by Various
Project Ref J132—An Examination of Letters to Shareholders and Correlations with Performance.
Resource—The most recent Annual Reports for two hundred companies listed on the London Stock Exchange, and Quarterly Figures reported subsequently.
Analysis—Linguistic.
Summary—Regardless of company turnover, there is a strong correlation between the use of nautical metaphor in a company’s Letter to Shareholders and a subsequent downturn in quarterly results.
Comment—This correlation, in my opinion, reflects the fact that many nautical metaphors refer to difficult weather conditions. Other common metaphors—those relating to cricket, for example—have more positive connotations. The choice of nautical metaphor might be unwitting but may well reveal a high level of pessimism among the board of directors that they are reluctant to acknowledge openly.
A quick response: Hoist the main sail. We’ll make headway with that one. B.
• • •
The New Cantonese Restaurant and Buffet beckoned Jayna on her return to Granby Row. Located in a basement on Whitworth Street, the buffet tempted passers-by with an array of steaming, unnaturally colorful dishes; Jayna glanced down and tried to guess their names. She hoped to identify Singapore Style Rice Vermicelli, a name that Jayna found herself mouthing as soon as she saw the restaurant. But today, Jayna decided it would be foolish to linger. She didn’t even break her stride and the slight turn of her head was sufficiently lazy to conceal the true depth of her interest.
• • •
“Real sausages,” Harry announced as Jayna took her seat in the canteen, “and nicely creamed potatoes.”
“I can’t smell much difference,” said Julie. “But they do taste better than the other sausages. It’s more complex.”
Jayna tapped her foot. She wished she had Hester’s ability to guillotine a conversation. “We had a small visitor to the office today,” she said, abruptly. They looked confused. “Small, not short,” she said. “A child, just two years old.”
“Ah, ha!” said Harry. They all smiled.
“It was so confusing. His behavior was erratic. I can’t work out if he knew he was naughty. And, if he didn’t know, how will he improve his behavior as he gets older?”
Lucas and Julie looked upwards as though the answer hovered above Jayna’s head. They looked back at Jayna with the blankness of people caught mid-daydream. She realized they were picking, unsuccessfully, at the interstices between the knowledge they gained at initiation and their real-world encounters. Neither Lucas at the Tax Office nor Julie at the Pensions Agency were primed on anthropology—fit for purpose—but Jayna hoped Harry, with his experience at the Society Department, would cast some light.
With no one else offering any explanation, he weighed in, as Jayna had anticipated, in expert mode. “Young people—” he put his knife and fork down and pushed back his shoulders “—relinquish their anti-social childhood behavior patterns if they follow a normal line of development. Positive reinforcement for good behavior and so on. And then brain implants at the age of eighteen make them far more rational.” End of subject, as far as Harry was concerned.
“So, initially, it all depends on monitoring by parents and teachers,” said Jayna.
“That’s an interesting point. Parents would like you to think otherwise but we’ve had a review at the department concluding that teachers play a much more important role…” He threw his hands out. “They have more time. They focus on behavioral issues and developing wider curiosities in the children so that, in later life, they can pursue special interests in their leisure time.”
“That’s true,” said Jayna. “My boss, Olivia, is an amateur authority on medievalism. She keeps replicas of historical artifacts in her office and then there’s Jesse Recumbent.”
Harry wasn’t listening. “Implantation, you see, frees up teachers’ time. They just cover the basics for children who will remain fully organic. If they’re never implanted they can at least read and write properly. No point bothering with more.”
The canteen assistant lumbered past their table, glanced at Jayna, and said, “Bangers ’n’ Mash.”
• • •
Back in her room, Jayna pulled the rest station handbook from the top of her wardrobe and tore out a page. She made a series of creases and folds to form a long slim sleeve. She slid the tiny corpse of the second-smallest stick insect into the paper shroud and laid it in her palm. After a moment’s contemplation, she placed the shroud atop the handbook and lifted them both onto the wardrobe. Safe there, for now. And with the corpse dealt with, she set about cleaning the cage, collecting the droppings and tiny eggs that lay intermingled on the cage floor. One day, she would raise some nymphs. They would all be female, which was a shame; she’d like the extra variable.
