,’ Felix flapped his hands in defence. ‘Honest. I came to see Kalila, that’s all. I’m her boyfriend.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ the mans broad shoulders withdrew slightly. ‘It you that keeps calling here, eh?’

  ‘I did call a couple of times.’ Felix struggled back to his feet. ‘Can you tell Kalila that I’m here, please?’

  ‘What am I, your fucking slave? Eh? Think you my master, little koos? Eh?’ The man raised the steel bar as if to strike. While Felix was distracted by the threat, he kicked him behind a knee, sending him sprawling back onto the gravel.

  ‘Now just you fucking listen to me, white monkey koos. You can stop the phone calls, eh? Kalila’s not here no more. She’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ Felix whined. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Home. Back in Persia for good, eh? No white monkeys there.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Calling me liar, little monkey koos?’ The man kicked out again. ‘Eh? Eh?’

  Felix’s first impulse was to huddle into a ball, but the churning of the gates’ electric motors jarred him back to life.

  ‘Who the fuck?’ The man growled and turned to look back
at the house.

  Taking full advantage of the distraction, Felix clawed at the icy stones and scuttled away.

  ‘That’s right,’ the man roared after him, ‘get the fuck out of it, and don’t come round here again, eh? Cause I won’t bother with no bastard rozzers. Next time I’ll sort you out, and for real. Take “fuck off” for an answer, eh?’

  Felix did no such thing. Late one night, after another week of unanswered calls, he sneaked back into Kalila’s estate. This time however, rather than a beating, he found a deserted property, and as he stared into the empty rooms, painful thoughts echoed inside of him.

  Not her. Please, no. Not her too.

  What was it about him? What was it that made them all keep leaving?

  They all kept leaving him.

  6

  ‘Felix?’ Kalila said incredulously.

  A smile ripped across my face. I hadn’t even mentioned my name and yet straight off she knew who I was.

  ‘No, it can’t be,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Felix Shill?’

  ‘The very same,’ I replied, trying to sound gallant. ‘How’s things, Kal?’

  The phone fell ominously silent.

  Desperate to understand what she might be thinking, I pressed a finger into my other ear. Through the muffled din of the streets I heard Kalila sigh.

  It was the kind of stunned exclamation a man can only ever dream of producing in a woman. My bones failed and the world melted away as I was catapulted into a realm of contentment far beyond the reach of mortals. Not even the stench of piss coming from the greasy receiver could suppress my excitement.

  ‘How did you get this number?’The practicality of the question slapped me back to earth. Shit, I was hoping she wouldn’t ask that.

  ‘Hello?’

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Whatever you do, don’t mention the Internet. You creepy obsessive freak, she’ll run a mile if you do.

  ‘Your number?’ I replied casually. ‘It’s all totally innocent really. Well, actually I suppose it was a bit of a liberty on my part, but…’