by Chris Simms
– eyes still looked wrecked but the rest of his face was all right. He sucked powder from the tip of his forefinger, then straightened his tie and wandered casually through to reception. Sarah flashed him a wide-eyed look of warning. The client was standing on the other side of the room examining photos of previous building wraps on the walls. His posture looked far from relaxed.
'Austen, this is a welcome surprise,' said Tom, stepping across the room with his hand out.
The other man turned around. He had wispy brown hair and a slightly pudgy face, red at the cheeks. His kept his hands clasped behind his back. 'Tom,' he answered with a fractional dip of his head. 'I've been trying to contact you for weeks.'
'I'm so sorry. We've been having an awful time of it. Poor Sarah here is only just back from sick leave.' He turned to the reception desk. 'How long were you off sick for, Sarah?'
'Almost three weeks,' she replied woodenly.
'You know how temps are, 'Tom continued. 'Messages have been going everywhere but to the correct person.'
Austen eyed him suspiciously. 'I assume you received all the merchandise? I couldn't find any sign of the promotion in Piccadilly station just now.'
'Yes, it's all been taken care of,' said Tom, attempting a smile. 'Can we not offer you a coffee?'
'No thank you. I'm keen to see the promotion, actually.'
'Right,' said Tom, clapping his hands together. 'I can understand that.' He turned to Sarah, trying to look relaxed. 'Sarah, could you order us a cab, please? Just down to Piccadilly.' He turned to Austen. 'There's no point in even trying to park in town at the moment.'
'That's fine. In fact, I'd prefer to walk.'
'Why not? In fact, I could take you on a little tour of the city centre if you'd like.'
'That should be interesting.'
Tom knew the other man suspected there had been some sort of balls-up. He fetched his jacket, put his sunglasses on and they set off towards the centre of town.
'What's Key 103?' asked Austen, pointing up at the airship circling lazily in the clear blue sky above them.
'It's the main commercial radio station in Manchester,' replied Tom, looking up at the zeppelin-shaped balloon. 'They've got a reporter up there delivering traffic and travel information along with Games bulletins.'
'Nice idea. 'Austen seemed to relax a little.
As they carried on past the BT office and towards the back of Piccadilly station, Tom was glad to be able to point out the building wrap that had been hung the week before. 'It's one of over thirty we've arranged to be on display throughout the Games.'
'Quite an achievement,' answered Austen, looking up at the giant image of a sprinter handing over a baton that was marked with the logo of a courier company. 'We'll get it to you first', the headline announced.
'Thanks,' said Tom, wondering what to do once they got into the station. 'So, are you booked on any particular train home?' 'Yes, the 3.50. A tour of the city centre would be a nice way to use up the afternoon.'
'Absolutely!'Tom wondered how to stall the other man for the next few hours.
Standing below the live billboard for the Manchester Evening News with its ever changing headline display, they waited for the lights to change before crossing Fairfield Street and walking round the queue of taxis swallowing up passengers in ones, twos and threes.
'All this was derelict about a year ago,' said Tom, waving a hand at the sandblasted brick archways and spotless sheet glass windows. 'The entrances were all blocked up, except for some grubby little tunnels leading to the tram platforms below the station. Not the type of route you'd use after dark.'
They walked through the giant sliding doors into an airy lobby area where a gleaming escalator took them up through the bowels of the station and into the main terminal area.
The final few days before the Games' official start date had consisted of twenty-four-hour shifts as the contractors fought desperately to have the station ready. Somehow they had almost succeeded. Full-size palm trees had been wheeled in across the newly laid tile floor as the last retail units had been cleared for the staff of various shops to swarm in. Displays, shelves and stands had appeared with miraculous speed and in hours each shop was crammed with merchandise, tills manned and ready. Only the odd corner or section of the station remained screened off behind building boards that had been draped in colourful banners welcoming visitors from around the world to Manchester and the XVII Commonwealth Games.
The two men looked around the station area, taking in the throng of people, most clutching bright yellow Commonwealth Games guides. Positioned around were clusters of Games volunteers, eager to give advice and information on where to get free shuttle buses out to Sportcity.