Carausius Morosus, Indian walking stick. Wingless. Up to ten centimeters in length. Lifespan: one year. Parthenogenetic reproduction: only one in ten thousand nymphs is male. Incomplete metamorphosis: egg, nymph, adult. Nymphs moult five or six times by shedding their exoskeleton.
• • •
Cleaning job finished, Jayna lay curled up on her bed and allowed her thoughts to be dictated by whatever fell under her gaze. The joints between the architrave and the skirting board always screamed at her when she lay facing the door. The skirting board had been cut three centimeters too short and a small piece of wood had been pushed in to fill the gap. But no amount of paint could ever conceal the poor workmanship. No doubt, the joiner had failed to appreciate how many minutes and hours of irritation this error would cause over subsequent years.
And then, the dressing gown hanging from a single hook on the back of the plain-faced door. Jayna became aware she was describing how the garment hung as a set of equations—approximated, for she wasn’t trying too hard—equations that described the peaks and troughs of all the folds. She allowed the dinner conversation to seep into her thoughts. Do bionics like Hester and Benjamin play with mathematics in the same way? If I were an organic, even a smart organic like Dave, would I see a hanging garment and think about the folds or would I simply… see it?
As she climbed into the warm bed a cold thought crept in beside her. The joiner’s mistakes are no worse than my own. The lights started to fade. A westerly wind, one dead family. The smallest stick insect, still thriving. The room was dark and all she could see was a line of light tracing the door. And, now, there’s no Tom. Didn’t expect that. Not even on my radar.
Chapter 4
CRAIG AND DAVE stood toe-to-toe in front of the elevators and passed notes and coins back and forth, clearly making a deal of some precision. But, then, Craig would not approximate even over a jar of home-made honey. Jayna knew this was the core of their transaction. She approached them along the spinal corridor of Mayhew McCline. It seemed incongruous—Craig handling coinage—because day in, day out he dealt with columns of numbers relating to sums of money exchanged in the digital ether. Here was the head of Accounts buying honey from the junior archivist, a sideline officially condoned by Olivia. But Jayna recalled an outburst by Hester: “I never eat any of it. I pour it down the sink as soon as I get home. I mean, where have those bees been?”
Craig peeled off and Jayna raised her eyebrows at Dave. “How’s business?”
“Pretty lively.” They waited together for the elevator. After a few moments, he turned to her. “Do you ever get bored, Jayna?”
“No, Dave. I don’t suppose I do.” And trying to sound bright, “You always seem busy.”
“Well, I’m inventive. I’m bored out of my fucking head, really.”
Her back felt clammy.
• • •
Frustrate: verb. 1. to prevent (a plan or action) from progressing, succeeding, or being fulfilled; prevent (someone) from doing of achieving something; 2. to cause (someone) to feel dissatisfied or unfulfilled. Adj. archaic frustrated.
An image flashed across her mind: scraps of paper on a pavement with a fragment of the Talking
Horse Toy Shop logo. She wanted to ease the tension. “Let’s talk sometime, Dave. I’d like to know what you do outside of work. You know, your hobbies.”
“Yeah. Well, maybe. Come up and see my bees sometime.” Dave rubbed the back of his head with his right hand. “You’re not like the other analysts, are you? So up their own arses.” He looked over his shoulder to check that no one had overheard. As if embarrassed by his own remark, he changed the subject. “Your stick insects all right?”
“A bit sluggish.”
He laughed. “Jayna, you cracked a joke.” The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. Dave punched the button.
“Well, it wouldn’t work with Latin names,” she said.
“That’s true.” He leaned against the side wall of the elevator. “S’pose you’ve heard the rumor about Tom Blenkinsop?”
“What rumor?”
“There was a note.”
“A note? What do you mean?”
“A suicide note.” Ping! The elevator doors opened. “You haven’t heard?” They stepped out and lingered awkwardly.
“How do you know?” she said.
