Jak gulps down her coffee, checks her phone – nothing, 7.08 am. And runs for the bus.
She goes upstairs, finds a seat half way back and checks her phone – nothing, 7.16 am.
‘Leave it a bit Jak.’
She checks her phone again – nothing, 7.27 am.
—
The office air conditioning is broken. Sylvie pushes the window nearest her desk as far out as it will go.
“Ooh, careful there,” laughs Lakshmi, “don’t lean out too far, you might fall!”
Sylvie laughs too, “don’t think I’d fit through that!”
“Ooh, I dunno, trim lady like yourself,” Lakshmi takes a sip of coffee and stands, one hand on her hip and the heel of a foot resting against the opposite ankle, with a smile on her face, “how was your date then, beautiful lady?”
Sylvie pulls her head back into the room and turns to face her, but then looks at the floor, “a bit rubbish.”
Lakshmi shrugs sympathetically, “yeah, that’s the trouble when they turn out to be real after all. They are mostly rubbish.”
“Hmm, to be honest with you, I’m not sure I really want a relationship as such. I’m not feeling like I want to commit. Not now, not really. Too much fear of disappointment and men who just think of themselves all the time. And their penises… talking of which,” Sylvie brightens up, “I think Whoresaway slept here last night. I guess his girlfriend, or whatever she was, finally kicked him out.”
“Oh,” Lakshmi, for once, is not sure what to say, “where is he now?”
“Meeting in Oxford.”
Lakshmi nods, “he has a lot of those…”
“Well, yeah! He certainly uses Cherwell Gate a lot. Season ticket. Although the way things are going round here, not sure he can afford that for much longer.”
“Cherwell, which… oh the one at Marston Ferry?”
“Yeah. Most of their customers come from the other side. You know, businessmen with kids at home and socially inept professors mostly. Probably claim to be radical feminists, by day,” Sylvie wrinkles her nose in disgust, “but young Mr Whoresaway keeps them busy too. So I have heard… but he doesn’t really try to disguise being a letch, does he, you must’ve felt his eyes on you.”
Lakshmi shrugs, “yeah, I guess. But you get used to that sort of thing. Why’d you say he can’t afford a season ticket much longer?”
“I’ve seen the upcoming quarterlies.”
“Oh. Oh well. To be honest with you, I wasn’t planning to stay in this job for long anyway.”
“What is it you do again?” Sylvie asks, realising she has no idea.
“Oh b-2-b marketing, client acquisition,” Lakshmi races through her job description, “people-focused. And the strategy bits that Alex doesn’t manage to get across himself. Which is all of it, frankly. You do have to kinda let him believe everything is really his idea and you’re just filling in the details for him. He’s not a great thinker.”
Sylvie laughs again, “thinks with his you-know-what, that’s why.”
“Gets plenty of practice then,” grins Lakshmi.
“Yeah,” Sylvie continues to laugh while shaking her head contemptuously, “but in his case practice definitely does not make perfect!”
Lakshmi screws her eyes up in mock-surprise and horror, while failing to stop grinning.
—
There are only short queues and Jak swipes into the building site the normal way, with her phone, for the first time in over a week. And there are no questions to answer. She checks her phone again – nothing – before stashing it, along with her lunch box and trainers, in her locker.
Today she’s reporting to the dreaded Workstation 2. And there’s a talk from the unendurable foreman to be endured.
“The bosses are impressed at how hard we’ve worked. Well done to everyone that has worked hard. But they also know a lot of you can work a lot harder.
“There has been an inadequate response to the extra-shifts offer despite the generous bonuses on offer. I am very disappointed in all of you who have failed to take advantage of this generous offer. So everyone, including myself, will be doing one additional shift on Saturday at normal rates.”
A murmur of grumbles passes round the workers.
“Don’t blame me! Blame yourselves! If enough of you had bothered to work bonus shifts then we’d be further on by now and the arrangement would’ve continued. And it’s only a four-hour shift, not a whole day, so you can consider yourselves lucky. Your additional shift is being added to your workplan right now as I speak. Check your phones tomorrow for details.
“We will have this arch ready and ship-shape for its official opening ceremony on Sunday, where there will be an address from Dr Messina himself. Now get to work!”
—
The water cooler has become very popular with people queuing with large bottles to fill. Lakshmi stands at the sink, kettle beneath a dribbling tap, humming to herself.
Sylvie herself is ploughing through calls and call-backs, she is scheduled to complete by the end of the week. She has already said “hello, good morning, my name is Sylvie and I’m calling about…” so many times that she can feel her eyelids drooping each time she says it. It must be lunch time soon.
Lakshmi: It’s lunchtime!
Sylvie Churchwell: Yeah
Lakshmi walks across the office, floral dress swaying slightly with each step, to Sylvie’s desk for the day, “what’re you doing over here? I thought you liked the window desks?”
