A Smaller Hell (3 page)

The building was foreboding in a traditional, conservative way.  Everything looked very clean and sparkly inside, whereas outside, detritus thrived and multiplied throughout the course of the day, like bacteria in a paved, illuminated petri dish.  Observing the shoppers and the natives, it was easy to tell one from the other.  It was tattooed into their faces, sometimes literally.  There were subtle differences between the crackheads and the smackheads, the boozehounds and the pill-poppers, the jailbirds and the veterans.  The shoppers were a different species altogether, armed with their 4x4s, credit cards and anti-depressants, they stormed through the town, taking whatever they wanted before returning to the safety of their gated driveways in the suburbs.

I stopped at the main entrance of the store and looked up at the pale stone giant with square hulking shoulders and a tiny head.  The automatic doors slid open and I was invited into the belly of the giant by the familiar refrains of an old Christmas number one, a galaxy of twinkling lights and the perfume counter, attended by assistants with rouged cheekbones, perfect hair and a catalogue of disapproving glances.

The glare of the store lights and the tidiness of it all made me sweat.  Goods were arranged in glass cabinets as if they were important and ancient artifacts.   I was a spanner in the golden machine that sparkled and hummed before my eyes with its cogs and gears of baubles, trinkets, clothes and toys stretching as far as the eye could see. 

I followed the path in a circle back to the Cosmetics department. 

‘Hello, I wonder if you could tell me where Miss Doyle's office is?’ I asked.

‘It's MZZ Doyle,’ she said, unwilling to disturb her high cheekbones to return the smile.

‘I'm here for an interview and I've no idea where I'm going.’

‘I don't know why you're bothering: you wouldn’t survive a day here.’

The girl from the Chanel counter must have detected blood in the air because she came from the other end of the counter to join in.  ‘Would you like me to call you a cab, sir?’ she stage-whispered.

The pair of them downturned their smiles and tucked in their chins in mock sympathy as I walked away, somewhat bewildered.  I followed the yellow brick road round towards Haberdashery, where I met Miss Allister for the first time. 

The department was a wasteland compared to Menswear and Cosmetics, its only occupants being the two elderly women working there.  One looked considerably softer and frailer than the other, who resembled the angular, upright caricatures of Nazi officers I'd seen in old war films.  The softer woman sank into one of the nylon, cotton, button-strewn recesses of the department and out of sight, leaving me with the harsh-looking sales assistant.

Upon seeing me, the Nazi officer smiled so broadly that I thought her paper-thin, powdered skin might rip.

‘I'm here for an interview with Ms. Doyle and I'm not sure where to find her.  Can you tell me where her office is?’

The old woman stopped smiling, struggling to contain her contempt as she looked me up and down.
 
‘Who turns up for an interview looking like this?’

‘Erm …’

‘How old are you, urchin?’

‘30.’

She was picking at my suit with her long, pearly claws, tutting all the while.  She smelled like hairspray, perfume and death.  When my answer registered, her eyebrows raised, revealing her antique eye sockets.

‘Well, no wonder you're still jobless.  You can't even keep your breakfast off your lapels.’

She licked her hanky with her lizard widow tongue and began wiping off the crusty stain.  It only occurred to me after she began ablutions that it was most likely vomit or mucus belonging to the pipe-smoker on the bus.  She licked the same spot on her handkerchief and resumed.

‘Erm, sorry but I don't think that's, erm …’

‘My name is not
Erm
.  Call me Miss Allister from now on.’

‘Yes, Miss Allister.’

She finished off the last of the puke and turned her attention to my hair.  What I thought was a smile at first turned out to be a wince.

‘Well, I haven't got all morning.  At least now you have a fighting chance.  Perhaps if by some miracle you succeed in your interview, we might get you a jacket that fits and a shirt that isn’t made of plastic.’

‘Thank you, Miss Allister.’

She stared at me for a few seconds then asked me to smile.

‘Hmmm.  Good luck.  You’re going to need it.’ 

Miss Allister pointed to the small brushed steel lift doors marked
Staff Only
.