“Someone overheard. It’s doing the rounds now.” They both detected Olivia’s voice, approaching.
“Got to go,” said Jayna. She set off down the glass-walled corridor, spurning the squared floor pattern, which would normally have dictated her stride length. Benjamin walked across his office to greet her. He guided her to his meeting area by placing his hand in the small of her back and applying a slight pressure.
“Take a seat, Jayna. I want this preliminary because you’ve not had an appraisal before. Just want to make sure you know the format.”
She sat on the sofa and covered her face with her hands.
“What’s the matter? What did I miss?”
“I have to tell you, Benjamin. I should have told you before.”
“Told me what?”
She looked up. “Tom sent me a report to finish… I told him I was too busy to help. He was very upset, really angry with me. And then, he went on holiday upset, and committed suicide. I think it’s my fault.”
“Suicide?” shouted Benjamin.
“Everyone knows about the note.”
“A note? There’s no suicide note. His brother would have told me. Though… Ha! Funny, ha! He did leave a note… for me, tendering his bloody resignation. Poached by Stanthorpe’s for a fifty per cent hike in salary. That’s why he booked a last-minute holiday—he was using up all his entitlement.”
“Oh.”
“Jesus, Jayna! How did you jump to that conclusion, that you pushed him into… suicide?”
“Well, it seemed too much of a coincidence.”
“But it would be completely disproportionate. Can’t you see that?” said Benjamin.
“I suppose… Sorry, Benjamin, I got the wrong—”
“Okay. Let’s order some tea, calm down and start again.” And as an afterthought, “I’ll have to stop that bloody rumor now.”
After some twenty minutes’ mock appraisal, Benjamin cut the air with outspread hands. “Enough. Let’s go off record. How are other things going? Working hours and so on.”
“Fine.”
“Because I noticed you were here early today. If you’re working too hard then you will jump to irrational conclusions.”
It was true. She had turned up before the other analysts to steam through some personal research. She’d downloaded research papers on child development, The General Practitioner’s articles on food cravings (was Lamb Biryani a common craving?), University of Warwick research into the olfactory senses, together with 1,143 linked resources, which oddly led her to historical crime stats organized according to perpetrator status and crime category.
“I wanted to spend more time preparing for this meeting. And, to compensate, I plan to leave the office earlier this afternoon.” Had he looked through her downloads? She should offer more. As she stood to leave the meeting, she added, “By the way, I’m doing some wildcat research at present. I’m taking a broader look at crime stats. It isn’t a high priority but I’ll let you know if anything interesting emerges.”
“You said you were busy with the energy stuff. You didn’t want distractions.”
“It’s back-burner research, Benjamin, rather like the Letters to Shareholders. Research without any guaranteed commercial outcome. That’s why I’m allocating a very low priority. But I have a hunch… And I still hold the classified crime data. We must make full use before our access approval comes up for renewal.”
“Okay. But don’t get carried away. Let me know before you increase its status. You’re the one concerned about your working hours.”
“Fine.”
“Anything else you want to raise?”
She seized the opportunity. “There is, as a matter of fact. I’ve been wondering… I think it would be an excellent idea for me to see a few home environments. I was fascinated by Jon-Jo yesterday… I know I’d need authorization and I’d need invitations….”
“I’m not sure. Leave it with me.” Benjamin guided her towards his door by placing his hand behind her arm. His hand slid towards her elbow.
She stopped in her tracks and turned towards her boss.
“Jayna, I’m sorry. Really. It’s in the small print, I know.”
An internal communication flagged Sad News hit everyone’s array shortly after lunchtime:
I’m sorry, yet relieved, to inform you all that Tom Blenkinsop’s body has been found by the local coastguard. An autopsy is required before the body can be released to the family. However, when funeral arrangements are eventually finalized, Mayhew McCline staff will be informed and anyone wishing to attend will be given time off to do so. If any of you are struggling with this sudden loss and require counseling, please contact HR.
