Breathe

2. MONDAY
The same deserted business district of the city is still silent at dawn. Then a single road-sweeper turns into the street. Window-cleaners set to work. Office cleaners appear beyond the windows, pushing vacuum cleaners across floors. Fluorescent lights flicker on. The pistons of business slowly rise and fall. The great engine of the city is coming to life.
Now an astonishing mass of commuters pours from trains and buses, over bridges, across roads, densely packed and determined, a civilian army on the march. People in stations, at bus stops, weaving between each other as more and more arrive. Yawns, coffee-cups, rubbed faces, snatched cigarettes. Workers through train windows, alighting on platforms, heading to work in their thousands. The crystal citadels unlock their doors as employees filter in.
It is the height of the rush hour. Through the commuter crowds on the platform, a young man called Ben Harper makes his way to work. He smooths his sticky-up hair, too alive to his surroundings to be a typical member of the workforce, too open and innocent and obvious. It’s his first day, but you can tell that just by looking at him.
Ben’s suit is too new. His shoes are too shiny. He grimaces and pulls a pin out of his shirt collar, then peels a price sticker off his briefcase. The shoes hurt because he’s used to trainers. He has never worn a tie before in his life. It took him twenty minutes to do the damned thing up.
Ben stands looking at the awesome SymaxCorp building. My new home, he thinks proudly. The windows glitter darkly in the early sunlight. This is where Ben has come to begin his corporate existence. He nervously checks his clothes and his minty breath, keen to make a good first impression. After looking up anxiously at the tower, he screws up courage and walks to the great doors, the Scarecrow entering Oz.
Crossing the gleaming, black marble lobby floor is an act of courage in itself. The entrance is vaulted and vast, shafted with angles of light, modern gothic, Sir Christopher Wren crossed with Tim Burton.
Behind him, a uniformed janitor follows with an electric cleaner, wiping away Ben’s footprints as quickly as he leaves them. The building’s impersonal atmosphere is already at work on him. It does that to people – you don’t even notice it’s happening until you’ve changed.
Ben feels out of place, bogus, an interloper here under false pretences. His collar feels as if it’s choking him. He coughs, asks at the desk where he should go, and is directed to the elevators.
He manages to enter one of the daunting steel lifts, but has trouble getting the doors to shut. The buttons won’t respond to his touch. He has had little experience of technology. Just before the doors close, a girl steps in. She wears the corporate armour of high finance, black slacks and a black top. A gold neck-chain. Cropped blonde hair with muted highlights. Pretty, in an unattainable way. Ben reaches across her and tries the doors again, but nothing happens.
‘Here.’ The girl reaches down and removes her shoe, then smacks the destination panel with it. ‘It always does this.’ The elevator jerks and starts up. ‘Technology. Just ’cause it looks good, doesn’t mean it’ll do what you tell it to do.’ She smiles absently at him, then stares ahead.
Ben stands uncomfortably beside her as they wait for their floor. He goes to speak, then changes his mind.
The lift stops and the doors open. The futuristic reception area of SymaxCorp beckons. Black smoked glass, polished steel, underlighters; a cross between a Fred and Ginger dance set and a Mayfair car showroom. Flat-screen monitors display the caring side of the sharing corporation; waterfalls, rainforests, sunsets, horribly soothing music that sounds like an Enya rip-off.
Ben approaches the receptionist, a tousle-haired and frazzled-looking woman with visible bra-straps. She’s wearing a name badge: THOMPSON. She can barely be seen over her desk, which is finished in grey granite. He listens as she complains on the phone to someone, half-heartedly trying not to be overheard.
‘Right across the top of my head, like a red-hot knife sawing into my brain, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And then I bring everything up.’
Ben coughs. ‘Excuse me?’
Ms Thompson covers the phone as if caught selling state secrets. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Ben Harper. I’m starting work here today?’
The receptionist replaces the phone and does something extraordinary. She drops her head hard onto the counter.
Ben is understandably alarmed. ‘Are you all right?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she mumbles. ‘Just a headache. You’re expected. Please take a seat.’ She keeps her head down as he walks away.
Ben seats himself on a huge, squeaky leather sofa.
‘NOT THERE!’
Ben jumps up in alarm.
