by Nick Laird
‘Listen, Geordie, you want me to ring you a cab? Where are you staying?’
‘Well, actually Dan, I was hoping I could stay here.’ Danny managed to keep his smile from slipping down into his shoes. ‘Just for a night or two, ’til I get myself sorted. I was hoping to just kip on the sofa.’
Danny’s smile increased its wattage. ‘Yeah, yeah, of course. No problem. Stay here. I have to get up though and head to work tomorrow, and I’m not sure I’ve spare keys for the house.’ Danny knew that two sets of keys, one of which had recently been attached by a silver chain to Olivia’s pink leather purse, were in the drawer under the coffee table about a foot in front of them.
‘Sure if you leave me yours, I can get a set cut.’
‘I could do I suppose. I’m not sure if you can though. One of them’s a security key or something. You need a letter from the managing agent.’
‘Well, if I can’t I’ll just make sure I’m here when you come back.’
‘Yeah, okay then. Sure.’
Geordie leant down and produced a lump of hash about the size of a bar of hotel soap from his rucksack. Danny watched him surreptitiously as he deftly skinned up, and passed the spliff to Dan to spark. Soon they both turned motionless, glassy-eyed as fish.
When the third spliff came round, Danny had lit a cigarette which he passed to Geordie to smoke when he smoked the joint. It was intimate and odd, all this. But not unworkable, Danny thought, this might be all right, this might even be fun.
The evening was ending. Danny, feeling too trashed to be anything but at ease with Geordie staying over, and too trashed to clear a space on the floor of the boxroom, locked the front door and tossed Geordie a sleeping bag, bulbous in its carry-sac, and a lank pillow without a cover. In his bedroom he locked his laptop and his diary into a drawer in his desk and climbed messily, many-limbed, into bed.
My office worker’s collar turned unselfconsciously up…I return home…feeling a slight, confused concern that I may have lost for ever both my umbrella and the dignity of my soul.
Fernando Pessoa
THURSDAY, 8 JULY 2004
A minute after waking, Danny padded into his shower. His mornings were efficient. He dressed in beige cords, a blue shirt that he rubbed at for a bit with an iron that leaked and was only ever tepid, and strapped his black cycle helmet on his wet hair. His leather satchel slung over his shoulder, he lifted his bike off the hook on the garden wall and set off through the smouldering traffic to work.
Geordie shifted from facing the back of the sofa to facing the room. He farted a slow crescendo and went back to sleep.
Danny locked his bike in the underground car park and walked through the office courtyard to a side door into his building. Danny worked at Monks & Turner, a Magic Circle law firm. Which meant that his firm was, supposedly, one of the five best in the country. It was certainly one of the biggest. It felt to Danny like just another institution in a long line of places where you got told what to do, and did it. He had attended Ballyglass Nursery, Primary and High School and had done pretty much everything right. He was a gaunt truthful child and his teachers had been surprised, and a little perturbed, when they realized that he wanted to know as much as he could. His mother still rang to tell him that one of his old teachers had been in the office telling her how they kept his essays to read out to their classes. He never got less than an A and as he got older it began to seem more and more important not to. It seemed that every A raised the tightrope he was walking on a little higher, so that his fall would be even greater when it came. And then, suddenly, he was at the other end and in university.
His school had filled out his application for Cambridge and he’d signed it. He’d decided to choose history for a degree. There was so much of it. He’d gone along and been interviewed by a large Australian woman, covered in cream drapes like a dustsheeted wardrobe, and a neat little ginger Englishman. Danny was accepted, worked, thrived, and as he’d promised his father, applied to law firms for a job after graduation. Monks & Turner was the first interview and when they accepted him, he’d cancelled the others. Two years of law school in Tottenham Court Road, living above a Perfect Fried Chicken takeaway in Turnpike Lane, saw city life settle down on him like smog. He became a first-class Londoner.
