Killing the Beasts (24 page)

Forty minutes later he'd showered, scrubbed his teeth and forced a bowl of cornflakes down. At his front door he reached up to take his Porsche keys off the hook and saw an unfamiliar set hanging there. It took him a couple of seconds to remember that he'd driven home in the work van. With Charlotte still asleep, he let himself out of the front door without saying goodbye.

Immediately he noticed that his garage door was slightly open. 'I don't believe it,' he whispered, walking over and lifting it up.

'Thieving little bastards,' he cursed, staring at the tarpaulin. It had been half pulled off the stack of chewing gum boxes and he could see several were missing. After rearranging it, he went back into the house and called up the stairs. 'Charlotte! Those little shits have broken into the garage again. I'll phone the police from the office.'

There was no reply, so he said to himself, 'OK, well done Tom. See you later. I love you.'

At the end of the afternoon he checked with Sarah that his evening meal with the marketing people from Manchester airport was still on. 'OK, I'll need to pop home and change. Can you phone them and say I'll meet them at The Living Room at seven forty-five?'

'Fine,' answered Sarah. Before Tom got out of the door she added, 'Austen Rogers from X-treme called again, sounding very pissed off. He wants to know which promotions company is going to be handing out the X-treme gum at Piccadilly station. Shall I call him back?'

'No,' said Tom more forcefully than he meant to. 'I'll take care of it.'

The digital display on the side of Portland Tower had changed again. Now the countdown was complete, the lettering above the screen read, 'Bruntwood Welcomes All. 'The number on the screen had changed to '72' and the lettering below it read 'Commonwealth Nations.'

The pavement was alive with colour and activity as hundreds of people mingled through the city, many with plastic squares around their necks identifying them as Games officials. Sitting in his Porsche and taking long sips from a double espresso, Tom watched the crowds from behind his dark glasses. He took in the strange fashions and unfamiliar clothes: African men in loose-fitting shirts with green and gold patterns like the ones favoured by Nelson Mandela, women with elaborate headdresses and long, flowing shawls. Young white women, hair tied back in sensible ponytails, red Maple leaf badges sewn onto their Jansport backpacks. Squarely built South Sea Islanders ambling along in American T-shirts. Men in yellow and green rugby tops, hair looking like it had been bleached by the sun.

Tom examined their happy, excited expressions and thought about the days he had to drag himself through.

Passing the official Commonwealth Games shop, he looked at the queue of people waiting for customers to come out so they could get in, and he thought about the sales projections the taxi driver had mentioned all those weeks ago. It looked like they would be comfortably met.

Once he had got past Sarah, he shut the door to Ian's old office behind him, gulped down the last of his coffee, then took a pinch of powder. Staring at his computer screen, he cursed the cleaner for fiddling with the monitor's brightness control. Turning the knob had little effect and it was only when he went to rub a hand over his face in frustration did he realize that his sunglasses were still on. Shaking his head, he took them off and the room suddenly brightened.

By late morning he was feeling a lot better. The last of the building wraps had gone up the day before and he'd even received a couple of emails from clients thanking him for all his work.

He was turning his attention to lunch when his phone went. It was Sarah. Although she was trying to sound cheery, he could detect a slightly strained note in her voice. 'Hi there, Tom. I have Austen Rogers from X-treme chewing gum in reception. He's just arrived at Piccadilly station but can't find the promotion there.'

Tom looked fearfully towards the door. 'He's in reception right now?'

'That's right.'

'OK, just give me two minutes. Get him a coffee or something.'

He hung up, waves of trepidation suddenly making him feel queasy. Darting through to the toilets, he fumbled for his little bag of powder while checking his reflection in the mirror. Not too bad

– eyes still looked wrecked but the rest of his face was all right. He sucked powder from the tip of his forefinger, then straightened his tie and wandered casually through to reception. Sarah flashed him a wide-eyed look of warning. The client was standing on the other side of the room examining photos of previous building wraps on the walls. His posture looked far from relaxed.

'Austen, this is a welcome surprise,' said Tom, stepping across the room with his hand out.