‘That one’s got – something wrong – with it,’ the receptionist explains.
He studies the skinny identikit corporate drones passing through the reception area and realises that, outwardly at least, he has nothing in common with them. He watches the video monitors. The thoughtful transatlantic voiceover intones good things about SymaxCorp – something about ‘The Environment You Deserve’, and, ‘Wouldn’t it be good if everything was this easy?’.
After five minutes he is collected by another name-tag. This one reads: FITCH. No first name. It belongs to a thick-waisted, thick-ankled, efficient young woman with dry ginger hair and an intimidating manner. Ben rises and goes to shake her hand, but she just clips a clearance card on his lapel. She does it with a little gun, and he has a feeling that the card won’t be removable.
‘Glad to have you on board, Mr Harper. This contains a chip with your security clearance. Code 7.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Codes start at 100 and go all the way down to zero. You get the idea.’
Ben nods. ‘I think I do.’
‘It means there are six levels below you, but they’re …’
‘Primates?’
‘Not far off.’ She points to his badge. ‘You’re required to wear it at all times on the premises. Try not to drop it down the toilet, as replacement cards will be docked from your salary. Come with me.’
‘Please, call me Ben.’
‘We don’t use first names here, Mr Harper. I don’t favour the personal touch.’
‘Nice.’
‘It’s not meant to be cosy, I’m not your mother. Your OOC is me, then Mr Clarke.’
‘OOC?’
‘Order Of Command. You are familiar with corporate terminology. The supervisors prefer electronic exchange over face-time.’
‘We’ll probably all get to be pals over a fag break,’ says Ben, then bites his tongue.
‘This building does not have a cancer verandah. Smoking is a dismissable offence. Think of this as a military operation.’
‘Do we get uniforms?’
‘You’re already wearing it. Remember, all commerce is war.’
‘You issue firearms as well?’
‘I so wish.’ She hands Ben a DVD in a steel slipcase embossed with the word SYMAXCORP. ‘Think of this as a holy bible with stiffer penalties for rule-breaking. Please run it and memorise the key points. You may be required by law to answer a questionnaire.’ She stacks hard copy documents into his arms. ‘You’ll also need to read these. As Health and Safety Officer, you may talk to staff only about health and safety issues directly affecting your department. Your first report will be due this Friday.’
Ben tries a tentative smile. It usually works. ‘Well, I’m happy,’ he tells her.
‘Don’t waste a smile on me, Mr Harper, you won’t be the son I never had.’ Fitch turns on her chunky heel and stalks away.
Ben looks around. The offices are dark, silver-grey slate and cherrywood, the new colours of corporate cool. The work-floor is futuristic, ergonomic, designed to prevent time-wasting, a mix of odd perspectives that sometimes curve unexpectedly around corners. There’s even a burbling fountain surrounded by grey pebbles and Japanese plants. Fierce little spots of light pinpoint the workstations like static prison searchlights. It’s elegant but weirdly oppressive. Touches of humanity exist in the way staff have decorated their booths; a photo pinned here, a small vase of flowers there. The workstations still look like hutches. The semi-private supervisor offices line the open centre, underlit glass boxes that are uncomfortably reminiscent of cages for battery hens.
The staff are highly focused. Workers flit quickly and efficiently or remain hunched at workstations like gargoyles, concentrating on their net-linked computer screens. Ben is perversely excited by the energy and technology he sees all around him. He sees ergonomic headsets and lower back pain, call-waiting and eye strain. He’ll have a lot to do.
He examines his workstation, checking the drawers, and is surprised to find that the bottom one has not been cleared out. There are odd items in this little haven of untidiness; photobooth strips, a conker on a string, an uncleaned mug, a pair of socks, yards of tinfoil, a fierce-looking army knife, lots of aspirin bubblepacks.
Ben doesn’t see that he has been seated next to the girl from the elevator. The name on her tag reads: JAMESON. She doesn’t appear to have noticed him, or perhaps she’s just too busy. Needing to load the DVD, Ben surreptitiously attempts to turn on his computer, but can’t find the right button. He climbs around the back of his desk, searching for it.
