by Ian Edwards
‘The only time they look alive is when they run up and down corridors. Why do they do that? To show everyone how busy they are? Perhaps if they had better time management, they wouldn’t constantly be late for meetings. Just a thought.’
‘I can see there’s little point talking to you…’
‘And yet here we are…’
‘I’m afraid to tell you,’ Graham interrupted, ‘that you will be receiving a poor performance marking this year. You were warned a while ago that this was on the cards, and yet I have seen no improvement at all. Quite the reverse in fact.’
‘Fair enough,’ Alan replied.
‘You don’t really care, do you?’
‘Not really, no,’ Alan admitted.
‘I just think it’s a shame, that’s all. Look, if I’m being honest Alan, senior management want you out. I’m the only thing standing between you and redundancy.’
‘How much?’ Alan asked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘How much money are we talking?’
‘You can’t be serious,’ Graham said.
‘It’s about the only time I will be,’ Alan leaned across the desk for a moment before Frankie unexpectedly appeared over Graham’s shoulder and shocked him back into his seat. ‘Bloody hell…’ Alan shouted.
‘There’s no need for bad language, Alan,’ Graham said. ‘Nor do you need to raise your voice.’
‘What have I missed?’ Frankie asked, before Alan could speak.
‘Bloody hell,’ Alan repeated, though much quieter this time. Although he was getting used to Frankie’s sudden appearances, he could still occasionally be caught out. ‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘Can I go?’
‘Well, as you know there is a small pot for redundancies, but that’s for poor performers.’
‘I thought you just told me that’s what I was?’
‘Yes, but you’re not like them. I mean, well, you know what I mean.’
‘Sorry Graham, I really don’t. I’m either rubbish at my job or I’m not.’
‘That’s telling him, son,’ Frankie said, peering over Graham’s shoulder at the papers on the desk.
‘There’s rubbish and there’s rubbish,’ Graham said, somewhat unhelpfully. ‘What I mean is, the trouble makers. You know the type.’
‘Of course I know the type, I go out of my way to cause trouble. It’s the only interesting thing I do all day.’
Frankie chuckled before looking up at Alan. ‘It says here,’ Frankie pointed to the papers, ‘that the Department is looking to offer redundancy to those of advancing years. Bloody cheek.’
‘Yes but you’re not stuck in your ways.’
Taking Frankie’s hint, Alan replied, ‘you mean old. You want to get rid of the older staff.’
‘No, yes, well, no…’ Graham flustered, picking up his papers, convinced Alan had been reading them upside down.
Alan let out a laugh. ‘Now I get it. It’s the older staff, yes, but they all have one thing in common. And that’s the fact that they are common. No, let me finish,’ he said as Graham made to reply. ‘It’s simple, we only employ graduates with an irritating “can do” attitude. The Department doesn’t want anyone who isn’t a yes man. We only want people who work long hours and weekends for no reward, because they don’t know any better. But those who have been round the block a few times, well, they have opinions. And, even if those opinions turn out to be right, we just don’t want to hear it, do we?’
Alan was interrupted by the sound of Frankie clapping. ‘Brilliantly put, son. I’m proud of you.’
‘…and, it also implies very strongly that we don’t want people who don’t have degrees…’ Alan picked up his rant again.
‘But you have a degree,’ Graham pointed out.
‘Yes, but I am common. I went to a comprehensive school. People died…’
Graham sighed. ‘Are you seriously telling me you would take a redundancy package?’
‘Absolutely. Set the wheels in motion. You see Graham, the thing is, if you think I’m irritating now, think about what I’ll be like if you don’t offer me redundancy…’
Graham considered this for a moment. ‘Perhaps you’re right. I’ll have a word with the bosses and let you know.’ Clutching his papers to his chest, Graham got up, opened the meeting room door and wandered down the corridor.
‘I think that went rather well, don’t you?’ Frankie grinned.
‘Yeah, but why am I freaking out?’
