Subpoena Colada

by Mark Dawson

  ‘That’s preposterous.’

  ‘He says he found some documents in your office. Would you mind if he showed us where they were?’

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ he says.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t take a moment.’

  ‘Go ahead. I don’t mind at all.’

  I go around to his side of the desk. He’s hidden an open bottle of champagne and two glasses underneath his chair. I look up at him and sneer. I tug at the drawer. He’s locked it.

  ‘Unlock it,’ I say.

  The Dork takes out his keys and opens the drawer.

  I flick through the contents. Nothing. I pull out the folders and book, his gym kit and cycling helmet, and dump them onto the floor. I empty the drawer completely. There’s no sign of the stolen report. The corners of the Dork’s mouth rise ever so slightly.

  ‘It was in there,’ I point.

  ‘Daniel, it’s empty,’ Dawkins says faux-apologetically.

  ‘Thank you, Oliver,’ Wilson says. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ says Hunter.

  DEBRIEFING

  We return to the conference room. I have nothing else to say. Wilson and Fulton glare at me malevolently. Hunter seems embarrassed. Even Tanner can’t look me in the eye. There’s a minute of awkward silence before I thank them for listening to my presentation and leave.

  I’m finished. I’m not going to be made up to partner, that’s obvious. But, worse than that, I’ve just made a complete fool of myself in front of the entire partnership council.

  I’ve just killed any chance I had of a successful career at White Hunter.

  Cohen is outside, waiting to go in. Like me, he hasn’t prepared any slides or handouts. Unlike me, he’s glacially cool.

  ‘How was it?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say.

  ‘Come on, these things are just like job interviews,’ he reassures me. ‘You think they’ve gone terribly but you’ve never really got an idea. I thought I’d fucked up my interview for this place but they still made me an offer. Just wait and see. Don’t get down about it. You never know.’

  ‘On this occasion,’ I say, ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’ I’m still sweating.

  I really need a drink - a hard one. I’ve got the whisky upstairs and now Cohen is going to be out of the way for twenty minutes.

  ‘Don’t forget about tonight,’ he says. ‘Beth’s cooking aside, we’ll have a great time, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  IN SEARCH OF CLUES

  I’m on my knees in the photocopying room, streamers of shredded paper all around me, some bunched in my fists, when Dawkins comes in.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he says.

  ‘You know what I’m doing,’ I say, pointing at the shredder.

  ‘Trying to find the document you stole.’

  ‘You’ve lost it, old son,’ the Dork laughs. ‘And you should’ve seen old Hunter’s face back then.’

  ‘What did you do with it?’ I say.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he laughs.

  ‘We’ll sort this out later,’ I say.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Dawkins says, leaving me to my spaghetti paper.

  SOME MATERNAL CONCERN

  The new version of Monster Munch’s marketing contract waits on my desk, the amendments typed up by Elizabeth. I can hardly bear to look at it. I sweep it off the desk and into the bin. I replace it with the postcard of Hannah.

  I really, really need a drink.

  I only intended to drink two fingers of the whisky but by the time Elizabeth comes in to tell me she’s leaving I’ve sneakily worked my way through half of the bottle. And now I’ve started it, I might as well finish it off, so I keep going.

  ‘Do you need anything else?’ she asks. ‘I’m happy to stay if you need me.’

  I cover the postcard with a piece of paper. ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m all set up here, thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘How’s your head?’ she asks. ‘What?’

  ‘That bruise isn’t getting any better.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No, you should go and see a doctor about it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m serious. I’ll book an appointment for you before I go.’

  It seems easier to say yes than argue. So I accept. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ Elizabeth comes back to announce.

  ‘Fine.’

  EVEN MORE THINGS I DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT BRIAN FEY

  One of the evening messengers comes in to leave a package on top of the surfeit of work brimming in my in-tray. It’s unusual: a jiffy bag. I examine it, turning it over in my hands. Smaller than the usual size, and it looks brand new. The address is neatly printed on a white label stuck to the packet. There are no stamps on the envelope, so it’s been hand-delivered or couriered. I heft it in one hand and then squeeze it: lightweight with something solid in the middle. I tear it open and tip out the contents.

  Out falls a small cassette like the ones found in answering machines.

  I think back to the newspaper report from this morning and the missing tape from John French’s machine?

  I pick up my Dictaphone and try the tape. It fits.

  Sudden nerves. I thumb the machine to play.

  Static, then a few messages. I don’t recognize the voices or any of the names mentioned.

  Another message plays, rendered tinny and indistinct both by the quality of the original recording and the cheap speaker on my Dictaphone. It takes me a moment to identify the speaker.

  ‘John? Are you there? Pick up, you selfish bastard, come on.’ There’s a pause, a long damp snuffle. ‘OK, you’re not there, or ignoring me. Jesus, I can’t believe it’s got to this.’

  It’s Brian.