Tom felt his heart begin to flutter. 'Well, it's all go in here,' he said. 'Let's see where our team have positioned themselves.'
'Yes, let's, 'Austen replied. 'I certainly couldn't find them.'
They walked towards a stall loaded with umbrellas, toys, pens, keyrings, T-shirts, baseball caps, mugs, plates and ties. Most items featured a vaguely cat-like creature. 'That's Kit, the official Games mascot,' Tom explained. 'His cheeky smile is sure to be a winner with both children and adults alike – to quote the PR release,' he added.
Austen didn't look amused as they wandered round to the front part of the station.
All they could see were other stalls selling official Games merchandise, a stand promoting designer sunglasses and a cart manned by a red and white suited promotions team thrusting free cereal bars into the hands of the many people walking past. Tom faked a frown at the absence of the X-treme cart.
'Strange – I thought they were booked into Piccadilly this morning.' Suddenly he clicked his fingers, as if remembering something.' Ah – unless this is one of the mornings they've been given a slot at Victoria station.'
Austen raised an eyebrow.
'You see, we have a different catchment of people at Victoria – passengers arriving from the west and north of the country.'
'But I understood Piccadilly is the city's main terminal.' Austen pointed to a banner masking an unfinished set of side exit doors. 'Piccadilly: Gateway to the Games,' he read out.
Tom's stomach twisted into a tight knot and his mouth dried up. Knowing that his grin was imbecilic, he said, 'True – but I think you'll be impressed by Victoria station. As the name implies, it's all very grandiose – elaborate brickwork and wrought iron pillars.' He thought about its leaking roofs, moss-stained walls and padlocked doors. 'In fact, it will be a great opportunity for a stroll through the city centre. Shall we?' He held a hand towards the main doors and Austen reluctantly walked towards them. Pointing to a line of Rovers with the three figures painted on their sides, Tom said, 'That's the official Games transport for VIPs – the rest of us can walk or get the tram though.'
His attempts at light-hearted humour were drawing no response from Austen.
'I'll take you through Piccadilly Gardens, then down King Street. It's where the likes of DKNY, Armani and the rest are located. If we're lucky we could spot a celebrity shopper. David Beckham and Posh Spice perhaps.'
'Or Rio Ferdinand, now he's signed for United,' said Austen, with some enthusiasm. 'A United supporter then?' asked Tom, keen to open up some line of conversation.
'That's right.'
'Do you see them play much?'
Now he looked uncomfortable. 'Just their away games, really. It's hard to see them play at home when you live down in Surrey. How about you? Red or Blue?'
'I prefer rugby, to be honest,' answered Tom. 'But I suppose my sympathies are with Manchester City. The British thing about supporting the underdog, I suppose.'
They joined the crowds walking down the concourse and into the city centre, Tom struggling for another topic of conversation. 'It's a shame you won't have time to see the Olympic village, an entire purpose-built community. It's got the UK's largest temporary restaurant. They're producing almost fifteen hundred meals a day in it.' Tom realized he was beginning to witter, bu
t his nerves were dancing at the prospect of how he would explain the absence of the chewing gum promotion at Victoria station. 'They anticipate the athletes will get through about ten thousand kilos of bananas and pasta in the next few days. And that's not to mention the hundred and fifty thousand condoms provided in their rooms. They should be describing them as bed athletes, I reckon!'
Austen glanced briefly at his sweating companion. 'Tom, that's all very interesting. But the purpose of my visit is to see how our promotion is going. We've paid you sixteen thousand to arrange it after all.' He held up a small leather pouch hanging from one wrist. 'I need to get some photos for our marketing department, too. The sporting details of this event really aren't of much interest.'
'Right... of course,' said Tom, feeling his skin start to itch as the effects of Brain's powder began to subside. The cacophony of noise started to reach them halfway up the road, and as they reached Piccadilly Gardens they entered a riot of activity. Giant TV screens mounted on platforms displayed reports of the coming events to the masses of people below. At the far end of the gardens, red and blue inflatable figures swayed and danced as air from a mobile generator was blasted up through them. To their side an urgent tattoo was being beaten out by a Samba band as young kids capered and whirled before them. Above it all towered the seventy-metre-tall banner of Ashia Hansen, caught in mid air during a triple jump. 'This is all part of the Spirit of Friendship festival,' Tom almost had to shout as two stilt walkers dressed as robots stalked past them, metal costume plates clanging as they went.