Like a stinking portal between cause and effect, success and failure, hope and despair, the waiting room was like every other I’d ever been in: drained of blood and tainted with body odour.  The cheap Venetian blinds let in some of the grey light which danced on the dull, carpeted floor, refracted by the water cooler. There were two others waiting, one reading a book, the other doing the thing with her phone that people do when they want to avoid talking to anyone.  Neither of them had really acknowledged me as I walked in, although the girl reading the book offered me a faint smile as I sat down.  Neither of them seemed particularly nervous either.  I’d never been so nervous about a job interview, but then I’d never been a fugitive, either.  I also never thought that I would be hanging everything on Christmas temping at a department store.   The porcelain foreheads of the other applicants seemed untroubled as I wiped away the beads of sweat from my own. 

I didn't even want the job at this point.  It was all a dreadful mistake and I wanted to go home.  Confusion and panic rushed from my feet to my hairline like an army of prickly insects scaling my body.  My vision began to close in from the edges as I looked around for a window to open, but they were all beyond my reach. 
Who the hell would be tall enough to open those?
 

I felt the eyes of the two candidates upon me as I stood on a plastic chair, trying to open the window, desperate for air.  Reaching up for the handle, my shirt stuck to my back with cold sweat.  The wintry sun, hanging low in the eastern sky, dazzled me through the slits in the blinds and suddenly black coffee and orange juice lurched up through my oesophagus as my ears began ringing.  With an aluminium death rattle, I fell into blackness under the sad eyes of the porcelain onlookers; plastic carpet the soil of my grave, a broken Venetian blind my tombstone.

The cracked earth beneath my backside was still warm and dusty from the heat of the day's sun.  In the moonlight, the network of small crevices in the earth appeared vast, containing all manner of scuttling and slithering things.  Shuffling closer to the dying embers of the fire, I was careful not to hitch up the hem of my white robes around my backside, which would have given the poisonous creatures ready access to the fleshiest parts of my anatomy.

I poured myself some more coffee from the pot hanging over the fire, wrapping my hands around the cup to fend off the cold wind that was howling around the desert.  Something caught my eye, glistening on the trunk of the gnarled tree just beyond the light of the fire.  I fashioned a torch from a branch in the firewood pile and crept over to the tree to investigate. 

Nailed to the bark I found photographs of various people who had come to visit me at my desert home.  In some of the pictures, they were standing with one arm around me, smiling: in others, they were sat cross-legged by the fire, raising their cups of coffee to the camera. 

There was a photo of Simon, my old school friend with a cruel speech impediment, a blustery temper and an amazing vocabulary of swear words.  We were both wearing camo t-shirts, sitting atop our BMX bikes, and our smiles were bigger than our faces, our hairstyles a combination of hair gel, mud and twigs.  I remembered Simon's temper serving us whenever we would get picked on by the older boys.  He would always stick up for me, never shrinking from an injustice.  Although we probably took more beatings than we had to, we were still smiling and took no guff from anyone, especially Simon, because he was going to be a
bawwister
when he grew up.

Next to Simon, there was Peter, who used to wear patches on the elbows of his blazer and, rather than going out at break times, would stay in the classroom and practise his Latin verb tenses.  I chose the less constructive occupation of doodling on my textbooks.  We learnt a lot from each other about survival.  I learnt from Pete that if you managed to catch the six to seven minute window about forty minutes after the first bell at the dinner hall, you stood a good chance of getting your tray back to your table with most of your lunch still on it.

Beneath a picture of my parents visiting me in this desolate place, I found pictures of friends from the boxing club.  My old sparring partner and I were posing, pretending to uppercut each other, as boxers tend to do in photographs.

The warm nostalgia was interrupted by a sound from the darkness.  The embers of the fire provided little light, so I held the burning branch of firewood aloft to investigate the low-pitched, bone-shaking rumble.  A pair of almond yellow eyes caught the flame from the torch, and began moving towards me. 

Then the darkness growled from the other direction. 

Turning around and raising the torch, I saw another shape moving closer.  There were at least four that I could make out.  I looked to the tree to see the photographs of my saviours blowing away in the wind. 

Having thrown the torch aside, I ran headlong into the darkness at the closest wolf, yelling and punching as hard as I could.  The other shapes ran off back into the desert.  There was yelping, thudding and gasping before finally, the creature was motionless.  I picked up my torch to examine my kill and discovered to my horror that the animal was no more than a pup. 

I cradled his lifeless neck until the last embers died in the fire-pit, overcome by an inextinguishable emptiness.