  ‘John, listen, I want to talk to you… I’m confused and I really need to see you. I want to know what happened. Why didn’t you stick up for me? I never did anything to you to deserve being treated like this… What did I do? I just wanna know, that’s all. Losing your bottle was bad enough, for fuck’s sake, but now you just stand by while they chuck me out of the band? It’s not fair, John, and you fucking know it’s not. I mean, I know we don’t have as much success these days - not like we used to have before and all that - and I know we’ve had our problems but it doesn’t mean you had to sit and watch while they fucking got rid of me, does it? Huh? And who was it? Who decided? The label, right? I mean, it must’ve been. I hope it was the fucking label, you know, ‘cos if I ever find out someone pushed the others into doing this I’m gonna make whoever it was fucking regret it, I am: I’m not joking.’

  Brian is drunk. The ends of his sentences descend into slurred jumbles, the sibilant sounds drawn out into thick wet hisses. At one point he starts to sob; mawkish sniveling abbreviated by long sniffs. This monologue continues for several minutes, eventually disintegrating into an incoherent stream of seemingly random words.

  I let the tape run on. There are a few other messages - several from the Dahlias, and one from the band’s label congratulating John on an ecstatic review. As they play back, I reach into the jiffy bag to see whether there is a letter, something that might identify who sent this to me.

  Nothing.

  Then another message from Brian plays out on the tape. It sounds as if he’s calling from a mobile. I can hear the sound of an engine in the background, growing and then fading out as a car passes by.

  ‘John - fucking pick up! Come on, man, I know you’re in there - I saw you just go in. I’m right outside. Look out the window - I’m waving, look, look! There’s no point hiding - I’m not going away until I’ve spoken to you, you understand? Come on, dammit, pick up. I just want to, I don’t know… we’ve gotta talk or something. It’s just… I don’t understand what’s going on, why this is all happening to me like this. Do you know - have you got any idea - how humiliating this is for me? I’ll tell you.’ A pause, and I can hear a can being spiked. ‘It’s got to the stage where
I can’t even pick up my phone ‘cos it’s some fucking stupid journalist asking me how it feels. How it FEELS? As if I could explain it so they’d understand - but of course they’d call it sour grapes or wounded pride or something stupid. They won’t understand. They don’t understand why I’m so upset, because you fucking made me swear not to tell anyone.’

  He carries on, ranting futilely for five minutes, the end of his monologue dissolving into ragged sobs just before the tape runs out, choking him off mid-sentence. I feel awful for Brian, but then a sense of foreboding settles in. I can see how bad this all looks.

  This almost looks like a confession.

  Should I be calling the police?

  DINNER WITH THE COHENS

  Cohen and his wife, Beth, have a two-bedroom house in Wapping, a twenty-minute walk from the office. Beth works on the trading floor of a City bank and earns more than Cohen and me combined. Her Christmas bonus last year was three times my salary. They’re probably the richest couple I know but they are probably also the nicest, so it’s impossible to feel anything other than pleased for them both.

  As I walk the short distance along Bishopsgate I’m thinking about those messages Brian left on the tape. I can’t get them out of my head. They could be very easily construed as threats. In the present circumstances Brian already being a person with an axe to grind, if what Martin Valentine said at the funeral was true that kind of thing will leap him to the top of the police’s list of suspects if they decide French didn’t die by his own hand.

  I’m not sure what I should do with the tape.

  Take it to the police? Confront Brian? Or sit on it? I arrive at their house and we enjoy a pleasant meal, although my thoughts are elsewhere. Eventually, Beth goes upstairs to check on their two-year-old, Michael.

  Cohen and I finish our coffee at the half-cleared table, a candle flickering between us.

  We somehow bring up Rachel Delgardo. ‘I hear you took her out for a drink.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about that. I think I made a fool of myself.’

  ‘She seems sweet.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘And pretty.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that.’

  ‘So - you interested?’

  I’m nonplussed. I haven’t told Cohen about Hannah. ‘I’m a one-woman man,’ I say.

  He smiles.

  We talk for another twenty minutes, all the time I get the sense we’re both waiting to broach a more important subject. This is conversational sparring: gentle feinting and jabbing, and waiting for the right moment. I get there first.

  ‘I want to tell you something,’ I say, ‘but you have to swear you’ll keep it between us.’

  He smiles sympathetically. He looks like he knows what I want to say. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You remember how two documents I was working on went missing?’

  He looks disappointed. Maybe he was expecting something else. ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘I found one of them in a drawer in the Dork’s office. He took it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And then, in the middle of my presentation, Wilson comes out with this half-finished version of the agreement he must’ve stolen too. It got sent to the client - I told them it must’ve been sent by the Dork after he nicked it, but when I went to show them where I’d found the other one he’d taken it out and got rid of it.’

  ‘Jesus, Daniel, why’d he want to do something like that?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? He takes the briefing note I was working on and then deletes it off the system so I can’t give Wilson the advice she wanted before her meeting yesterday. So I’m on her shit list straightaway. Then he sends the half-finished agreement off, knowing that when the client complains that’ll be the end of my chances of making partner, at least as far as Wilson’s concerned.’

