Quantum Poppers (6 page)

‘I’d drink
chorine for her,’ Simon said staring vacantly into the back of the girl in the
red dress.

‘Haven’t seen
her in here before,’ said Andy.

‘No, she's got
too much class for this place.'

Andy looked
across whilst Tony finished his pint. ‘And you can tell from here can you?’

‘Oh yes. Class
knows class when it sees it.’

‘So what are
you doing here then?’

‘Gotta keep the
plebs like you company haven’t I? Anyway, if you don’t believe me, go and ask
her.’

Tony glanced up
at Simon then took a brief look at the girl in red who had obviously said
something funny as all her mates suddenly burst out laughing. He turned back to
Simon. ‘I ain’t going up to a complete stranger and ask if they’ve got class.’

‘No. You won’t
go up to her and ask if she's got class because you don’t want to make your girlfriend
jealous,’ Simon said, a small smile forming on his face.

Even Andy
chimed in with a comment. ‘Don’t want to be caught cheating do you?’ he said.

‘For Christ's
sake, she is just a friend.’ Tony tried to hold back. He didn’t care what
anyone said. They were obviously joking and he could take a joke, nothing to
get stressed about.

‘Getting a
little worked up over this friend aren’t you?’ continued Simon.

Tony let out a
sigh. ‘Look, Emma...’

‘Any excuse to
say her name.’

‘Look, let’s
move on shall we. Any topic suggestions other than chlorine, class and platonic
relationships?'

Andy laughed
and began swirling the remaining dregs of his drink with his straw.

‘You are so US
sitcom mate,’ Andy said. ‘You’re like one long boring episode of Friends.’

‘So, an episode
of Friends then’, said Simon.

‘I’m going to
the bar,’ said Tony. He got to his feet.

‘Haven’t
finished your pint,’ Andy pointed out.

‘I fancy some
of that blue stuff. Might dumb me down to your level of conversation.’

‘Bring you up
to it more like,’ Andy said. He picked the straw out of his drink and examined
it under the light. It definitely looked a little eroded.

‘Want
anything?’ Tony said glancing from Andy's new found fascination with a straw
and Simon's amazing technicolour saliva deposits.

‘Yeah,’ Simon
said, ‘pint of Guinness, this stuff tastes like shit.’

Andy gestured
for another bottle of the blue and Tony turned to head for the bar.

The Cheeky Half
was more full than usual. It may not have had the certain attractions the
Bar-Moi had but a good quality drink and a friendly smile continued to keep the
place afloat. Tony stood at the bar as two women served the waiting customers,
slowly working their way towards him.

He looked up.
Reflected in a picture of a horse’s arse (this pub had a fascination with the
derriere of the equine, something Tony had never realised before) the group of
girls, led by their stunning leader, descended the steps behind him and headed
for the door. A black jacket was now draped over her shoulders. He could hear
the creaking of necks being turned as virtually every male in the pub glanced
round to see her leave. He watched them exit in the reflection, folding his
tenner, running it through his fingers and waited to be served.

He scanned the
array of drinks behind the bar; mountains of plastic coloured shot glasses, the
endless rows of transparent and brown colour liqueur doubling up in the mirror
behind them and mounds of fliers, leaflets and cardboard offers ranging from
cheap drinks to hilarious inflatable hats adorned with the current lager logo
of the week. The barmaid approached Tony and he waved his tenner at her.
Fairs
fair,
Tony thought as she began serving the guy next to him who had
admittedly been there first. Tony again scanned the bottles contemplating which
tipple to go for after his final pint. There was nothing like a vodka to burn
through that bloated lager filled stomach and warm him up for the walk home. He
looked at the bottles - vodka, whisky, brandy - and turned to view the assorted
mix of chasers at the end of the bar. He caught sight of the girl in red
heading back towards the stairs - jacket and bag under her arm.

This time Tony
turned to watch her ascend the steps, only to see that he was the only one. The
rustle of creaking necks and leering gazes did not occur. Even Andy approaching
him walked straight passed her without batting an eyelid.

‘I’m here to
help,’ he said. ‘Got’em in yet?’

‘Looks like the
class forgot something,’ Tony replied as he watched the girl reach the top of
the stairs.

‘Who?’ said
Andy.

Realising
something, Tony ignored Andy and followed the girl up to the table where she
had pulled up a seat and was sat on her own.

Andy watched
him from the bar and then followed to where Tony stood staring at an empty
table. ‘Tony, you Ok?’ he called. Simon too looked up from his table to see
what was going on.