When I came round from my blackout, there was a cool, soft hand on my forehead.  The porcelain young woman who had been reading the book was now fully animated, and her eyes were no longer beads of black.  They caught the offending sun in them before glimmering green and hazel back at me.  She had dropped her book on the floor, picked me up and sat me in a chair.  I thought of the boxing club and the relief that came with the bell signifying the end of the round.  The tiny wooden stool that was more comfortable than a bed.  Her gentle voice and her sweet smell were as welcome as the icy sponge on my sizzling skin between rounds. 

She held my bleeding hand in hers and inspected it carefully.
 
‘Are you alright?’

‘I may throw up.’

Resting my hand on my knee, she fetched me a paper cup of water from the cooler.  Producing a fresh tissue from her pocket, she dabbed at my injury.

The other girl paid only token gestures of concern and resumed her phone gambit once responsibility had been shrugged off.

‘Are you ill?’

‘No, no.  I think it’s just lack of sleep and nerves,’ I said and swallowed to stave off another balk.  ‘I really need this job.’

Suddenly, the door to Ms. Doyle's office opened.  She was a tall woman in her forties with immaculate hair, clothes and make-up who walked like an ageing catwalk model.  She wore a grey skirt and jacket and a mane of dark red hair, falling below her shoulders.   Around the edges of her handsome bone structure were creases of rage or laughter – I couldn’t tell which.

‘Oh, my gosh!  Is everyone alright?’  She asked in a soft, but haughty voice.

I explained what had gone on, to her horror. 

‘Oh, goodness: that’s terrible.  Is your hand badly injured?  We must make a note in the accident book.’

It occurred to me that I could use it to my advantage.

‘Well, the last thing I want to do is cause a fuss, but my hand is really quite badly cut.  It might need stitches.’

Ms. Doyle recoiled in double horror at the mention of stitches.  She immediately picked up the phone and demanded some first aid assistance.  My hand was only throbbing, but I put on a bit of a show, feigning dizziness and slumping in my chair.

‘Let's get you into my office where we can sit you by the window to get you some air.’ 

I cradled my hand and let the two women help me into the office.  At the door, Ms. Doyle told the applicant to return to her seat and helped me in on her own.  I shuffled my feet and stared only at the cheap carpet which transformed into rich, polished hardwood as we crossed the threshold of Ms. Doyle's huge office.  I couldn't help but look up as the pungency of wealth and taste wafted down upon me.  The farthest reaches of the room were almost entirely dark and the woods were old and French-polished.  In the near corner of the room was a large wooden chest fastened with battered but shiny brass, such as might have been found on very old sailing ships.  Above the chest hung a large portrait of a man dressed in military uniform, possibly naval, wearing many medals.  He was grey-haired and bearded and looked like someone with many stories to tell; stories of bravery, romance, camaraderie, high adventure and other ideas that were all but forgotten in this world.  In the darkest corner, I was startled to see a tall, darkly-dressed individual guarding a doorway he must have had to enter sideways. 

‘Don't mind Mr. Graziano.  He's here to make sure we're all safe and well.’

‘Well, he's not a very good catch.’

Ms. Doyle laughed too loudly, while Graziano didn't move.

I eased myself into the desk chair facing Ms. Doyle, still clutching my hand.  To her right was a bookcase brimming with ancient volumes and to the left, a cabinet containing several objects.  I could have made out what they were by further inspecting, but Graziano was resident in that corner and I didn’t want to stare too long in that direction.

Ms. Doyle eased open the leaded windows and as she did so, I could see just how high up we were.  The whole town was visible in the morning sun, reflecting golden light off the metal boxes of commuters travelling to work.  The town looked dirty and dangerous, but scattered about it were relics of a more prosperous age.  From here I could observe the beauty of the Georgian buildings and the majesty of the rolling, terraced hills without the scowls of the more unfriendly townies pushing my eyes down to the ground.  The blaring sirens and screeching brakes were all but tiny echoes from below.  I stood up to get a better look out of the window as Ms. Doyle sat down.

‘It's amazing how peaceful it is up here,’ I said.

‘Yes, until you arrived, Mr. Black,’ Ms. Doyle said.

I smiled and sat back down in my chair.

‘Well, I suppose we really ought to reschedule for another day.’

