Tony came out from around his desk, his arm outstretched. He invited Billy to sit down, but then looked dubiously at the steel chair in front of his desk. He scanned his office, seeming to search for a couch that didn’t exist, then looked at the floor, as if about to suggest they sit on the ruined orange-yellow carpet. Billy forced himself into the chair, trying not to grimace as its metal arms scraped over his hips.
“Oh, good,” Tony said, sounding much too relieved. He returned behind his desk and dropped onto his swivel chair. He rotated the chair, left, right, left, right, his thumbs holding on to the edge of his desk. As Tony and the chair moved, Billy fought feelings of seasickness. He tried to focus on a spot on the desk, to stop the dizziness, and gasped at the nicotine-poisoned air. Tony often ignored the ban and smoked out his top-floor window, liking to think he was above everything and everyone.
Billy tried to stop breathing so loud. His rapid, wheezing noises sounded much worse than usual, like a car engine heaving to spark. He held his breath. His lungs filled. Filled and protested. Sweat gathered on his eyelids and the back of his neck.
“How are you ever since?” Tony asked.
“All right, yeah.” Billy continued in a burst. “I have a bit of an unusual proposal.”
Tony’s expression jumped to guarded. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, the thing is, I’ve set a goal for myself, to lose two hundred pounds for charity, for suicide prevention.”
Tony joined his hands prayerlike and tapped them against his mouth. When no further response came, Billy considered bolting, but pressed on. “It’s in memory of Michael, obviously, and I was hoping the factory might match the donations that come in, euro for euro? It’d be great publicity all round, and it’s for a great cause.”
Tony pressed his pointer fingers hard to his lips. “Tell you what,” he said at last. “I’ll talk to my board members and get their take on it, yeah?” He raised his palms apologetically. “Don’t get me wrong, part of me wants to say, yeah, absolutely, I’m most certainly sympathetic to the cause, and I’m happy to make a personal donation, but it’s another story to involve the factory, especially in these recessionary times.” He spread his hands wide, like a priest calling people to prayer. “I’m just being honest here, Billy; if you don’t reach your goal, and the factory sponsored you, well, it’s just awkward all round, you know?”
A shiver rose from the back of Billy’s neck and over his scalp. He sat blinking, asking himself if Tony really had said all that. The bastard didn’t believe he would succeed. Billy licked his lips, fighting the feeling he’d lost his voice. “I am going to reach my goal, I can promise you that. I’m giving this all I’ve got, because people are in serious trouble. Did you know there have been over five thousand known suicides in this country in the past decade alone?”
“I didn’t actually—”
“There are now, like, ten suicides a week, and most of them are young men. If there was a serial killer knocking off that number of people, everyone would be up in arms, terrified they or theirs might be next, but the way it is right now, no one seems to care nearly enough.”
“Hardly no one,” Tony said.
“Yeah, okay, not no one, but most people don’t seem to care nearly enough.”
Tony seemed to squirm on his chair. “Well, I think it’s that there’s still a bit of … well, silence around it all.”
Billy pushed back his temper. Before Michael, Billy hadn’t known any better. Now it enraged him how people talked, and mostly didn’t talk, about suicide. There was still so much stigma and ignorance—the persistent belief by too many that it was a sin, a crime, a sign of weakness, and something shameful to be hidden. He drew a deep breath. He needed to stay calm and stay the course. “My whole life I’ve never felt this way about anything. I know I’ll see this through and that I can do a lot of good.”
Pity oozed from Tony’s small, dark eyes. “Fair play, that’s all I can say. I wish you the best of luck.”
“Is that a no?”
“I said I’d talk to my board.”
“Yeah, thanks, thanks a lot.” Billy pulled himself free of the squeeze of the metal chair with as much grace as possible.
On his way out, Lucy looked up from her desk and said something, but he couldn’t hear her through the fog of temper.
Inside the elevator, he looked down at the floor and away from his exaggerated reflection in the silver doors, where he appeared ever more the freak.
*
That evening, Billy pushed back feelings of guilt and steered the car for home, reneging on his earlier plan to drive to the little-used cove outside the village for a long, brisk walk. He needed to go straight home and eat. He’d taken nothing since the limp salad in the canteen. Starting tomorrow, he would attempt at least a mile of the cove, five times a week.