‘It’s a step in to the unknown. It’s what you’ve always wanted. The freedom to concentrate on comedy. Or it could be you’re talking to a dead bloke.’
‘Yeah, that’s probably it,’ Alan grinned, getting up from his chair. ‘So, I think a spot of lunch is in order. What do you fancy?’
Frankie shook his head. ‘Funny man.’
‘That’s the idea…’
*
‘I’m not a psychiatrist,’ he whined.
‘I said “counsellor” and you’re going to be one today,’ Frances told him.
Michael Franklin crossed his arms and stared defiantly at her from across the desk.
‘I’m an accountant,’ he said. ‘Your accountant.’
‘You’re my accountant only because I was prepared to turn a blind eye to your conviction for embezzlement,’ Frances pointed out. ‘I doubt you would have had too many offers of employment waiting for you when you got out of prison,’ she added.
Franklin slumped back in his chair. He knew he was beaten. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Good, now you’re being sensible,’ she said. ‘I simply need you to pretend to be a counsellor, sit with one of the guests and listen to everything she has to say. Ask a few questions and tell her she’s suffering from a condition and she needs a lot of rest and therapy.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do I have to do this?’
Frances sighed. ‘Because I’ve asked you to.’
Franklin nodded. ‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘Look, the guest is a friend of mine. She’s suffering with a lot of stress at the moment and I’m worried that if she doesn’t get some rest she’s going to make herself ill. If she thinks she’s getting a diagnosis from a professional, she’s more likely to listen to you than if I tell her as a friend. It’s for her own good,’ Frances explained.
‘I see,’ Franklin said, who didn’t see at all.
‘You can go back to your office now. I’ll send her along at about 11.00,’ Frances told him.
‘Should I have some props?’ Franklin asked.
‘What do you mean props?’
‘Don’t psychiatrists have white coats, a couch and those china models of heads with the parts of the brain written on them?’
Frances looked at Franklin for several seconds before speaking, ‘You can borrow a white coat from the kitchen staff and a couch from the physiotherapist.’
‘And the model of the head?’ he asked.
‘Don’t push your luck. Now get out,’ Frances snapped, glaring at him.
*
Franklin looked around his office. He thought it looked the part. He had borrowed one of the couches from the physiotherapy department and squeezed it into the corner of his office, although the limited space meant that he had been forced to take one of his two chairs out and leave it in a storage room. He had borrowed a white coat from the kitchen, taking it off of a peg when no one was watching, and rather than a china head, he had found the board game “Operation” in the storage room, which he had set up on his desk to create the illusion that he was a medical professional.
He gazed up at the clock on the wall as two soft knocks came from the door. ’11.00. bang on time,’ he thought.
‘Come in,’ he called out.
Franklin looked up as a tall, attractive woman dressed in a track suit stepped into the room.
‘Miss Gould?’ he asked.
‘Mrs Cook,’ Amy replied.
‘I’m sorry,’ he s
aid. ‘I was expecting someone else,’ he reached for a sheet of paper on his desk.
Seeing his confusion, Amy said, ‘No it’s Miss Gould, you’re expecting me.’
‘OK, I see,’ Franklin said, slightly unnerved. Had Frances sent him someone with a multiple personality disorder? He didn’t like the sound of this at all. ‘If you’d like to jump up on the couch we can get started,’ he said nervously.
‘Sorry?’ Amy said giving him a funny look.
‘The couch. If you’d like to lay down, we can get started.’
Amy continued to stare cautiously at Franklin while moving round the office. ‘I’ll take the chair, thank you,’ she said, and sat herself down in Franklin’s chair.
Watching Amy sit in his chair, Franklin had no choice but to perch on the end of the couch.
Amy watched him as he fidgeted to make himself comfortable.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’ he asked after finally settling down on the couch.
‘Frances said that it would do me good to talk to you.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Franklin said, reaching across for a pen and pad of paper.