  ‘You think he’d go that far? I know he’s ambitious, but… I mean.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, don’t jump to any conclusions. Maybe there’s another explanation.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘Maybe he just found your papers somewhere and was planning to give them back to you?’

  ‘Come on, David. They were in his drawer.’

  ‘And then they weren’t.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘I’m just saying-’

  ‘What about the draft agreement being sent to the client?’

  ‘You ask your secretary about that?’

  ‘No fucking way. She’s too good to make a mistake like that. It’s him. He’s sabotaged my chances of making partner.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t he done that to me, too? Or Caroline Lewis?’

  I can’t answer that.

  THE REAL REASON FOR DINNER

  The evening proceeds. We drink whisky and listen to jazz. It’s still obvious Cohen wants to bring up some topic of conversation himself, but is reluctant to do it. Beth has made herself scarce again; I get the impression her frequent absences during this evening are part of a prior arrangement made with her husband. She has provided him with opportunities to talk to me alone that he hasn’t yet taken up. And I’ve had the feeling he’s been beating around the same bush for the last twenty minutes.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘It’s obvious you want to say something.’

  ‘Am I that transparent?’

  ‘You’ve been itching to get something off your chest.’

  ‘Well, I-’

  ‘Is it the American job? You’ve decided to take it?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he says. ‘And, no, I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. Still weighing up the pros and cons.’

  ‘Something with you and Beth?’

  ‘No. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Dawkins? Something else at work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s… well, ah, shit, this isn’t an easy thing for me to bring up.’

  ‘Go on,’ I prompt. ‘I won’t be offended.’

  He takes a slow breath. ‘OK. Look, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this for a while, but it’s not something you can bring up in the office.’

  ‘So you asked me over here to do it?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he says, ‘partly for that. The thing is-’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve noticed you’ve been drinking a lot recently. Not just social drinking but full-on, all-day heavy drinking. It isn’t like you.’

  I have a spurt of indignation. ‘Have you been talking to Wilson?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Like you don’t know.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Have you told her I’ve been drinking in the office?’

  ‘No - course not.’

  ‘So it’s coincidental that Wilson tells me yesterday she knows I’ve been drinking in the office, and you ask me about it today.’

  ‘Daniel, I haven’t said anything to anyone, I swear.’

  ‘It’s none of your business anyway. And it’s out of line you trying to intrude like this,’ I explode.

  ‘I’m not trying to intrude,’ he says. ‘I’m just worried about you. I mean, drinking in the office - that’s hardly normal, is it? There was that carton of wine and then I found a whisky bottle today.’

  ‘You’ve been going through my drawers?’

  ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘you’re in no position to criticize me for that. You did the same thing to Dawkins. And at least my motives were good ones.’

  ‘Frankly,’ I say brusquely, getting up off the sofa, ‘I can’t believe you’re trying to butt in like this.’

  ‘It’s not just me, Dan,’ he says. ‘Rachel mentioned that you got hammered when you took her out. Don’t look so pissed off - she only made a jokey comment about it - but the fact she said anything at all ought to be a warning to you.’

  ‘I’m not pissed off. I just think you snooping around like this is out of line.’

  ‘Come on, any friend w
ould do the same thing.’

  ‘Bollocks they would. Nosing around in my private life doesn’t seem to be a very friendly thing to do at all. Telling a partner about it’s even worse.’

  ‘I didn’t tell her.’

  He sighs and starts to pace the room. We’re both standing now. The conversation, at least on my side of it, is already out of control. Tension crackles in the air between us. I’m close to an outburst.

  ‘I knew you’d react like this,’ Cohen says. ‘That’s exactly why this has been so difficult to do.’

  ‘Excuse me for making your life awkward,’ I snap.

  ‘Beth had to persuade me to bring this up.’

  ‘Oh, great - so you have told other people, have you? How many others? Mention it to the partners at your interview? "Be careful with Tate, he’s a fucking alcoholic"? Did you?’

  ‘Stop being so melodramatic. I haven’t told anyone else. What do you take me for?’

  ‘I’m not sure any more.’

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Be reasonable. It’s not like I’ve got so many friends in the office that I can afford to throw my best ones away.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got one less to worry about now, ‘ I say. I know this is theatrical, and that I’ll regret it, but in the heat of the moment it’s the automatic thing to say. I snatch my coat from the banister and shrug myself into it.

  ‘Ignoring it won’t make it go away,’ he says. ‘If you can’t talk to me, for God’s sake talk to someone.’

  EMBARRASSMENT

  I stand in the street outside Cohen’s house for five minutes, smoking a fag and trying to calm down, smoke and warm breath clouding in front of my face. The flash of irritation at being interrogated has been replaced by a crushing weight of embarrassment that I’ve reacted so petulantly. I’m trying not to think about the apology I’m going to have to make to him in the office tomorrow.

  And even an apology won’t seal off this subject.

  There will still stand between us our unfinished conversation. Is Cohen right: am I drinking too much? That will have to be discussed before we can return our friendship to its usual footing. I drop the cigarette into the gutter and grind the cherry tip under the sole of my shoe.