‘No, I'll be fine.  I've had worse.’  I hoped that she wouldn't notice the fading yellow of my black eye. 

‘My, you are brave.  I shall see that we tick that box straight away.’

‘Is it important to be brave to work here?’

‘You'll find out at the staff Christmas party.’ 

I smiled, unsure of what she meant.  There was only the distant traffic sound from the streets below and her shallow, impatient breathing.

‘You're not a quitter are you, Mr. Black?’

‘Well, I don’t …’ I began my denial, catching sight of a cluster of community awards and decorations for her donations to charity.

‘The last
thing
I need is a temp crying off after a couple of days because they haven't the stomach for upmarket retail,’ she said.

I died inside a little when she asked me the next question
:
‘How badly do you want this job?’

Three days on the run and already a gigolo.

‘Mr. Graziano showed tremendous determination in securing his job, didn't you, my dear?’

The ominous dark statue neither moved nor spoke.

‘I could tell you one or two secrets about Mr. Graziano's meteoric rise,’ she said, glancing at his crotch.
 

‘Sounds like he should be in the boxing business with a name like that,’ I said, trying to change the subject.

‘Mr. Graziano is an
unofficial
employee, if you understand me.  That's a pseudonym.’

The granite shadow shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his face still obscured.  His huge hands hung by his sides now, dangling like bunches of fruit from thick, broken boughs.

‘I … killed a man.’ 

Graziano's voice was slow and dangerous, like syrup and broken glass.

Ms. Doyle guffawed in her far-back, public schoolgirl way and waved her bony hand dismissively.  ‘He's quite the clown, too.  Always acting the goat; playing the fool.’

She shuffled the papers on her desk in a gesture of finality.  The oil-painted commander looked at me as if he was accusing me of something.  He drew his sword and pointed it at me, catching me under the chin with the cold, sharp business end. 

‘Let's see about this injury of yours.  I think we can offer you a position here if you …
forget
to fill out an accident report.  Would you be agreeable?’ she asked, flashing her expensive dental work at me.

‘Would it be cash in hand if I forgot to fill out that report?’

‘If you would prefer,’ she said, tapping her pen on her porcelain teeth.

‘When should I come in?’

‘Monday the 28
th
November will be our induction day for new employees.  We'll see you then,’ she said without looking up from her diary.

‘May I ask you a question, Ms. Doyle?’

She took off her glasses and stared at me, waiting for the question.

‘Who is that in the painting?’ I asked.

She craned her neck to look at it as if she’d never seen it, then stood up. 

‘This is my late husband's great-great-grandfather, Commander Clarence Tanner.  In 1825, he built the store to create jobs for veterans and their families,’ she said as if she'd rehearsed it a thousand times. ‘The war left him a bit … strange, if you ask me.’

‘He sounds like a kind man.’

‘Yes, yes.  We're all very proud of him,’ she said, looking at Graziano, who remained still.  ‘But my advice to you is to disregard ancient folklore and concentrate on the practical and the
now
.  Your job is on the sales floor and the stock room, right here in the present.’

The Commander gazed off into the distance at some mysterious prize, some glittering bounty awaiting him across hostile terrain riddled with untold dangers and seas full of angry leviathans. 

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m being presented with an award downstairs in five minutes,’ she said, looking at the door.

I thanked her and left, keeping Graziano in my peripheral vision. 

I rewrapped my hand in the staff bathroom before heading to the balcony overlooking the mob of local radio and newspaper journalists, who were swarming the ground floor of the store and devouring tables of canapés like a plague of locusts, leaving little for the charity workers standing on the sidelines.  Eventually, Ms. Doyle emerged from the lift, flanked by security guards, but without Graziano.  A round of applause went up from the charity workers and a few reporters who weren’t laden with champagne flutes and finger foods.  She nodded and smiled for the cameras as the charity’s chairman presented her with the award. 

Next in line was the Lord Mayor, who not only shook her hand, but gave her a hug, as if they were old friends, while shoppers stopped in their tracks and drew closer to the commotion, clapping without knowing what they were clapping for.  She gave a speech about the importance of community, before launching into a sermon on morality and how we need the Church more than ever, causing the priest standing next to the chairman to clasp his hands and gush gratitude in her direction.  The crowd applauded again as she thanked everyone and retreated back to the lift with her new award, the guards close by either side of her.