Tony looked at
the girl. She had sat down and began talking as if back with her mates.
In a
minute she’ll burst out laughing
. He turned to look at Andy and Simon, not
surprised at their strange expressions, knowing exactly what they would be
seeing. Tony turned back to the girl and took a step closer. She looked from
empty chair to empty chair at head height, nodding in agreement to silent
questions and saying random comments to silent accusations.

‘Hey,’ a voice
called out. Tony slowly looked behind him. ‘How many did you have before you
came out?’ It was Simon.

Tony turned
back to the girl. She put her hand towards the table as if to grab something
invisible. As she closed her grasp a bottle of cherry cider materialised in her
hand. She brought it to her mouth, sipped and put it back down. As she let go
the bottle disappeared.

With that Tony
brought down his hand towards the girl as Andy and Simon watched on. Knowing
exactly what would happen he reached out to touch her. His hand felt nothing.
No resistance, no chill or texture; it went through as if there was nothing
there. He did it again, sweeping his hand quickly through the girl’s head.

‘Tony,’ Simon
again called from behind him. ‘What the hell you doing?’ The group of pint
drinking girls was now also looking over.

Tony continued
to stare at the girl and then suddenly turned, jumped down the steps and leapt
out of the pub.

Night had
fallen at The Cheeky Half as the image of the bearded man looked down towards
Tony flying out of the pub’s door. He scanned the darkness. The pub was near an
intersection, two roads crossing in four different directions. Tony ran to the
road and looked urgently one way, then the other before seeing what he was
looking for and sprinted off down the road.

‘Hey,’ he
shouted. He was almost out of breath as he approached the group of girls, once
again led by the stand out stunner, coat back on. ‘Wait,’ he called, closing in
on them, he had no doubt this one would hear him.

He called once
more as he drew closer, and reached out his hand to grab whoever was at the
back, needing physical contact to drag him back into some kind of reality.

The girls all
turned and it was the one in red who addressed him.

‘What?’ she asked.
A flirtatious grin transformed into a frown at the sight of an out of breath
Tony reaching out a hand.

Tony paused to
get his breath back and regain some composure. He looked at the girls in turn
then turned his attention to the girl in red, not caring anymore how the
situation panned out. ‘I don’t really know. Are you really there?’ he said
dropping his gaze to the girl’s feet and slowly scanning her body from foot to
head.

‘No, course not
weirdo,’ said one of the girls.

‘No wait, wait.
I’m serious, are you real?’

‘What do you
mean?’ the girl in red said. She looked at Tony, the smile returning to her
face. She would play along. Play along then get the hell out of there. Until...

Tony reached
out a hand and poked her in the shoulder. Once again the girl’s smile
transformed, even quicker this time, into concern as she took a step backwards.
Another of her mates pushed Tony back.

‘What are you
doing?’ she said, beginning to sound alarmed, but mostly just annoyed.

Tony watched as
the girl was pulled back by her mates, she was the last to turn away as they
walked off into the night.

‘I’m sorry, I
just can’t find anything wrong with these documents. I’ve double and triple
checked them, twice, but there’s no discrepancies between the two.’

‘It’s ok. You
never know, there may be no discrepancies.’

‘But you said…’

‘I said that
upstairs need to know that both these documents are identical. I think it’s
safe to say that they always were.’

‘I was up
virtually all night, and for nothing.’

‘Thank you Kerry,
your loyalty and hours to this company will not have gone unnoticed.’

‘Too bloody
right,’ she said, dropping the documents onto John’s desk. ‘You know, since
your promotion you’ve turned into a right…’

‘Careful Kerry,
you may regret your next word.’

‘I’ll be extra
careful then to select the most inflammatory one I can think of.’

He smiled,
gathered the two inch-thick documents together, and dropped them into his out
tray. ‘I could probably come up with a few myself if needed.’

He stood,
predominately in order to see the bare flesh of Kerry’s legs which were
selfishly being hidden by the desk. He was glad he did, she wasn’t wearing
tights today, and the visible skin below her knees glowed in the sunlight with
a delicate sheen of oil. He couldn’t help but think what it would be like to
massage in whichever products she used to bring out the essence of tan quite so
much.

‘I don’t think
I need any help in conceiving inflammatory words to describe you.’ She then
turned on her heels and headed to his office door. John remained quiet,
gambling on her desire to leave the room. It was no surprise when she hesitated
by the door.

‘Was there
anything else,’ he said, moving around the desk.

‘Why do you do
this John? The self-deprecation, the constant need to punish yourself. Guilty
about something?’