The other man turned around. He had wispy brown hair and a slightly pudgy face, red at the cheeks. His kept his hands clasped behind his back. 'Tom,' he answered with a fractional dip of his head. 'I've been trying to contact you for weeks.'

'I'm so sorry. We've been having an awful time of it. Poor Sarah here is only just back from sick leave.' He turned to the reception desk. 'How long were you off sick for, Sarah?'

'Almost three weeks,' she replied woodenly.

'You know how temps are, 'Tom continued. 'Messages have been going everywhere but to the correct person.'

Austen eyed him suspiciously. 'I assume you received all the merchandise? I couldn't find any sign of the promotion in Piccadilly station just now.'

'Yes, it's all been taken care of,' said Tom, attempting a smile. 'Can we not offer you a coffee?'

'No thank you. I'm keen to see the promotion, actually.'

'Right,' said Tom, clapping his hands together. 'I can understand that.' He turned to Sarah, trying to look relaxed. 'Sarah, could you order us a cab, please? Just down to Piccadilly.' He turned to Austen. 'There's no point in even trying to park in town at the moment.'

'That's fine. In fact, I'd prefer to walk.'

'Why not? In fact, I could take you on a little tour of the city centre if you'd like.'

'That should be interesting.'

Tom knew the other man suspected there had been some sort of balls-up. He fetched his jacket, put his sunglasses on and they set off towards the centre of town.

'What's Key 103?' asked Austen, pointing up at the airship circling lazily in the clear blue sky above them.

'It's the main commercial radio station in Manchester,' replied Tom, looking up at the zeppelin-shaped balloon. 'They've got a reporter up there delivering traffic and travel information along with Games bulletins.'

'Nice idea. 'Austen seemed to relax a little.

As they carried on past the BT office and towards the back of Piccadilly station, Tom was glad to be able to point out the building wrap that had been hung the week before. 'It's one of over thirty we've arranged to be on display throughout the Games.'

'Quite an achievement,' answered Austen, looking up at the giant image of a sprinter handing over a baton that was marked with the logo of a courier company. 'We'll get it to you first', the headline announced.

'Thanks,' said Tom, wondering what to do once they got into the station. 'So, are you booked on any particular train home?' 'Yes, the 3.50. A tour of the city centre would be a nice way to use up the afternoon.'

'Absolutely!'Tom wondered how to stall the other man for the next few hours.

Standing below the live billboard for the
Manchester Evening News
with its ever changing headline display, they waited for the lights to change before crossing Fairfield Street and walking round the queue of taxis swallowing up passengers in ones, twos and threes.

'All this was derelict about a year ago,' said Tom, waving a hand at the sandblasted brick archways and spotless sheet glass windows. 'The entrances were all blocked up, except for some grubby little tunnels leading to the tram platforms below the station. Not the type of route you'd use after dark.'

They walked through the giant sliding doors into an airy lobby area where a gleaming escalator took them up through the bowels of the station and into the main terminal area.

The final few days before the Games' official start date had consisted of twenty-four-hour shifts as the contractors fought desperately to have the station ready. Somehow they had almost succeeded. Full-size palm trees had been wheeled in across the newly laid tile floor as the last retail units had been cleared for the staff of various shops to swarm in. Displays, shelves and stands had appeared with miraculous speed and in hours each shop was crammed with merchandise, tills manned and ready. Only the odd corner or section of the station remained screened off behind building boards that had been draped in colourful banners welcoming visitors from around the world to Manchester and the XVII Commonwealth Games.

The two men looked around the station area, taking in the throng of people, most clutching bright yellow Commonwealth Games guides. Positioned around were clusters of Games volunteers, eager to give advice and information on where to get free shuttle buses out to Sportcity.

Tom felt his heart begin to flutter. 'Well, it's all go in here,' he said. 'Let's see where our team have positioned themselves.'

'Yes, let's, 'Austen replied. 'I certainly couldn't find them.'

They walked towards a stall loaded with umbrellas, toys, pens, keyrings, T-shirts, baseball caps, mugs, plates and ties. Most items featured a vaguely cat-like creature. 'That's Kit, the official Games mascot,' Tom explained. 'His cheeky smile is sure to be a winner with both children and adults alike – to quote the PR release,' he added.