'Could we move on?' asked Austen, unmoved by the fun being had all around.
Tom peered through his sunglasses at Austen's impatient face. 'Of course.' He walked uncertainly onwards, unable to delay their approach towards Victoria station.
Turning right at York Street, they were soon passing the Athenaeum, a glorious building constructed in the Venetian Gothic style at the height of Manchester's domination of the cotton industry. Tom slowed down, pointing out the Ionic columns supporting a cathedral-like dome. 'I especially like the brickwork; the red colouring has led to the term “Slaughterhouse Gothic”. Manchester has got some of the best examples you'll find anywhere.'
Austen looked at his watch. 'Fascinating. And now it's a pub.'
His dismissive tone picked at Tom's frayed nerves. 'Not any old pub. It's increasingly the pre-match choice of Manchester City's firm. Go in there on a Saturday with a red shirt on and you'll probably come back out with a broken glass stuck in your face.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Not you personally. 'Tom smiled. 'I mean Man U fans in general. Though a southern accent wouldn't do you any favours either.'
Austen's eyes narrowed but he couldn't tell if it was a genuine piece of advice or a piss-take.
'Anyway,' said Tom, emotions alternating between a fluttery elation at having got away with a jibe at his client and heart-sinking dread at the prospect of reaching Victoria station. 'Here we are at the top of King Street.'
They looked down the long, straight road lined with designer stores. In front of each plate glass window were stone blocks and posts. Designed to look like seats, they were actually placed there to stop ram raiders.
'So where's Victoria from here? It's almost lunchtime,' said Austen.
'You're right,' said Tom quickly. 'Why don't we grab a bite now before everywhere fills up?'
Austen looked around uncertainly. 'Well...' 'It's on me. What do you prefer? Traditional pub or contemporary bar?'
'Traditional, I suppose.'
'Do you drink bitter?' asked Tom, stepping into Mr Thomas's Chop House. Austen nodded.
'Two pints of Landlord, please.'
After walking the length of the narrow bar, they entered the seating area at the back of the pub, dark wood tables glowing faintly in the light shining through ancient-looking panes of frosted glass. A young man in a shirt and bow tie showed them across the black and white tiled floor to a table.
After turning his mobile off, Tom opened his menu and looked down the list of dishes. 'I don't know why I even look – I always go for their home-made corned beef hash.'
Austen continued looking at his menu. 'Well, given the name of this place, I had better go for the pork chops.'
After ordering their meals, Tom excused himself and headed downstairs for the toilets. Looking at his watch he saw, to his dismay, that it was only midday. Even if he stretched lunch out to a couple of hours they'd still have over an hour to get to Victoria station, and it was now only a five-minute walk away. He stood just inside the door, wondering what to do. The sound of water trickling into a cistern made him want to urinate, so he stood in front of the urinal. But his stomach muscles felt too tight and, apart from a few measly drips, his bladder refused to empty.
Looking down, he saw the usual lumps of discarded chewing gum in the bowl and his gag reaction hit him without warning. Walking backwards and zipping himself up at the same time, he retreated into the only cubicle, sat down and felt inside the pocket of his jacket for the powder. Unable to find it, he stood up and ferreted through the rest of his pockets before realizing that he'd left it in the top drawer of his desk.
He crumpled back down on to the toilet, pressing the tips of his fingers against the back of his neck and rotating them round and round. Erratic surges of panicky emotion were playing with him – acute nervousness, crippling fear and the odd spark of inexplicable elation.
Suddenly he became convinced he was being watched. Fearfully, he looked up at the top of the cubicle. But no one was there. He took several deep breaths and began to follow the advice of the therapist from when he'd become ill a few years before.
One, two, three, four, five, six... his heartbeat began to slow a bit and the feelings of panic eased... seven, eight, nine, ten.
Back in the pub a crush of office workers had appeared and Austen was sitting at the table, looking uncomfortable at being alone.