When he arrived at Monks, a grimy Monday in September, he had sat in Corporate, specifically insurance work. His trainer had just moved into the new office they were going to share. Their new name plaques, James Motion and, underneath of course, and slightly smaller, Daniel Williams, had been put up to replace Townsend Hopkins. Townsend was an infamous old boy partner who’d been given the heave-ho for not bringing the work in. The firm constantly restored itself like that. It put Danny in mind of some vast ruminant. The main entrance, painted, polished, was its mouth, the corridors and meeting rooms served as intestines and organs, and the lawyers were like teeth, yellowy-pale, varying in sharpness, and renewable. Like teeth, they varied not only in sharpness but also in purpose, and some would get clients, others retain them. All, though, were grinders. Danny, when he qualified, had joined Litigation, the only seat he’d done which felt like law, and he was now a two-and-a-half-year qualified solicitor-advocate in the Commercial Litigation department specializing in International Arbitration. Danny sometimes thought that the only job worth doing was one which was covered by one word. Plumber. Joiner. Farmer.
A year ago Danny’d been given his own office, about the size of a garden shed. When his three bookcases and two filing cabinets had initially arrived he’d felt slightly claustrophobic. Now he felt snug. He could reach almost everything in his room from his desk. His computer screen faced the window. He faced the door. His desk had a panelled front on it and Danny had developed the habit of nipping below it, where he kept a duck-down sleeping bag and a cushion embroidered with sunflowers that his sister had made, for a kip either before, during, or after lunch. He would make sure the route to his desk was barricaded by briefcase and recycling box, then slink off his seat, suddenly boneless.
Danny’s central friend at Monks was Albert Rollson, a Brummie who’d ditched his accent in favour of a mid-Atlantic twang. Rollson was neurotic. His terrors included other people’s illnesses and he would get out of a lift at the next floor if someone in it coughed or sneezed. He’d flinch if someone accidentally came too close or brushed against him in passing, and grimaced if hugged. Which is not to say that he was cold, he simply, proudly, possessed an over-developed sense of propriety. It informed his distrust of Antipodeans. And Americans. And Europeans. And was the reason he worked in law. He was born to its hierarchy, its wheels within wheels, its concurrent bitchings and slobberings, its dog-eat-dog, backstab, leapfrog. And it allowed him to dress like Cary Grant.
Danny had shared an office with Rollson when they had qualified, two years after arriving at Monks. They had argued relentlessly over plants. Danny’s view was that offices are the ugliest, most sterile places in the world. Everything is synthetic. You see nothing that is actually growing, bar the perceptible fattening of some of the most sedentary lawyers and secretaries. Danny wanted a real plant in the room. He told Rollson that the lack of flora in the workplace was the reason lawyers started office affairs. There was nothing else to look at but people. The obscene clashing decor, the generic tacky prints, the background corporate hum from air conditioning, VDU and photocopier: people looked at each other more closely. Rollson however, perpetually single, quite liked the idea of people looking at him more closely. Plants were there simply to steal more of his oxygen in a city where there was scarcely enough anyway. He was allergic to anything natural. On a school outing to a stables near Dudley, a large grey mare had once licked his face and he’d never recovered. That rough slobbery smothering tongue. The smell of it. He quite liked seeing the countryside from the motorway, the space, its potential, and he’d once bought a David Attenborough series on video, although he hadn’t watched it.
Danny walked into his corridor. He noted that the doors
of Andrew Jackson, departmental senior partner, and Adam Vyse, departmental managing partner, were open. He removed his bag from his shoulder, placed the helmet in it and carried it close to his body. In this way, and by performing two complicated body-spins at just the right moments, he could walk past the partners’ doors without it being immediately apparent that he was just arriving. It was 9.43 a.m.
Geordie stretched out an arm to the coffee table, encountered the remote control and switched on Trisha. He noticed that he’d drooled on his pillow.
Danny’s phone was flashing. This always scared him a little. Either it was a message from last night (which meant that somebody had expected him to be there after he’d left) or from this morning (which meant that somebody had expected him to be there before he’d arrived). In the worst case scenario (the WCS, as Rollson would have called it) there would be two messages from the same partner, one from last night and one from this morning, and in the very WCS, that partner would be Adam Vyse. Danny listened to his messages. Two. First message, yesterday: 7.05 p.m. Carrie, Adam’s calm and pretty secretary, was cooing that Adam wanted to see him as soon as possible. He loved the fact that Carrie refused to say a.s.a.p. We’re not Americans, Danny always thought when he heard it used, we have time to say the whole sentence. Second message, today: 8.11 a.m. Adam. ‘Danny, give me a ring soon as you’re in. Something big’s come up.’ Ach fuck, Danny said, a little too loudly.