The girl’s noticed him now, and watches in amusement as he tries to discover how to turn the iMac on. After letting him fumble about for a while, she leans over and discreetly boots the computer up for him.
‘Bottom left,’ she whispers, and points.
Ben feels for the button but still can’t find it.
‘No, your other left. You’ve never used one of these before, have you?’
Ben feigns indignance. ‘Of course I have. I’m just used to a different type. Uh, brand. You know, model.’
She smiles witchily. ‘You use firewire or infrared for Powerpoint spreadsheets and Word docs?’
‘Oh, well,’ he says casually, ‘you know, either really. Both. Whatever, I don’t mind.’
‘Which OS did you train on, then? Ten?’
He studies the ceiling, thinking. ‘Oh, er, the usual one. Yeah, ten, probably, or maybe eleven.’
‘Okay, sport, it’s all yours. Take it away. Let’s see what you can do.’
Ben is screwed. Aware of being watched, he tentatively taps the keyboard and shuts everything down again. The girl scoots her chair beside his and holds out her hand.
‘I’m Miranda, corporate slut.’
‘You don’t look –’
‘Corporate, I know. What I mean is, I’m a temp. That’s how they see us, the management. High pay, low dignity. And you don’t know your way around an iMac. We met in the lift.’
‘The shoe hammerer.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m gentler than I look. Listen, I’ll keep your secret. Just tell me what the hell you think you’re doing here.’ Ben gives her a look of bruised innocence. ‘Oh, come on. Anyone can see you’re a company virgin. How did you ever get this gig? Is your daddy a director? Can’t be your mummy, this place has a glass ceiling. I’ve worked everywhere, they’re all the same.’
Ben thinks for a moment and mumbles. ‘I – uh – well …’ Miranda mirrors his innocent look and returns it bigger. Maybe he should level with her.
‘Shit. Well, the truth is, a friend helped me make up my CV.’ He pulls a disc from his pocket. Miranda takes it from him and inserts it into the iMac. She opens the only file and examines his CV on screen. Apparently he has worked at three of the hottest companies in the city. Yeah, right.
‘Pretty f*cking unconvincing. And you got away with this?’
Ben checks his watch and pleads with Miranda. ‘For just over three minutes. Look …’
‘Miranda. Like in The Tempest.’
‘Miranda, I need this job,’ he pleads. Other workers have noticed their conversation and are pretending, rather obviously, not to listen.
‘But you’ve never done anything like it before.’
‘No. I was a hospital carer.’
Miranda scrolls down through the document and finds a second CV – this must be the real one, because it’s a lot less impressive. It runs to all of three lines. ‘Bit of a career jump, wouldn’t you say?’ She reads on. REASON FOR TERMINATION. ‘Jesus, kicked out for organising a strike. Why do you even keep a copy of this?’
‘To remind me,’ he explains.
‘I wouldn’t, not around here. The central server searches everyone’s hard drives. Erase it if you’re planning to stay.’
‘I have to make this work.’ He doesn’t want to beg, but he will if necessary. ‘I can do it. It’s Health and Safety, how hard can it be?’
‘Harder than you think. But I may be able to help you. ‘
Miss Fitch walks past. Her X-ray glare causes Miranda to break off. She waits for the all-clear before resuming.
‘We’re not supposed to be talking.’ She points to the tiny CCTV camera in the corner above their workstations. ‘It’s activated every time anyone moves their chair. It picks up signs of fraternisation and relays them to the management monitors. You should keep a screensaver made from a worksheet so that you can default to it when a supervisor passes. And put a pair of sunglasses on your desk. You can see who’s prowling around behind you.’
‘How do you know this stuff?’ he asks. Maybe she’s older than she looks.
‘I’m a temp on 100WPM/1BB. We know everything.’ She waves the question aside as she ejects his disc and slips it back in the case. ‘Hundred words a minute and one bathroom break a day. Highest rating. I don’t have to work here.’
‘Then why do you?’
‘They pay more. I’ll go with anyone. In a strictly business sense.’ A quick smile. Miranda’s voice carries, and others start to notice when she’s not getting on with her work. Ben means to look busy and committed, but it’s not easy.
‘But why is this place –’
‘No more questions. Seal those luscious lips.’ She holds a finger to her mouth. ‘I’ll meet you at the refreshment station in half an hour.’