‘My conscience
is clear,’ he said and took a further step towards Kerry. He loosened his tie
as he crossed the office, temperatures were rising. A bead of sweat rolled down
Kerry’s cheek and her lips parted slightly as he approached. She was now backed
up to the door. ‘How’s yours?’

‘I’ve done
nothing wrong.’

They were a
metre apart. Her palm rested against the door as did the sole of her left foot.
His conscience was fairly clear, yet through sheer willpower he remained from
dirtying it up too much.

‘If what I have
done is perceived as wrong, well, it takes two to tango.’

‘That’s what
you call it do you?’

‘I’ll let you
know when I think up something better.’

He reached
towards her hip and noticed at the last second how she closed her eyes. He
could smell a perfume which Caroline would never wear and noticed the flick of
her tongue across her lips before she pressed them together.

‘You’ll
probably be there at the time,’ he whispered and passing her thigh with a
gentle brush he reached for the door handle. The door swung open into the
office where Kerry’s stumble went unnoticed due to the staff being walled in
behind plastic barriers, distracted by the constant drone of ringing phones.

Kerry brushed
down her skirt as if caught in the act of something much more physical and
walked away. He stared at her figure-hugging form as she headed along the
perimeter of the office floor and with one final glance over her shoulder, one
in which she couldn’t hide a smile, disappeared from view.

John worked for
Alfred Bros, a subsidiary of Rivers and Sons, some bastardised offspring he
couldn’t quite get his head round - were they their own cousins or something?
He was an accountant, which meant he managed reams of paper, ensuring the
correct numbers got filed into the correct columns. Sometimes he and his
partners made a lot of money and sometimes they did not. Thankfully no big
losses had occurred in his time there, twenty years to be exact. The
eighteen-year-old kid, suited and booted on the train, had transformed into
this forty-year-old man, still suited and booted, only now not so fresh of face
(but thankfully thick of hair). His office stood on the 34th floor of Callor
Tower, south of Waterloo, and from the vast window impressive views of London
spread out beneath him. The dome of St Paul's could be made out amongst the
modern and too-perfect looking monoliths to capitalism which surrounded it. It
was a single breast-shaped object within the phallic erections of a thousand
other banker's buildings. Low-level clouds occasionally blocked this view,
something he judged his success in work upon. If he literally had an office
within the clouds then someone was smiling down on him.

His phone rang.

‘Julie,’ he
said.
What was her last name?

‘It’s Caroline
- I have her on hold.’

‘Tell her I’m
in a meeting?’

‘I already said
you were available.’

‘Tell her you
were mistaken. You’ve called through and found I was in a meeting.’

‘You don’t want
to talk to your wife?’

‘Not right now,
but thank you Julie. When I want to talk to her I will let you know. Meeting,
can't talk.’

She hung up and
he could picture the resigned look on Caroline’s face as she was told the news.
He would phone her back shortly, he always did. Just because the phone rang
didn’t mean you had to answer it.

It was a Monday
morning, a day when the clouds looked as though they were waiting especially
for you to walk outside before dumping rain upon you. John had already
completed his second cup of coffee by 11.15 and the sourness of the drink gave
the sensation that his mouth was drying up; another cup would sort that out.
But first, a cigarette. The calming smoke would gather the caffeine from his
taste buds and free them for further drinks that day; the two lunchtime pints
he had planned with Richard from HR for starters. Perhaps caffeine and nicotine
cancelled each out.
Only one way to find out,
he thought as he left his
office, informing no one where he would be for the next twenty minutes.

Alan had joined
him. A likeable guy yet John had made the mistake early on of saying ‘yes’ when
Alan had enquired as to whether or not he liked football. ‘Yes, although I am a
Brighton supporter so it’s kind of debatable.’

This little
aside had opened him up to months of ‘witty banter’ and endless tales from Alan
regarding the local under eights team he managed. John appreciated the idea of
this elderly man putting his spare time to good use in coaching the local kids
the fine game (although he smoked more than John did, was at least sixty, and
had a prominent stagger - John dreaded to think what his level of coaching
attained to), but did he have to repeat the same anecdotes and theories of the
game every single day? Did he have to tell him about the proposed new ground
they were offering to the council? Did he have to finish every story with a
shot of laughter that sounded as though a seal had been gunned down before
having its death knell cut to a short and sharp inhale? Hagh! Apparently he
did.