Vyse was notorious for handing out difficult work and not supervising it. He would demand a briefing just prior to seeing a client and then, in the meeting, repeat to the client what you had just told him, word for word, before turning to you, smiling encouragingly, and asking whether you agreed with his preliminary views. Danny stood at Vyse’s open door. He was leaning back in his leather easy chair, with his tailored arms crossed behind his slicked head and the phone cradled between his neck and chin.
‘Yes, of course. No you’re quite right. We don’t need any more of them. Oh yes?…Fourteen. No, no about two hundred acres. Uh-uh…A Jet Ski. Well, you know what I say? He who dies with the most toys wins…No, this is it. They need to consolidate and we aren’t going to give them time to. We need to hit them hard now…I know…Yes…’
Danny looked in at the office. A wooden golf putter was propped a little forlornly in the far corner, as if it dreamt of real grass. Aside from Adam’s own enormous bureau, reminiscent of the White House presidential desk, another sheeny table, an eight-seater for team meetings, dominated the middle of the room. The oak-veneer cabinets fronted with glass held silver and crystal ornaments given to Adam for successful corporate claims or defences. Danny could read the largest one, a glass rhomboid, from here: Jackman Thorndike Litigation 1998–The Best Team Won. An open wardrobe displayed navy and grey pinstripe suits, a shelf of shirts and a row of pegs from which numerous ties hung down, entwined. A sky-blue baseball cap hung on one of the pegs. Its motif was illegible but Danny knew that it said I Wouldn’t Say Boo To A Gooson, Gooson being a corporate client involved in a billion dollar insurance dispute which had taken a team of twelve associates and three partners two years to resolve. Danny also knew that Adam had a matching sky-blue polo shirt with a matching logo. After the case had been settled the whole team, in their team outfits, had flown to the firm’s headquarters in Atlanta for a week-long junket. The pictures were still on the noticeboard in the corridor outside. Team Gooson at the check-in. Team Gooson in the departure lounge. Team Gooson at the baggage terminal. They reminded Danny of the Gateway outings for mentally handicapped kids he used to help with at school. It was to do with the grinning. On the meeting table sat an array of executive toys: an Archimedes’ cradle, little metal monkeys on a magnet that could be built up into shapes, a Rubik’s cube sponsored by a pharmaceutical company with different drug logos on each side. On a far shelf, Chopin was seeping softly from the big black speakers that stood, close as bodyguards, on either side of the little silver stereo. A copper plaque above the desk stated, in gothic lettering, Teamwork divides the task and doubles the success. On the far wall photographs were aligned in a row, five of them, like the house’s face-up poker hand. Each contained posed shots of Adam and his family. His wife (Amelia? Amanda?) was pretty much what you’d expect if you watched television on Sunday evenings. Something of the period drama about her. Slighty sad, as if she’d expected something slightly different, skinny (tennis, Danny supposed), naturally blonde. The kids were all versions of either of their parents, and all the shots appeared proprietorial somehow: two of the blondies on a yacht looking more bored than they should; one astride a grey pony which, bearing its teeth, seemed to be grinning for the photograph; the perfect husband and wife posed at their fireplace, holding the lintel (Team Marriage, thought Danny); one of the wife in a manicured garden (of at least two acres) with a lifted glass of wine; the whole family on a ski slope clutching each other and not for balance. They looked happy.
‘I know…Quite…Well, I looked at him for a moment and said If that’s the way you want it we’ll have no option but to seek an injunction. It was either put up or shut up. We have them by the balls…Yeah, fuck’em…Okay, we’ll talk soon…Okay…take care…Bye…Bye bye.’
Adam swivelled slightly, and with one fluent gesture succeeded in both replacing the phone and waving Danny into the room. ‘Danny. Yes, great. Come in, come in. Shut the door.’
Danny was tempted to nod at the telephone and solemnly ask ‘How is your Mum?’, but thought better of it and stepped inside. He sank slightly into the deep-pile carpet.
‘Sit down. Now, how are things?’