They stand before the coffee machine like spies exchanging secrets. Miranda points to another CCTV camera above them as she spoons in Nescafé. ‘The supervisors time our breaks. We’re not allowed tea because we’re sponsored by a coffee company.’
‘What about mineral water?’
‘Coca Cola. Approved company brands only. So why would you want to work here?’
‘The money, and I’ve got a lousy employment history. After the strike, I had a kind of a breakdown. I’m not good in stressful situations.’
She hands him a styrofoam cup. ‘Well, you really picked the wrong place this time.’
‘Look, I just need to make some cash. Toe the line, be like everyone else and keep my mouth shut.’
‘You don’t look like someone who can do that.’ She’s flirting with him. She couldn’t be, could she?
‘I can do it,’ he says unconvincingly. ‘I’ll fit in and earn some hard cash if it kills me.’
‘It might do.’ She sips coffee with a smile. ‘The last guy who had your desk disappeared.’
Ben reads his on-screen manual. Under DUTIES it has:
ASCERTAIN WELFARE OF ALL STAFF IN YOUR RESPONSIBILITY AREA AND FILE WEEKLY REPORT TO HEAD SUPERVISOR. Thirty pages of small print follow the heading, but he skips that part.
‘Okay.’ Broadly speaking, it sounds easy enough. Ben one-finger types: ACCESS WELFARE REPORTS FOR:
He highlights all the twentieth floor group members. The screen reads: ACCESS DENIED PERMISSION BY GROUP HEAD: MR CLARKE.
It make no sense. How can he do his job? There’s one way to find out. Ben knocks on the glass wall of Fitch’s booth and enters. Fitch is busy and barely bothers to look up.
‘I’m unable to access the staff’s previous welfare reports, Miss Fitch.’
‘You don’t need to. You’re going to file new ones.’ She’s marking work, ticking and crossing out, a teacher destroying the lives of her pupils with the flick of a pen. No family pictures here, no knick-knacks, just paperwork, files, signs of a monastic existence.
‘How can I do that if I can’t see their past complaints?’
‘Their past complaints have been dealt with.’ Tick. Cross. Cross.
‘How do I know that?’
Now she looks up. ‘Because I’m telling you.’
‘I need to see their personal histories. Can you grant me access?’
‘You ask a lot of questions.’
‘I’m not getting many answers.’
‘Then you’ll have to come up with some of your own. Your predecessor was very opinionated, Mr Harper.’
‘You make it sound like a bad thing.’
‘It was for him. Opinions are valid only if someone wants them.’
Don’t rise to it, he tells himself, and leaves. Not a great start. He has to learn to control his mouth.
Ben walks over to Miranda’s workstation. ‘Is there any reason why I wouldn’t be able to access any health reports?’
‘After Felix disappeared, Clarke rerouted everything.’ Miranda points to the man in the photo-frame on Ben’s desk, leans forward and whispers. ‘His name was Felix Draycott. He vanished three weeks ago. Worked late one night, failed to turn up the next morning. Didn’t even come back to empty his desk. We were told stress.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘You tell me. You’re Health and Safety.’ She curls a finger between his shirt buttons, drawing him closer. ‘Oh, but there’s something else. Something really weird.’
‘Miranda, it’s my first day.’ He removes her hand, although he likes the touch.
‘I could make it your last.’
‘Please don’t do this.’
‘Come on, Ben, it’s your job to listen and make a report.’ She opens her desk and takes out an expensive man’s watch. ‘His watch was still in his desk. He took it off while he was working because he said his computer affected it. What kind of man would leave a job without taking his Rolex with him? And that’s not all –’ But Miss Fitch is passing with sheaves of paperwork, a one-woman hardcopy industry. ‘Meet us for lunch later. That’s all I ask.’
‘Us?’ asks Ben. ‘Who’s us?’