'Cheers!' said Tom, sitting down and clinking his glass against Austen's. He sucked down over half his pint in one go, abruptly aware of how thirsty he was. Austen was staring at him oddly, and Tom began to feel uncomfortable. Was there a scrap of toilet roll stuck to his forehead? A bogey hanging from his nose? Casually, he brushed the back of his fingers across his nostrils. Now Austen was actually smirking at him. 'Er, Tom – is it a bit too bright in here for you?'
Tom looked up, lips vacillating between an uncertain smile and a trembling grimace. It was a dim pub. What did he mean? 'Sorry?'
Austen tapped the bridge of his nose. 'Your sunglasses. You haven't taken them off yet.'
Relief flooded him and he let out a burst of laughter shrill enough to cause several other diners to look around. 'Totally forgot they were on!' He slipped them into the breast pocket of his jacket.
Austen sat there with an expectant look on his face, happy to play the client's role and wait to be entertained.
Needing something to do, Tom fished his cigarettes out. 'Smoke?'
Austen shook his head disapprovingly.
'I'll just squeeze one in before the food arrives.'
He was barely two drags in when the waiter reappeared with their plates. 'Isn't that always the way?' observed Tom, stubbing his cigarette out. Smoke swirled across Austen's food and Tom tried to fan it away with his other hand. Next he unwrapped his knife and fork, knowing his appetite wouldn't stretch further than a few mouthfuls. Gingerly scooping up some mashed potato, he popped it into his mouth and looked at Austen as he sawed through a pork chop with his knife. The layer of white fat between the rind and meat quivered and bulged as the knife pressed down. Tom felt the muscles in his throat start to spasm.
He gulped some beer as Austen put it into his mouth and began to grind with his molars, a frown slowly coming over his face. Eventually he picked up his napkin and said, 'Sorry, can't get my teeth through the rind – too rubbery.' He hooked a forefinger and thumb into his mouth and pulled out a long strip of mangled gristle.
Tom h
ad to look away, the press of conversation at his back getting closer and closer. He kept his eyes averted until he heard Austen place his knife and fork on the plate.
'Very good,' he remarked, unwrapping a stick of X-treme gum and popping it into his mouth. Tom could feel the pinpricks of sweat breaking out on his upper lip as he tried to control his feelings of nausea.
The waiter stepped over. 'Dessert? We have bread and butter pudding on the specials board.'
'Oh, go on then,' said Austen, with a conspiratorial smile. 'You've tempted me.'
Horror struck, Tom watched as Austen plucked the lump of gum from his mouth and dropped it in the ashtray.
He vomited all over the table, gouts of still-foaming beer that flooded Austen's plate, then bounced up, spattering his chest and arms. Even before the spew finished, Tom had lost it. His heart was racing uncontrollably and an overwhelming sense of disaster bore down on him. Gasping for breath, he staggered to his feet. At the other end of the narrow pub sunshine shone through the open door with the promise of fresh air and open space. The source of light became the sole focus of his vision: he had to be out in it at all costs. He began a headlong charge for the door, shouldering other drinkers, knocking drinks from hands. A waiter loomed up in front of him, plates of food balanced in each hand, his silhouette obstructing Tom's view of the door. The heel of Tom's hand connected squarely with the man's chest, and he flew backwards in a shower of chips, peas and gravy-covered slices of meat.
Tom fell out onto the pavement, looked down and saw grey spots on the paving stones under his hands. Gum. He stood up, realizing it dotted the pavement in both directions. Terror now gripping him completely, he ran up King Street, jumping from side to side, taking small steps, then great bounds, desperate to avoid treading on the gum – white fresh blobs, older blackened ones, clusters of it peppering the areas around bins. He veered towards the road but it was there too, embedded in the bumpy surface, a plague from the mouths of the masses.
He kept going, careering round the top of King Street, back past the Athenaeum, sprinting towards Piccadilly Gardens, images of wide lawns filling his head. Bursting out onto the pavement by the Bradford and Bingley, he knocked over a woman and staggered across the tram tracks. An enormous sonic blast cut through him and hydraulic brakes hissed in anger as the approaching tram was forced into an emergency stop.