This means, in law firms, Can you do this piece of work for me, this piece that I am keeping up my sleeve? If you are seriously considering saying no, you need a reason better than I have no time or desire or consciousness or limbs.
Danny could have quite enjoyed these non-conversations, where both sides spoke in this unwritten code, like pig Latin, if they didn’t result in pain for him, which they invariably did. There were several responses to Adam’s question, and none of them could save him. Danny’s favoured one was to hedge as much as possible until the work had been described and then try to sidestep it or, if it looked okay, enthusiastically accept it. First off, Danny liked to describe how busy he was, at great and enthusiastic length, in order to strengthen his hand when he would try to brush off the incoming work. He replied, ‘Fairly stuffed at the moment. I’m working on this massive arbitration between a Brazilian company, our client, and a German electronics manufacturer. That’s with Carol and Alastair. And I’m running the disclosure on a new claim for Cartwrights against a ballbearing manufacturer. That’s with Jonathan. We’re fighting over the size of it at the minute.’ Adam’s eyes were scanning a point about six inches to the right of his head. Danny couldn’t remember whether there was a mirror behind him. I haven’t finished yet, he thought, so at least look me in the face. ‘And a couple of pro bono issues have just gone live. The homeless charity I work with are disputing marketing fees, and my death row case in Jamaica is up for review by the Inter-American Court of Human Rights. Then there’s also the coroner’s inquest that I’ve been doing with Amanda.’
Adam, rather shamelessly, looked bored. ‘Right, right, great. Now I’ve a piece of work I’d like you to look at for me. It’s fairly intensive but really interesting.’ Danny’s simultaneous translation ran on: Stop fucking around. I know you have work. We all have work. And you are about to get some more. And it’s going to be horrific. C’est la fucking vie. Still, even this was unusual. There was normally the pretence of an option. He’d have to force it. ‘Well Adam, I’d really like to help you on it.’ I’m not doing all of it mate. ‘But I really will have to check with the other partners on my matters, Carol and Jonathan, as to whether or not it’s feasible.’ I have friends in powerful places and they will come through for me. Back off tiger.
‘I’ve already spoken to them and they’re fine about it, as long as you get everything done of course.’ Checkmate. St
op your snivelling. You’re fucked for the foreseeable. Forget about your holiday, your friends, your sleep.
‘Okay, great.’ Dead man walking, dead man walking. Danny heard a bright, happy voice come out of his own mouth. ‘And will there be someone on this to help me?’ If I really really have to do this, I need to share the shit around.
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to find a willing trainee.’ Screw you wiseguy. ‘Here’s the file.’ I’ve cleared my desk! I’ve cleared my desk! ‘Hard work is character-building, Danny.’ Go fuck yourself.
‘Of course, of course.’ I’m eating it up. ‘Though my character’s already built, thanks.’ Fuck you too.
‘Look, Danny, the thing is, it was one of Scott’s projects and he’s had to clear out to Australia for a while unexpectedly.’ We all know what happened so settle down. ‘We’re in a bit of a bind.’
Scott Atkins had come home from work on Monday, at 1 a.m., to discover that his wife had moved back to Australia. She had left a factual note on his pillow telling him that they had spent a total of two hours together in the last five weeks, aside from sleeping in the same bed, and that she was going home to Melbourne.
Danny nodded. Adam continued, ‘It’s the Ulster Water takeover. You know what I’m talking about? It’s not really your line but things being as they are the Corporate boys need all the help they can get.’ Don’t misunderstand me, I think you’re a piss-poor lawyer.
‘Ulster Water?’
‘Yes.’
‘My part of the world.’
‘Really? I always thought you were Scottish.’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Well, Syder Plc are launching a takeover offer for them. Yakuma are making a rival bid. We’re acting for Syder. You’ll have a quick conference call after lunch with the Syder MD, a Mr Tom Howard, where you can introduce yourself.’ You’re on your own. I know nothing about this. ‘I understand he can be a pretty difficult customer. In the meantime you need to go speak to the Corporate department. You’ll be overseeing the litigation due diligence and maybe heading off to the head office this weekend. In Belfast. John Freeman’s the partner on it. Okay? Thank you.’ He turned abruptly but neatly in his chair and started reading his e-mails.