Olivia
Why would counseling help, wondered Jayna? Why would talking about Tom’s death to a professional be any different to chatting with colleagues? Scheduling a meeting with HR seemed so unnecessary. The junior analysts, she noticed, were congregating yet again in the kitchen. And, after all, it’s not as though anyone here were related to him.
• • •
Leaving precisely twenty minutes early, Jayna called into the small floristry tucked into the ground floor retail outlets below Mayhew McCline. Some succulent foliage might prevent any further malaise among her stick insects. The second smallest, she thought, had never had a name… Eloise kept a projection of her cat at work; it wandered around her work array. She called it Freud but Jayna could make no connection. So puzzling. People seemed to harbor a delusion that animals were like them, thought like them, which, of course, they patently could not, any more than the pigeons in the park or her stick insects. Why didn’t they just appreciate animals, birds, insects for that matter, for what they were? Obviously, I have my own proper name. I am perfectly human, as organic as any bionic. Much smarter of—
“Yes, love? Is that all you want, just that bit of greenery?”
Jayna held out a limp straggle of variegated ivy. “Yes, it’s for my stick insects.” She presented a particularly endearing smile.
“Take some of these offcuts instead. I won’t charge you. My nephew has stick insects and he says they really gobble up rose leaves, and they like all types of ivy. It’s all organic, too. No pesticides. You see, I know about stick insects. My nephew tells me everything.”
“Thank you, that’s really very helpful. It’s difficult to find the right kind of greenery in the city center. I depend on handouts from friends.” A look of pained resignation crossed Jayna’s face.
“Well, call in any time. It’s only going to waste. And if Geena’s here instead of me, tell her it’s all right with Prudence.”
“Thanks, Prudence.”
The assistant wrapped the offcuts as if dealing with a Valentine’s gift. Jayna took hold of the precious package and murmured, “My name’s Jayna.”
The tentative nature of her statement provoked a g
ently spoken response: “That’s a nice name.” Prudence evidently recognized a less robust creature than herself.
On her way out, Jayna nodded to her reflection in a mirror behind the flower racks.
She set off for C7, merging with a mish-mash of adults who walked with greater or lesser determination in the direction of the Library Theatre. She walked in step with the two people nearest to her. Walk the same streets, breathe the same air. And she considered carefully the range of people she’d met over the past six months—her colleagues, her friends, the staff at C7, and now Prudence. I inhabit their worlds and they inhabit mine; it’s a seductive thought. But… do some people inhabit other people’s lives in a more… demonstrative, more invasive manner? Maybe I should see it differently. She conjured a three-dimensional timeline with thousands of colored tubes weaving in and out. Our lives run parallel for a while then intersect or shoot off. Take Jon-Jo—he’ll have more intersections than I ever will.
A young man ran past Jayna from behind, the flapping material of his jacket making violent contact with hers. In that instant, she saw zebras bolting… and a lioness… teeth and claws sinking into striped flanks. A bloodied mouth.
• • •
She was the first resident to return to the rest station that afternoon. A lengthy, uninterrupted dousing in the communal shower offered a cure for how she felt, which was… unsettled: an unsatisfactory negative. In truth, she longed to feel waves crashing over her, just like the images she’d seen above the Opera House last week, an advertisement for surfing holidays in Cornwall.
The bathroom was deserted. She undressed, adjusted the shower controls for maximum pressure, and allowed the water jets to blast and abrade her skin. Within a minute, her skin became reddened and sore. She turned slowly, and repeatedly, through 360 degrees so that water was constantly flowing down her unmarked skin. After two minutes, there was no appreciable temperature difference between the front and back of her torso. She became hot and then hotter still. What would happen, she wondered, if she didn’t stop? Like a child twizzing around, and around, and around, just for the experience, not caring for the consequences. She increased the water temperature. After a further three minutes, the room was filled with dense white steam and she felt light and lost. The whiteness absorbed her. And, as she continued turning, perspiration evacuated her skin, flowing in sheets. She felt a dull ache throughout her body. At last, she stilled herself, allowing the jets to shoot needles at her flat belly, her small breasts. As blackness closed in, she felt repeated spasms deep inside and her body buckled.
