The Shelf- Part Three

 The three men stepped out onto the busy streets. The air outside felt raw compared with the boozy micro-climate within the restaurant, it had an exposing effect on their intoxication; the afternoon ahead was likely to be unproductive, probably silly.

'I think I'll just go home and have a long lie down,' said Ollie lighting up a cigarette and taking the sort of long, bouncy strides of a man who's arms and legs have grown too long to move efficiently. 

'Oh you mustn't!' said Rupert, 'We're a team, all in this together.'

'Maybe I'll just lie down in the office instead. There's place I know, round the back of the shredder by that oversized cheeseplant. I once spent the night there, after Nigel's leaving do. Remember that Christian?'

'Don't tell me you actually DID that?'

'Calm down Christian. People do things, it's no big deal. Slept very well as it happens; the shredder had a sort of residual heat, and I emptied some of the shredded stuff out of the bags and made a sort of nest, like a hamster. Plus the cheeseplant was the perfect thing to piss into.'

'That is utterly ridiculous Oliver!'

'Just ask the cleaners if you don't believe me - that's if you can get them to speak! I know how you like to get into work bright and early Christian, and go home dull and late,' he laughed, 'You must be good friends with them. They woke me at some ungodly hour with their noisy hoovering.'

'Inconsiderate bastards!' Rupert laughed.

'Yes. I tried to engage with them, ask them what day it was because I didn't know whether to go home or stay at work but they were quite unfriendly, looked at me like I was mad. Either that or they didn't speak a word of English. Honestly if you want to experience different cultures don't bother going travelling just stay overnight in the office.'

'It's a fact that some people can't speak before a certain time in the morning,' said Christian, 'And maybe they were too tired to speak.'

There was a moments silence. 'I enjoy watching cleaners,' said Rupert nodding thoughtfully.

'Yes, all that bending over,' said Ollie, 'depends who's doing it of course. I like those big African ladies.'

'And it's just nice knowing that, that -'

'That what Rupert?' said Christian shrugging.

'Well that-' Rupert stretched out his arms in front of him as if he were grabbing hold of the world. 'Just that they're them and we're us. It just feels right. Like everything in the world is in it's rightful and proper place.'

Christian hadn't experienced such a feeling ever. He made a sort of low humming sound in response. The three of them sauntered back to the office taking up far too much of the pavement and getting in the way of other pedestrians who tutted and shot them vitriolic expressions. Christian felt particularly detached and rather ashamed of his two colleagues. He'd been more restrained than them and he watched as they stumbled, shirts hanging over trousers, shouting over each other with inane observations. Ollie, who's feet were freakishly long, tripped over the legs of a sitting beggar who shouted something incomprehensible at them.

Rupert removed his wallet and the homeless man's eyes widened as he was handed a series of banknotes. They continued to walk.

'That's his Christmas sorted,' said Rupert, 'Must think I'm Santa!'

'He'll only spend it on booze,' Christian said dryly, 'Then feel terrible in the morning. He might even get alcohol poisoning and die.'

Rupert took a sharp intake of breath and said quickly, 'Then London will be all the better for it. Actually you've given me an idea; if we handed out free booze to all those messy, unwashed hangers-about, and it was toxic or whatever, then presumably they'd all die and the streets would be clear of people like that.'

'Hey it wasn't your doppleganger was it Christian?' said Ollie, 'Honestly Rupert there's this hobo who's the spit of Christian, I swear they were separated at birth. Keep your eyes peeled for him, he wears a blue beret, looks demeted and smells of Dettol.'

'We've only seen him once Ollie! Anyway, I'm not sure I want to see him again, it was too - weird, like a terrifying vision of the future. I really believe any one of us could end up like that, under the wrong circumstances.'

'Oh Christian!' said Ollie, 'The inside of your head is so full of mush sometimes.'

'Yes, they're lazy blighters, can't be bothered to get up and have a wash in the morning and get to work. There's plenty of work out there is you look hard enough.'

'What did you give him that sixty quid for then?'

'To kill him off with booze of course! Or he could buy a half-decent tie, perhaps it'll motivate him to get a job. A nice tie can change a man's priorities.'

'Rupert you're deluded,' said Christian.

'He just needs a shave and a good rub down, that's all, get him on his feet again.'

Ollie had moved off the crowded pavement down into the gutter and was striding along on double yellow lines. 'You'd have to pay me more than sixty quid to rub HIM down!' he shouted.

It was completely dark now. The streets were heaving with hunched shoppers, over-burdened with heavy winter clothes and cumbersome shopping bags. Their faces stiff with the grim discomfort of frantic Christmas shopping and the looming prospect of engaging with extended family. There were excited people too with shiny eyes, aroused by London's grainy texture which could abraise, lacerate even those who were unused and unarmed to the dangers of so many humans in one location. Office revellers, giggly and dishevelled in heels and smudged lipstick, stomped along, arm in arm, some primed for bad behaviour, some regretting it already.

As the men appraoched the main square Christian's heart began to thud violently. He'd heard the unmistakable sound of the one thing he dreaded more than anything else at Christmas time; the Salvation Army band. Those jolting, jaunty brass-spawned carols never failed to bring a lump to his throat, particularly when badly played, and today he had a very thin shell.

The music got louder, they were getting closer and closer to the band. Despite the bitter cold, Christian felt tiny beads of sweat gathering upon his brow and soaking the palms of his hands. His eyes grew wide with anxiety.

Within the deeper echelons of Christian Pocock were little dormant panic attacks which lay like seeds, waiting for the right conditions to germinate. He felt something physiological happening; his belly flipped and fluttered, he attempted to gather himself, breathing slow and deep, telling himself to keep control. It was almost as if the Salvation Army were a real army, a toxic predator in red and black, (or is it the solemnest shade of blue?) waiting for Christian, primed to tear mercilessly at the plaster which covered all his demons, suppressed his ever-swelling sadness. He hung back, rubbing at his chin, the pupils of his eyes darted left and right and then left again as he tried desperately to think of an excuse to turn back.

'What is it Christian? You look all-. Have you lost something?' Rupert asked.

'He's going back to the restaurant to apologise for my inappropriate behaviour. Wouldn't be the first time would it Christian?'

'No - no, it's not that. I just need to get something, a present for Saskia - a present! I haven't got her a Christmas present!'

'Christ! Left it a bit late haven't you mate?'

Christian nodded vacantly, 'Yes - yes Ollie. That's why I must do it, do it now before the shops close.' He half turned away and shouted, 'I won't be too long. See you back at the office!'