The dining room is as far from a canteen as Ben can imagine – a brushed steel kitchen galley with modular cream resin seats, a seventies-influenced lunch area set in a tall tropical plant-filled atrium. Even the flowers smell real. The food, too, is fashionably seventies; coq au vin, chicken chasseur, trout with almonds. Miranda takes Ben to a table. As she does so, she points out another staff member, a balding thirty-year-old with a fussy attitude who’s talking earnestly to Fitch.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Mr Swan. He’s Fitch’s bitch, company spy. If you complain about anything, he’ll spout the rules and offer you anger-management courses. I’m on his shitlist; there’s a surprise. Fitch is a secret drinker. Eats breath-strips to cover it up but forgets to throw away the empties. She has no life. You can imagine. All the men around here are going bald. Weak sperm or something. Comes from sitting too close to the monitors.’
Mr Clarke clumps past. Ben can’t help but notice that he has one leg shorter than the other. The boot tends to draw attention to itself.
‘That has to be Mr Clarke. He was supposed to be at my interview, but I think he was off sick.’
‘He’s the one to be scared of. The head of the department, Felix’s old boss. He was the last one to see Felix. Don’t stare at the boot.’ She waves. ‘Hey, Meera, June.’
‘Hey, Miranda.’ Meera Mangeshkar is a harassed-looking Indian staff member clad in a garish sari, and armed with stacks of zip-drives. June is a heavy-set Caribbean woman with a kind face that naturally reposes in a smile. They join them at the lunch table and shake Ben’s hand in turn.
‘This is Ben. He’s Felix’s replacement.’
‘Oh, wow.’ They give him weird, knowing looks.
‘Nice to meet you, Ben,’ says Meera politely.
‘Meera is our IT genius,’ Miranda tells him. ‘She’s been penalised for breaking the dress code.’
‘If you get ten points against you, you’re suspended,’ Meera explains. ‘I’m up to nine.’
‘You sound quite proud of it,’ says Ben.
‘I’m here to make the machines look good. Apart from that, I’m invisible. So I don’t wear the kind of regulation IT clothes they expect you to wear, and then I’m not invisible.’
‘Nice thinking.’
‘Nice tie.’ Meera flicks his Tootal with a grin. ‘This is June Ayson. She was suspended.’
‘For being over office target weight.’ June pinches an inch through her sweater. ‘I’ve got a month left to lose fifteen pounds.’
Ben is appalled. ‘You’re telling me they have a weight limit here?’
‘Well, they can’t have a colour bar, and they had to think of something.’ June doesn’t seem too concerned. She smiles, even, white teeth like peppermint pellets. Perhaps she’s crazy. Perhaps they’re all crazy.
‘Am I right in thinking you’re all in trouble with the management?’ asks Ben. The group’s silence answers his question.
‘Oh, well, that’s just great.’
‘Listen to me, Ben,’ says Miranda. ‘I know you want to keep your nose clean, but we need your help. There’s something very f*cking weird going on here. It’s the building.’
‘Yeah,’ June agrees, ‘it has bad vibrations. Strange stuff happens all the time.’
Ben is deeply unconvinced. ‘Like what? Poor feng shui? You’ve even got a fountain.’
‘It makes you want to wee all the time,’ says June.
‘Okay, but you’ve got everything you could want here.’
Miranda has her cynical face on again. ‘Yeah, maybe too much. Ask any of the staff. They all have problems. Everyone talked to Felix because he was Health and Safety. He made a report of his findings. He delivered it, and then he disappeared.’
‘I don’t see how I can –’
Miranda sighs, like he’s missing the point. ‘Clarke had a copy of Felix’s report. He was supposed to present it to Dracula.’
‘Wait, there are vampires now?’
‘Dr Hugo Samphire. Chief bloodsucker, the Chairman of SymaxCorp. I searched Clarke’s office one night, but I couldn’t find it. Maybe you’ll have more luck.’
Ben raises his hands in protest. He feels like he’s waded out into a river, only to feel the current tugging him away. ‘Whoa, whoa, back up! Search his office? If I cause any trouble, they’ll kick me out.’
‘Only if they find out the truth about you.’ Miranda smiles sweetly.
Ben feels himself losing his temper. ‘Are you trying to blackmail me? This is my first day, for Christ’s sake.’
Miranda leans close and threatening, taps him on the wrist with her dessert spoon. ‘Listen pal, before Felix’s computer was cleaned out, Meera tried to burn a disk of his files, but his system refused to make a copy, and flagged up the request to Clarke.’