Austen didn't look amused as they wandered round to the front part of the station.

All they could see were other stalls selling official Games merchandise, a stand promoting designer sunglasses and a cart manned by a red and white suited promotions team thrusting free cereal bars into the hands of the many people walking past. Tom faked a frown at the absence of the X-treme cart.

'Strange – I thought they were booked into Piccadilly this morning.' Suddenly he clicked his fingers, as if remembering something.' Ah – unless this is one of the mornings they've been given a slot at Victoria station.'

Austen raised an eyebrow.

'You see, we have a different catchment of people at Victoria – passengers arriving from the west and north of the country.'

'But I understood Piccadilly is the city's main terminal.' Austen pointed to a banner masking an unfinished set of side exit doors. 'Piccadilly: Gateway to the Games,' he read out.

Tom's stomach twisted into a tight knot and his mouth dried up. Knowing that his grin was imbecilic, he said, 'True – but I think you'll be impressed by Victoria station. As the name implies, it's all very grandiose – elaborate brickwork and wrought iron pillars.' He thought about its leaking roofs, moss-stained walls and padlocked doors. 'In fact, it will be a great opportunity for a stroll through the city centre. Shall we?' He held a hand towards the main doors and Austen reluctantly walked towards them. Pointing to a line of Rovers with the three figures painted on their sides, Tom said, 'That's the official Games transport for VIPs – the rest of us can walk or get the tram though.'

His attempts at light-hearted humour were drawing no response from Austen.

'I'll take you through Piccadilly Gardens, then down King Street. It's where the likes of DKNY, Armani and the rest are located. If we're lucky we could spot a celebrity shopper. David Beckham and Posh Spice perhaps.'

'Or Rio Ferdinand, now he's signed for United,' said Austen, with some enthusiasm. 'A United supporter then?' asked Tom, keen to open up some line of conversation.

'That's right.'

'Do you see them play much?'

Now he looked uncomfortable. 'Just their away games, really. It's hard to see them play at home when you live down in Surrey. How about you? Red or Blue?'

'I prefer rugby, to be honest,' answered Tom. 'But I suppose my sympathies are with Manchester City. The British thing about supporting the underdog, I suppose.'

They joined the crowds walking down the concourse and into the city centre, Tom struggling for another topic of conversation. 'It's a shame you won't have time to see the Olympic village, an entire purpose-built community. It's got the UK's largest temporary restaurant. They're producing almost fifteen hundred meals a day in it.' Tom realized he was beginning to witter, but his nerves were dancing at the prospect of how he would explain the absence of the chewing gum promotion at Victoria station. 'They anticipate the athletes will get through about ten thousand kilos of bananas and pasta in the next few days. And that's not to mention the hundred and fifty thousand condoms provided in their rooms. They should be describing them as bed athletes, I reckon!'

Austen glanced briefly at his sweating companion. 'Tom, that's all very interesting. But the purpose of my visit is to see how our promotion is going. We've paid you sixteen thousand to arrange it after all.' He held up a small leather pouch hanging from one wrist. 'I need to get some photos for our marketing department, too. The sporting details of this event really aren't of much interest.'

'Right... of course,' said Tom, feeling his skin start to itch as the effects of Brain's powder began to subside. The cacophony of noise started to reach them halfway up the road, and as they reached Piccadilly Gardens they entered a riot of activity. Giant TV screens mounted on platforms displayed reports of the coming events to the masses of people below. At the far end of the gardens, red and blue inflatable figures swayed and danced as air from a mobile generator was blasted up through them. To their side an urgent tattoo was being beaten out by a Samba band as young kids capered and whirled before them. Above it all towered the seventy-metre-tall banner of Ashia Hansen, caught in mid air during a triple jump. 'This is all part of the Spirit of Friendship festival,' Tom almost had to shout as two stilt walkers dressed as robots stalked past them, metal costume plates clanging as they went.

'Could we move on?' asked Austen, unmoved by the fun being had all around.

Tom peered through his sunglasses at Austen's impatient face. 'Of course.' He walked uncertainly onwards, unable to delay their approach towards Victoria station.