X - There Are People Buried In The Rubble

As I set out that morning, something unusual happened. Felicity's
cat, a fur ball with an evil glass eye, followed me down to the front
gate. It knew I wanted it dead. I had been very clear on that point. I
would serve towards it if I saw it in the road. I would call it before
we went to bed then slam the door in its face. I bought a dog. All
these distractions and more gave out a clear signal to Felicity's cat.
Your day is done. Time to move on. I am her new love. But the cat
followed me to the gate anyway. It mewed. I though, in the crisp
morning air, it mewed 'see you tonight Uncle Richard. Be waiting for
you.' In my mind, I had it as a stupid animal, knowing that I meant it
harm, but loving the attention. I was wrong. The cat was mewing
goodbye, or good riddance.

The journey to work is one long expletive that dwindles to a sigh by
the time I collapse at my desk. A hundred terrible things happened to
me that morning on the way in. I cannot list them, but they were all
awful. That wasn't all. The computers were down. The phones were up.
People spoke to me, people whose names I didn't even know, people who
didn't know mine. Why do they? They asked me questions and asked me
more before I could form sentences. I was back in a playground. The
children held hands, danced round me, singing, laughing and calling out
names. You can't do this. I am your headmaster. But they carried on
anyway. There was something wrong. I was employing these people to make
decisions for me, not to make my head giddy. I selected the nearest
tormentor and sacked him where he stood. His face wobbled as if I had
landed a punch, jaw flapping but failing to emit sounds. The room
evaporated.

Suddenly, I was back in charge. I had their attention. Even the phones
stopped ringing. 'I'm closing the company down,' I told them. I had
though nothing through. 'You don't make enough money, I'm shutting this
office down before it becomes a liability.' Two desks away there was a
thud as somebody hit the ground. Nobody went to help, their eyes where
all locked-in on me. They knew it wasn't true. I knew it wasn't true.
They had awards, bonuses, and cheap mugs with brash mission statements.
They had market share and penetration. There were pie charts and bar
graphs to prove it, big charts with red bars and blue wedges. I had
seen them myself. 'I expect to have your badge cards by noon.'

There was only one voice. Margaret Bromley said, 'how am I going to buy
my children's presents, Mrs Wheaton?' I held the bin out to her. She
poised the badge card above it and said, 'they were right about you,'
then she dropped it in. There were no other voices, just a trail of
refugees carrying boxes through the doors. Afterwards, I locked the
doors, sat at my desk and listened to a concert of unanswered
ringing.

When I need to escape, I go to a beauty salon off the North High
Street. You won't know it. That's the point. I made them take out the
phone. They had mobiles for a while but I stopped that too. They play
music derived from samples of whales. There are soft lights and
aromatic candles. The nearly nigh time makes shadows of the therapists,
who, I imagine, must have perfect porcelain skin from hours in the
dark. They never talk to me except 'turn over', 'roll onto your tummy',
or 'lie still'.

The receptionist whispered my name, as if it was a fragile thing. A dew
draped web stretched across a path, waiting to cling to a passing face.
I selected the isolation chamber. No music, no whales. The sound of my
own short breath would be enough. A tall shadow took me to a blue-lit
room and prised open the shell. Her hands stripped my layers
away.

--This is work in progress. If you would like me to finish it, please
email or vote. Thank you --