“All taken when I got in. I was a bit late. To be honest, forgot it was a work day,” confesses Sylvie.
“Ha ha ha ha,” Lakshmi laughs out loud, “well why don’t you forget again for a bit? Let’s go to the pub.”
“Brought sandwiches,” replies Sylvie glumly.
“You don’t have to eat in the pub…”
“Will they let me eat my sandwiches…”
“Yes, if they don’t know you’re doing it…”
“Oh,” Sylvie swithers on the point of giving in and starts to rise from her chair before the thought of explaining to Mr Alex ‘Oarsaway and I’m being a twat today’ Malling why she’s behind with client closures and renewals on Monday morning sits her down again, “no I better not. I’ve got so much work to do.”
“Can’t it wait?”
—
Jak chews a stale sandwich and makes a mental note to buy bread on the way home that evening. She checks her phone – nothing, 12.07 pm.
—
Robbo lugs his sack of gardening tools over his shoulder, wheels his mower through the street door and heads out. He walks away from the scruffy houses near his flat, down to the smarter part of Rose Hill. Three bedroomed semis with good sized gardens.
He checks the gardens as he passes them. Too well kept. All paved over. Weeds in the flower beds and uneven hedge sticking out across the pavement. He tries this one.
“Hello. Gardener, live local. Do you need a hand with the garden, madam? Weeding, trimming, mowing… can do it all? Or just some? Okay. Never mind.”
And he continues on, stopping at around one in three houses that look like they might have people who would like a nice garden but don’t like gardening. Cash in hand. A lot of ‘never minds’, a few takers.
—
Hank picks up a beer bottle, inspects the picture label – a grinning elf creature with a hop flower for hair, long fingered hand balancing on a wavy yellow bar and skinny legs akimbo as if vaulting over a gate. And carefully puts it back on the shelf.
Maureen watches him. But also watches as a customer, a middle-aged man with frayed trouser legs and a faded baseball cap, gathers up his carrier bags of dated beers. Twenty-four cans, two thin stripey bagfuls, for fifteen pounds. Eventually he shuffles out.
“Are you here for discounted beer, Maureen? Getting a few in for the weekend? A bargain, even if I say so myself,” Ali greets her with a guarded jollity, “or what else brings you to my humble bottle shop?”
“Okay, Ali,” Maureen speaks quietly, humbly, “I know we’ve had disagreements. You know, yeah? But I know you’re a good man just earning your crust. We’re not here to hit the bottle today, young Hank here is supposed to be on the wagon. For the good of his health, you see.”
Ali frowns, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Aye, I bet you are. But we’re here for Matchbox,” Maureen continues, subdued, “himself is missing. And we’re worried. Do you know anything? Has he been in for booze? Or a loan?”
Ali shakes his head, “again, I’m sorry to hear that. But no, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him for weeks, Maureen. When was it you last saw him?”
“Oh, I dunno, a week or… yeah something like that. To be perfectly honest I was so worried about my Hank. And so pleased to have him back. I kinda ignored Matchbox, didn’t really bother with him.”
Two young men, possibly students, come through the door. Ali leans across the counter towards Maureen and whispers, “I don’t like to say it but have you checked the hospitals?”
“Littlemore,” Maureen says outloud, “that’s where I thought he might have taken himself to. The Professor went off with some hotshot guy, you see. Cut Matchbox up something rough.”
“But he wasn’t there?”
“No. And, to be quite honest with you Ali, I’m fearing the worst for him.”
“Ok, Maureen. I’ll ask around. At the mosque and one or two old-time customers. Have you got a number?”
Maureen writes her phone number on a scrap of paper while Ali serves the two young men.
After they leave, he lets out a deep breath, “I think they was two of the rugby pig boys.”
“I’m sorry,” laughs Maureen uncertainly, “they were who now?”
“It’s no laughing matter for us Muslims, I can tell you. A group of students, the other day, drunk, ran into our mosque…” Ali pauses for an intake of breath, “with a pig’s head. And started throwing it about and shouting at a group of women who were there for a coffee morning. It was very upsetting for them. For all of us.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Ali,” says Maureen quickly.
“I thought they maybe had something to do with Mr Miles’s squad, after some money or something but no, just students intimidating us for the fun of it. All young white men of course, members of the Business School rugby club. And those young men who came in had LRBSRC hoodies on,” Ali shakes his head in disbelief and then gives it one final shake as if to dismiss the subject, “I’ll let you know if I hear anything of dear old Matchbox, Maureen. Fingers crossed for him.”
“Thank you. God bless you, Ali.”
—
Tudor sits in the Templars Square Shopping Centre, sipping a latte and smiling as he watches Philip Rumbelowe trundle towards him.