‘We got The
Western Times coming down tomorrow. You like your football don’t you? Gonna
take some pictures of the proposed ground. Of course it’ll be mainly used by
the seniors who have needed a new ground for years. Maybe by the time we get it
it’ll be my kids playing as the seniors, Hagh! We played FC Gulls last night,
heard of them? Won 6-1. Got a couple of wingers who'll be warming the bench at
Arsenal soon and a goalie to answer all England's problems in ten years time.
You'll have to get your lot up here soon for a game. Did I ask you before?
Smells like rain.’

John’s lot was
the local team John had last played for eight years previous. He was admittedly
still in touch with the manager but he had no intention of suggesting they make
the two-hour drive to Alan’s west London footballing ghetto for a game. John inhaled
deeply on his B&H and wondering what rain smelt like admitted that it did
look as though the clouds were about to open up, again waiting for just the
right moment to cause John Johnson the highest possible amount of grievance.
The taste of burnt coffee was replaced by burnt tar, a flavour he quite enjoyed
and Alan continued his match report from last night’s game. That his group of
eight-year-olds had thrashed a group of seven-year-olds appeared to be the
summation.

John breathed
one of his last free breaths.

He threw down
his cigarette and crushed it under foot. A circle of ash radiating from the
downed butt lay behind him as he walked towards the building’s double glass
doors. ‘See you later Al,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Where you’ll no doubt
recap the same match again,’ he mumbled to himself. He swiped into the lobby
and headed for the lifts. Others came and went about their day as John pressed
the green halo-ed button to call it. With a ping the door opened and inside
stood a man who seemed to be hanging up on a mobile phone.
A very old and
large model
, thought John.

‘Going up?’ The
man asked and stood back for John to enter. He muttered thanks and turned to
press the button for the 34th floor.

‘Allow me,’
said the man and without being told which floor John was heading for pressed
the 34th button. ‘Hell of a day out there, gonna get worse too.’

John gave a
non-committal grunt and looked up to the digital display rising before him. It
was painfully slow and they were only now passing the 10th floor when the man
reached out. His hand was gloved and John tensed in anticipation of an attack.
The hand didn’t make contact but a dull electricity pulsed through him. The man
had got out his dated mobile phone, punched buttons in and in a flash of white the
elevator and all around him disappeared. All sounds departed as though John’s
head had been submerged within a pool of water.

John shook
himself free of the sensation as a sense of elevation shot through him. His
vision was blurred but it focussed on the increasing numbers above him which
had jumped to thirty-two. He took a deep breath to regain composure and was
overwhelmed by the thick caffeine and nicotine flavour within his mouth. He
coughed, almost wanting to vomit. The lift stopped and behind him the door
opened.

‘What the hell
is going on?’ John, still stunned, turned from the man in the lift to see the
corridor ahead of him. Within it stood three people: one in a grey mac holding
his own dated phone (whoever these people were they were well behind the
technological times), a woman of about thirty with hair so tightly bound to her
skull John had thought she was bald, and between the two stood…

It couldn’t be.
He had forgotten about the man in the lift and took a step back, something
which had helped the visitors’ next move. The third man was pushed back by his
flankers as John was grabbed by the man behind him and pulled into the lift.
The other two ran in after them as the doors slid shut and they began to
descend. The three people held on tight to his shifting body. Like a captured
animal he screamed and fought against his captors but they held surprisingly
firm, especially the woman who forced him down to his knees as one of the men
held his arm almost to breaking point behind his back. The numb feeling of
electricity was now well and truly replaced with a sharp pain only physical
force could adhere. The downward journey seemed to take forever, his endless
thrashing and calls for an explanation going unheard and ignored.

Finally the
ground floor was reached and the doors opened. With his arm still held behind
his back he was pushed out into the lobby by the woman and the initial man from
the lift. Ahead of them walked the other, as if the kerfuffle behind him was a
normal sight. The lobby was populated by Alan and one other worker whom John
didn’t recognise, both of whom stood back in panic rather than moving into
action to save John.

‘What’s going
on?’ shouted Alan.

‘Just go about
your business,’ said the man leading the way as John struggled to stand and was
virtually dragged on his knees towards the door.

‘Call the
police, anyone. I’m being kidnapped,’ John screamed. He kicked at his captors
but their grasp did not falter and the automatic doors opened welcomingly for
the four of them to leave. A car, black and large stood at the end of the
building’s entryway, panther-like, it’s engine purring, ready to flee. The
backdoor flew open, seemingly of its own accord, and with little effort John
was forced inside.

As the car
pulled away with John kicking at the windows his thoughts rested upon the other
man he had seen upstairs. An all too familiar sight.