Ben looks from one face to the next. ‘This is a joke, right?’
‘Don’t look at me,’ warns Meera, ‘I can’t even be seen talking to you. I’m on my last point.’
‘You could try wearing a skirt,’ Ben tells her. ‘I bet you’ve never even been to India. Why look for trouble?’
‘Jesus, it’s not like I’m asking you to commit a crime, Ben.’ Miranda throws the spoon down.
Ben is totally irritated by her attitude. She acts like she owns the place. ‘You told Felix something “weird” was going on, and now you think he was, like, silenced or something, and you don’t even know what he found out!’
‘Oh, we know what he found out.’
‘Well, what? Tell me!’
She looks at the others in a moment of silence. ‘Why don’t I show you?’
Miranda leads Ben across the open-plan office. You can hear the wind whistling around the corners of the building up here. They’re level with other workers in other buildings. It’s like looking into the other train when you’re waiting in a station. ‘This is as good a place as any to start.’
A crowd has gathered around one of the water coolers. Inside the plastic water tank, liquid is spinning in a wild whirlpool. ‘It happens the same time every day. You can set your watch by it.’
‘Electro-magnetic interference,’ Meera informs him with a nudge. ‘There’s too much in here. The more equipment we turn on, the weirder it gets.’
‘Show him the pigeons,’ suggests June.
Meera takes Ben to the corner of the floor, and points out through the great windows. There are dozens of dead pigeons lining the window ledges, lying on their backs with their feet in the air. Some have been cannibalised. They’re missing legs and eyes.
Ben presses his face against the cool glass. ‘Mass suicide?’
‘They get within a certain radius and keel over.’
‘Oh come on, Meera. You’re talking about some form of radiation?’
‘If it can kill a bunch of birds, what’s it doing to our brains? Computers are shielded, they shouldn’t cross-resonate, but what if the specs are wrong?’
‘I thought they had experts to check this kind of stuff.’
‘Yeah, that’s me. But equipment’s more complicated now. You’re living in a world where a pen comes with pages of instructions in a dozen languages. Even your after-shave has a web site. It doesn’t mean that anyone knows what they’re doing.’ Meera looks around to make sure the CCTV cameras can’t see them, then removes a panel from the wall. Inside, thousands of tiny red insects scurry over the cables. ‘Know what these are?’
Ben has never seen anything like it. They swarm onto the floor, miniscule creatures buzzing over and around his shoes. He takes a step backwards.
‘Computer mites. Every building in the city has them. Just not this many. Pest controllers came in and sprayed, but they were back the next week, bigger and stronger.’
‘Maybe the stuff contained steroids.’
‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you.’ Meera puts the panel back, shaking bangles up her arm.
‘Maybe you’re taking it too seriously. Bugs and birds? Give me a f*cking break.’
June and Ben look down into the building’s vast central stairwell, a world of steel and concrete. A strong updraft ruffles their hair. June opens a pack of cigarettes and removes the silver foil from inside it. ‘We’re not even supposed to carry packets of cigarettes into the building,’ she says, screwing the foil up into a ball and dropping it into the stairwell. It falls, then spins and hovers on the air current.
‘Touch it.’
Ben gingerly touches the floating foil ball and gets an electric shock.
‘The air flow is all messed up. It’s like being in a funfair.’
In the corridor where they’re standing, the wind moans eerily up the elevator shafts. Girls walk past, and their dresses lift in the updraft, like on a carnival walk.
‘This is all bullshit; it’s bad design, not bad vibes. You want to see a building with real problems? Visit the block of flats in Hackney where my old man lives. I’m going back –’
‘Wait. You said you couldn’t access the health records. Then at least you should talk to some of the staff. It’s your job, Ben.’
‘Damn. I thought I was going to get by on my looks.’
‘You could start with Apela,’ June tells him.
‘Apela. Is that corporate jargon?’
‘No, that’s her first name. She’s over there.’
‘Okay, but if I’m not convinced, promise you’ll drop the whole thing?’
‘That’s up to Miranda,’ says June. She doesn’t explain why.