“What you want being here, eh?” he shouts from a distance. A woman walks between them, turning to glare momentarily at Mr Rumbelowe, before hurrying into Superdrug.
Tudor smiles and takes another sip. Let him come closer. This isn’t for innocent ears.
Philip Rumbelowe glares back at the woman, after she has already passed by, and continues towards Tudor’s table. He pulls a chair aside and parks his scooter in its place.
“Can I get you a drink, Philip?” offers Tudor politely, “the latte is surprisingly good for shopping centre catering.”
“No. Get to the point.”
Tudor shrugs, “shame. You should support more local businesses. They’re the backbone of the community after all.”
“Get. To. The. Fucking. Point.”
Tudor smiles again, “oh Philip, your social skills really haven’t come on at all, have they. Not to worry, I will, as you prefer, get to the point. So, I’ve had a discussion with Mr Miles…”
“Been given orders by Mr Miles,” corrects Mr Rumbelowe.
“Now, now,” sighs Tudor, “let’s be civil and not interrupt each other. Mr Miles is of the view that your SME…”
“My fucking what?”
Tudor sighs again, “Small or Medium Enterprise, SME for short. Your operation, your home games, how you make your hard-earned wedge. Mr Miles is of the view that, even with the reduced capacity now at your disposal, your work in the Leys remains beneficial to community relations and that it would be a shame to see it further decline. So he is willing to act as investor and insurer for your trade within the Blackbird and Greater Leys area. Strictly outside the ring road only.”
“Ring Road my ringpiece, I want Rose Hill. That shitty pizza shop will go bust without Big Dave’s loyal custom.”
“Mr Miles was very clear, ‘outside the ring road only’, his words. Not by the ring road, on the ring road, above the ring road, below the ring road or just inside the ring road. Outside the ring road only: Blackbird Leys and Greater Leys. No street action. Consenting adults only. If you really want Littlemore, the bit outside the ring road, you can have it too.”
“Just as well Kissy Crissy loves you very much,” growls Mr Rumbelowe, “Big Dave would turn your insides out in seconds. You’d fetch a very good price in town. As a designer handbag.”
Tudor pushes his half-full cup aside to lean across the table and speak within an inch of Mr Rumbelowe’s face, “enough insults, Philip. I’m being very patient. But you do need to take the terms.”
“Sure you’re up to this, young man?” laughs Mr Rumbelowe, “you do a shit impression of Kissy Crissy. You sound more like a fucking primary school teacher.”
“Take the terms, old man.”
“Or Noel fucking Edmonds, Deal or no Deal,” Philip Rumbelowe starts up his scooter’s engine and turns it round, facing towards the shopping centre exit, “tell Mr Miles, I accept his terms.”
—
Jak clocks off on the dot of 4.30. She trudges wearily to the lockers, puts her work boots and hard hat away, and collects her trainers, phone and lunchbox. After checking her phone again, just in case there are any more messages, she walks to the bus stop.
Cowley Road is subdued. People with their heads down, checking phones or just looking at the ground, as they make their way home. Grey clouds overhead. Long queues at the bus stops.
The first bus that comes fills up. Jak could squeeze on but would have to stand, and there is now space on the bench. So she sits and waits for the next one. And checks her phone – nothing.
Eventually another bus arrives. Jak climbs the stairs and slumps herself down by a window. Flats above shops slip past, unlit. A woman in a loosely tied dressing gown switches on a lamp and draws her curtains.
The shops and flats give way, briefly, to a bowling green and playing fields. A bin bag flaps lethargically from the top of a hedge. Then terraced houses, interspersed with occasional shops, takeover. Blank windows stare back at Jak.
She gets off the bus in Cowley to go to Templars Square to pop into the Co-op. A sliced loaf. Some biscuits – Jammy Dodgers, always her mum’s favourites. That’ll earn her brownie points. And a four-pack of rum and coke. That won’t, but it’s been a long week and it’s not even finished yet, and even after her Saturday shift there’s going to be the opening ceremony bollocks to get through, unpaid of course, on Sunday. Probably. Fingers crossed they forget to invite her.
At home, she puts the loaf in the bread bin, the cans in the fridge and leaves the biscuits on the side. Her mum isn’t home yet.
Jak fills a glass with water, there’s never enough water at work and her muscles feel dehydrated today despite it not being as hot and dry as it has been, and gulps it down. Then grabs a rum and coke from the fridge, not cold yet but who cares, and stretches out on the sofa.
She checks her phone – ‘To confirm that your request for a visit to prisoner C Griffith at St Aldates Detention Cell is now logged for processing and will be processed in due course. The outcome of the process will be communicated to you in due course. Thames Valley Police – your community is our passion.’
Itchycoo miaows, jumps up and softly paws at Jak’s arm, purring.