‘Where do you want me to start?’ Amy asked.
‘At the beginning. Tell me everything.’
Amy settled back into her chair and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Well, I suppose it all started when we went to see a friend of mine at an old theatre,’ Amy paused, ‘he’s a comedian,’ she added by way of explanation.
‘Is he funny?’ Franklin asked.
‘No, not really.’
Franklin wrote the words not funny on his pad, underlined them and prompted Amy to continue.
‘Well after that I…’
Franklin leaned back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. He could hear Amy talking and thought he should make a few notes to look convincing, however before he could pick up his pen he fell asleep.
Franklin open his eyes. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, and if Frances found out she would make his life a misery. He looked at his watch. 11.10. He breathed a sigh of relief, he’d been asleep for only a few minutes. As long as Amy hadn’t noticed, he would be OK. Turning his head, he could see Amy still sitting in his chair, and she was still talking.
‘…So I figured this was the best place to be,’ she finished.
Amy waited for Franklin to say something, but the man seemed a little dazed. ‘So,’ she said eventually, ‘what do you think?’
Franklin swung his legs off the couch and stood up. He hadn’t heard a thing that she had said, aside from something about a theatre. However, Frances had simply told him to make something up. Being an accountant, he was confident that he could do just that. He walked around and stood in front of Amy. It was clear she had been crying.
‘This is an interesting case.’
‘Is it?’ Amy said.
Franklin nodded. ‘Very much so. In fact, I’d say it’s one of the most intriguing cases I’ve ever heard.’
‘Is it?’ Amy said again.
‘Oh yes, it would make an interesting case study.’
Amy chewed her lip.
‘In my professional opinion,’ Franklin said, liking the way the words seemed to add credibility to his invented diagnosis, ‘I believe you are suffering from Acute Bemusement Syndrome.’
‘Is that bad?’ Amy asked.
Franklin pursed his lips. ‘It can be, if not treated properly.’
‘What happens if it’s not treated?’
Franklin put on his sternest face. ‘You could go mad.’
‘Oh,’ Amy mumbled and started to cry.
‘But the good news is that we’ve caught it really early, and you should be fine with the right treatment.’ Franklin hated women crying, or more specifically hated women crying near him. His priority was to get her out of his office as quickly as possible.
‘So, what’s the treatment?’ Amy asked tearfully.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Franklin said, ‘you go back to the gym and I’ll make some enquiries, and speak to Frances. Why don’t you pop along and see her later this afternoon?’
Amy wiped her eyes and stood up. ‘Thank you for listening to me.’
‘Not at all, that’s what I’m here for,’ Franklin said smugly.
‘One more thing,’ Amy said turning back to him.
‘What’s that?’
‘Why do you have Kitchen Staff written on your white coat?’
‘Ah…’ Franklin paused. ‘It’s my name,’ he lied.
‘Kitchen?’ Amy mumbled. ‘That’s an unusual name.’
‘Yes, it’s Austrian,’ Franklin began to sweat.
Amy nodded, accepting the explanation, said goodbye and left the office.
Franklin shut the door behind her, looked at his desk and decided to play a quick game of operation before speaking to Frances.
*
‘You told her what?’ Frances barked at Franklin.
Franklin sank into his chair, trying to make himself smaller.
‘You said to make something up, so I did.’
‘I meant tell her she was suffering from a proper illness like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, not invent a ridiculous illness like …’ she looked at Franklin’s note, ‘Acute Bemusement Syndrome. What the hell is that anyway?’
Franklin shrugged. ‘I don’t know I made it up.’
Frances glared across her desk at him.
‘I can’t see the problem. She was none the wiser, and accepted what I said. It worked out well enough.’
Frances sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘I told her to pop up and see you this afternoon. I said you’d go over the treatment options with her.’
Any further comment was cut short by knocking on the door.
‘That’ll be her,’ Franklin pointed out.
Frances stood up. ‘Get the door on your way out,’ she said, gesturing for Franklin to leave the room.