Apela Tamarak is Fitch’s PA. She moves her mobile phone closer to her computer, until it suddenly emits a piercing shriek. ‘Watch,’ she instructs Ben. The noise from the mobile subsides into an old pop song. It sounds like an early Manfred Mann hit, then there’s a station ident from Radio Caroline.
‘It keeps picking up old pirate radio shows from the sixties. How is that possible?’
They listen to the long-forgotten voices of the Radio Caroline DJs for a minute. Apela is enjoying the show. Maybe she’s nuts as well, thinks Ben. He resolves to talk to some other staffers.
‘I get these red dots before my eyes whenever I stare too long at the company screensaver,’ says Alison, Clarke’s PA. ‘Then I pass out. Watch.’
Alison’s head drops forward. She’s out cold with her face on the desk. She opens one eye. ‘Sometimes I pass out right on the keyboard. It leaves marks, you know?’
When she sits up, all her hair is standing on end.
Jake in Invoicing is more embarrassed about talking, but Ben is good with people. Finally he opens up. They’re standing over a toilet in the men’s room, staring into it. Jake grabs the handle and flushes.
‘It flushes back to front,’ Jake explains. ‘The water goes down the hole anti-clockwise. It’s only supposed to do that in Australia, isn’t it?’
Harry, the mailboy, is happy to talk to anyone, particularly if they want to discuss shows on the Sci-Fi Channel. He points to some scratch-marks along the wall. ‘There’s, like, all this tiny grafitti everywhere. Check it out. Triple sixes, man. The mark of the beast. The ghost in the machine. Messages from another place. Warnings? Could be.’ He shakes his head sadly. His hair wants washing. ‘I get these weird headaches when I see them. Like something’s trying to take control of my brain.’
‘Do you smoke a lot of dope?’ asks Ben.
Jake is puzzled. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’
Ben looks at his chaotic notes. None of them makes any sense. He studies the building blueprint, and reads the brochures. Words jump out: STATE OF THE ART – UNIQUE STRUCTURE – TWENTY NINE FLOORS OF NEW TECHNOLOGY
– TWENTY NINE FLOORS –
He cross-references the blueprint. Then he’s walking through the building’s lobby to a map of the floors. He has a readout of the building’s blueprint in his hand. He looks at the map and counts the levels, running his finger up the panel. Twenty-nine. The blueprint says there are thirty.
He returns to his workstation, feeling beaten. As Miranda passes, he stops her. He has the feeling that he’s getting involved, despite himself. He points out the notes he has taken.
‘Buildings don’t make people behave strangely,’ he reasons, ‘other people do. You really think there’s something wrong with the place, or is this some new kind of urban myth?’
Miranda pulls a pen from behind her ear, displays it to Ben and places it halfway up the wall, where it stays. ‘You tell me. Should it do that?’
They stand there looking at the pen as it starts to spin.
Ben decides to have a quiet word with Meera. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he begins, ‘I don’t buy into any of this –’
Meera raises a pencilled eyebrow. ‘But?’
‘Okay, I went outside the building and counted the windows. There are meant to be twenty nine floors, but I counted thirty. Where’s the extra floor, Meera?’
‘Ah, now that’s the big secret isn’t it.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, first of all, that they didn’t build a thirteenth floor. What you have here is a shrine to rationality built by irrational people. There are two floor twelves. Also, when I first joined, I went through the cabling with a fine-tooth comb and came up against a blank. I mean a real blank: a room that cables come in and out of, but nobody seems to know what’s in there. Room 3014 … but it’s on the thirtieth floor. A floor that doesn’t officially exist. But I’ve been up there. The door’s always locked. Suppose it contains some kind of weird technology we’re not allowed to know about? It’s just sitting there, right above our heads.’
Suddenly they hear a rhythmic thumping noise and look up to see Clarke heading their way. Clarke stops by Meera’s desk. Sweating and annoyed, the supervisor studies Ben as if he is some kind of peculiar biological anomaly. ‘Mr Harper. Step into my office, would you?’
Clarke offers Ben a seat. The supervisor paces back and forth past his son’s sports trophies. Clarke’s elevated boot makes his clumping gait lop-sided. He is unpredictable when he’s like this.
‘I want you to know I was against your appointment here. But the law is on your side. You’re here to fill a European requirement. You’re a legal statistic.’
Ben shifts uncomfortably. ‘I know it’s only my first day, but it seems to me that people are experiencing low-level symptoms of illness, and they apparently think the building is at fault.’
‘If someone comes to you with a problem, you report it to me. Just stick to your job description and we’ll get along fine. Don’t give me bad news. I want solid factual evidence, not your vague opinions.’
Ben is already having a crisis of conscience. He wants to fit in, but he hates dishonesty. ‘You expect me to falsify my findings?’ That isn’t what he meant to ask, but it’s out now.
Clarke’s eyes bulge unpleasantly as he looms close. He’s been eating onions, and there’s an under-scent of lard. ‘Listen, you little prick, you stick to being a keyboard-monkey or I’ll leave you twisting in the f*cking wind. How clear is that?’
‘Pretty clear. I’m just trying to do my job. I don’t want to get the boot.’ That didn’t go so well, he thinks, not daring to look back as he leaves the office, mentally biting his fist.
A building like SymaxCorp is analogous to the backstage area of a theatre set. In the same way that Disneyland’s miles of service corridors are not seen by the public, SymaxCorp’s basement remains hidden from view. Beneath the lobby, spotlights reach off into the distance. Two servicewear-co-ordinated workmen study them.
‘What are we looking for?’ asks Tony Cox, not because he’s interested but because it’s nearly time to go home and he’s starving.
‘Damage from a power surge,’ Ray Sturgiss, his supervisor, tells him. ‘It came up on the board. I don’t see any.’
‘How do they keep everything so clean down here? You could eat off the f*cking floor.’ Tony snaps his gum and blows a bubble.
‘Suction system removes all the dust. Howard’s the only janitor for the whole building. One day, all places will be like this.’
‘The hippy bloke? He never does any f*cking work.’
As the workmen watch, the lights go out all the way along the corridor.
‘Shit. That’s a big one.’ Ray looks up nervously. They descend and try the switches, but nothing happens. They flick on torches, illuminating a path. ‘I don’t understand. The system is brand new. There’s nothing to go wrong.’
‘Then where are the lights?’ asks Tony.
‘It must have damaged the sub-station.’ They stop before a tall steel box, the door of which is raised. ‘This shouldn’t be open. It’s hyper-sensitive equipment. It must have unsealed when the electrics crashed.’
Tony peers in. ‘So what do we do?’
‘Trip the relay from the mains after I’ve checked this.’
‘Can you smell that? Something burning.’ Tony sniffs the air.
‘I’ve got no sense of smell, mate.’ Ray rolls up his sleeves and reaches in to the rerouters. ‘Was a time when they’d employ a bloke with a broom to keep a place clean. Now even a sweeper needs a f*cking degree in electronics to figure out. Give me some light here. Tony? Coxie?’ He looks around. Tony seems to have vanished. Suddenly, the lights come back on all the way along the corridor.
Relays trip. Electricity arcs. Machinery moves. The hum of new air starts up. Ray still has his hand inside the sub-station as the lid is reactivated and starts to close. There’s no way he can get his hand out in time. He struggles, but the heavy steel lid is still coming down on his fingers.
‘Coxie! Coxie! Shut it back off!’ The metal sheet closes on his hand, crushing then snipping off his last two fingers at the first joint. Ray’s agonised cries echo along the corridor, but his hand is free and the shield is back in place. The system’s designed to do that, after all.
The built-up boot. You hear it coming from the other end of the corridor. You get to recognise the loping walk. Clarke clumps to the front of the seated workers and barks at them.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he looks from one expectant face to the next, ‘this Friday, SymaxCorp presents its office systems via the top floor satellite link to the New York Board Of Commerce. This will be the most important presentation in the company’s history. The later you stay, the harder you work, the more likely you’ll be to win promotion over your colleagues. Don’t trust them, because they won’t be trusting you. This isn’t a business. It’s a war that we intend to win. Get a good night’s sleep. You have a very tough week ahead of you.’
Ben and Miranda are seated near the back, like kids who talk in class. They eye each other with some suspicion. ‘He should have been in the military,’ says Ben.
‘He was,’ Miranda tells him. ‘Desk job. The boot. But you never lose the discipline.’
Clarke is watching them.