Franklin nodded and smiled at Amy as he let her in, and then shut the door firmly behind him, keen to put distance him and Amy before she started crying again.
Frances handed Amy a box of tissues and sat her down.
‘Did the Doctor speak to you?’ Amy asked.
‘Yes, he did Amy,’ Frances said softly. ‘He told me about the Acute Bemusement Syndrome.’
‘He said I could go mad,’ Amy began to tear up again.
‘I don’t think it will come to that,’ Frances reassured her. ‘Rest is normally the best cure, and there’s nowhere better than the sanctuary for that. I imagine that three or four weeks should be enough.’
‘I can’t stay here that long, I’m due back at school next week. Aren’t there any other treatments?’ Amy asked.
Frances looked around the room, gazing at the power socket on the wall by the door. ‘Well, I suppose we could try shock therapy.’
‘Electric shock therapy?’ Amy asked wide eyed.
‘The best kind,’ Frances said. ‘We just wire you up to the power and give you a few thousand volts a couple of times a day for a week.’
Amy chewed her lip. ‘Will that work?’
‘Possibly,’ Frances paused. ‘If not, the shock when you see the electric bill almost certainly will.’ She laughed at her own joke, but looking at Amy’s pained expression, she added, ‘Look Amy, you can stay here as my guest for as long as you need to. We’ll get the Doctor to write to your school and explain that you are unwell.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Amy mumbled.
‘Don’t forget that no one knows you’re here. That includes the police. They won’t find you here, and in a few weeks any fuss would have died down.’
Amy nodded. Frances was right, the Sanctuary was the best place for her at the moment. James would understand when she told him.
‘I think you’re right,’ she said at last. ‘I’m really grateful for all your help. I’m not sure what I would have done without you.’
Frances smiled. ‘I’m just glad I’ve been able to help you.’
‘The Future of British Politics and My Part in It’ by Frances Shilling.
Taking the book to the reception, she said to the receptionist, ‘can you see that this book is left in Miss Gould’s suite?’
Satisfied that her plan was on track, she returned to her office with a smile on her face.
*
Alan sat at his regular table in The Cloven Hoof reading through his list of jokes he had written for some of Sarah’s acts. He had enjoyed the challenge of writing for someone else, and the extra money would come in handy if he managed to get his redundancy package.
A cold presence to his left indicated Frankie was about to make an appearance. Sure enough, as Alan took his eyes off his notes, Frankie popped into view in the seat alongside him. ‘What is it with you and this pub?’ he asked.
‘It’s a proper pub,’ Alan replied quietly. ‘Real ale, proper tables, sticky floor. It’s everything a pub should be.’
‘Everything except nice,’ Frankie nodded to the table, ‘what have you got there?’
‘It’s the jokes I wrote for some of Sarah’s acts. If I get made redundant, I’m going to need all the money I can get.’
‘Make sure you keep the best gags for yourself, son. You’re not a charity.’
‘You saw them. They’re not going to set the comedy world alight,’ Alan admitted.
‘So what about you? I was thinking you could expand on your internet thing about buying llamas. You wouldn’t have to make it up.’
Alan smiled. ‘Yeah, I was thinking that, but I preferred the ad-lib about the Amish terrorists. Blokes won’t have ridiculous beards forever. One day soon they’ll be thought of in the same way as mullets.’
‘That’s a fair point, son,’ Frankie said. ‘You’re probably best to milk it now for all it’s worth. Hold on, your dates’ just arrived…’
‘How many times? It’s not a date,’ Alan looked up as Sarah walked towards his table, smiling.
‘Alan, hi, are you OK? Sorry I’m late. I had a bit of a bra emergency…’
‘Told you,’ Frankie grinned, before Alan could reply.
‘…can I get you a drink?’ she asked.
‘No, don’t worry, I’ll get you one. What would you like?’ Alan replied, getting up from his chair.
