Afterwards, I emerge from the shower, revived and alert. My body is no temple but I pride myself on being toned, if not trim. I allow myself a contented smile as I fasten the buttons on my charcoal grey suit. It was a deal breaker, I told them when I was offered my job. I’d wear my own clothes, or they could get someone else. I wouldn’t be seen dead in the hideous uniform the rest of the staff have to wear; the clown red trousers, lime green shirts and hideous orange baseball caps that clash with my auburn hair. No job is worth that.
I smile to myself as I walk out to my car and toss my gym bag in the boot, but my good mood starts to evaporate as I see the queue of traffic heading out of town.
Monday morning gridlock; just what I need.
Even stuck behind all the traffic, I can see my place of work. Robertson’s Superstore is a bright yellow blot on the horizon. It spans ten football fields, topped by a giant ‘R’. You can see it for miles around, in fact, I have a disconcerting view of it from my bedroom window.
Eventually, I pull into a space near the front of the store and sit there for a moment, window rolled down as I smoke a cigarette. I like the way the tobacco mingles with the salty seaweed scent of the air.
“Isabel?” My manager, Sonya, peers in at me.
“Morning.” I give her a weary smile.
“Did you have a nice weekend?”
“I worked most of it,” I remind her. Now that Robertson’s is open 24-7, there are never enough staff to cover all the shifts.
“Yeah, me too,” she says with a sigh. “Are you coming in? I want to get started.”
“I’ll be right with you.”
But not till I finish this cigarette.
Robertson’s is like a walled city, fortified with rows and rows of economy baked bean cans. We sell everything from groceries to washing machines and mobility buggies. Workers stream through the doors behind me, punching their time cards in unison and shuffling forward, like inmates in a chain gang. Fortunately for me, I am not one of the gang, though my job is only marginally better. As a junior manager, my days can be spent doing anything from dealing with customer complaints to operating the checkout. And since they sacked the cleaners last month, I could even find myself slopping out the toilets, if no one else is available. I haven’t had to do this yet, but I plan to be very sick that day.
“Wide load!” someone bellows as I fall into step with Sonya.
We whirl round, but it’s just Stu, our senior manager, making one of his rude jokes about the size of Sonya’s bottom. He’s so un-PC it’s not even funny. Though for a man who sprays himself Day-Glo orange, he’s on very shaky territory.
“Oh, there’s a girl here for an interview,” he says as an afterthought. “She’s waiting in your office.”
With that, he heads back to the warehouse, where I suspect he spends most of his time sharing sexist jokes and playing cards with the lads.
Sonya rolls her eyes. “This place would be so much better without him.”
I can’t help but agree. Stu is a bit of a pillock.
We step into the office. Alicia is sitting in the corner, looking like a bedraggled orphan. Her hair is all wet from the rain, and she has draped her coat over the radiator to dry. I can’t help noticing that one of her shoes has a hole in it.
I force a smile onto my lips. “Hi, glad you came! Sonya, this is the girl I was telling you about.”
“Good to meet you, Alicia. Isabel, why don’t you tell her a bit about Robertson’s?”
I lick my lips. “Well, as you probably know, this supermarket is the largest one in the area – or it was,” I correct myself. “Until J.Filbert’s opened last year.”
“That’s the place with the squirrel logo?”
“Yes.”
“We primarily need shelf stackers at the moment,” Sonya moves on, “but you’ll probably find that you get to work in other areas of the supermarket too. Do you have any retail experience?”
“No, but I like shopping!”
“Me too!” I smile.
“And I’m very keen to learn,” she adds quickly. “I’m a hard worker.”
“That’s good.” Sonya glances at her watch. “Sorry, ladies, but I’ve just realised the time. I need to get to a meeting at Head Office. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I suppose the next question, Alicia, is when can you start?”
Alicia beams. “I can start right now!”
“Wonderful,” Sonya says. “I just need you to fill in some forms and we’ll put you to work.” She reaches up onto a shelf and pulls down a new starter booklet.
“Don’t we need to check her references first?” I ask in a low voice, as Alicia fishes about in her handbag for a pen.
“That’s OK – we’ll do it later. Anyway – any friend of yours is OK by me.”
I’m about to explain to Sonya that Alicia isn’t exactly a friend when her phone rings.
What does it really matter anyway? I reason, as she takes the call. I nearly ran the poor girl over. I owe her. So what if I don’t really know her? It’s just a lousy shelf stacking job. What harm can it do?
“Isabel?” Sonya sets down the phone and looks at me apologetically.
“I hate to ask you this but someone’s dropped a huge vat of Ribena in the soft drinks aisle and they’re making a pig’s ear of cleaning it up. Can I count on you to sort it out? I really have to get going.”
“Of course,” I smile. “No problem.”
I leave Alicia to fill in her forms, and walk to the back of the shop, where I unlock the door to the cleaning cupboard. It stinks of bleach in there. I can see the mop standing against the wall but it’s just out of reach so I step inside. As my hand closes around it, the door swings shut with a resounding bang. It sounds very final.
Chapter Three
With the door shut, the room is plunged into darkness. I fumble for the handle. It’s stuck. I grip it more tightly, but the damn thing won’t budge.
“Very funny. Let me out!”
I bang furiously on the door, but there is no response – not a giggle, not a titter.
“Is there anybody there?”
Maybe there isn’t anyone out there after all? Maybe the wind slammed the door and forced it shut. I hear the whir of the forklifts in the warehouse next door and someone shouting instructions as a new delivery arrives. No one can hear me. No one knows I’m here.
The walls edge closer together. I don’t like confined spaces. I never have. No windows. No light. No air. I look up at the ceiling. No way out. I feel a prickly heat crawl up my back.
“Let me out!” I thunder at the door.
The stink of bleach tingles in my nostrils. My eyes start to smart. I tug at the door handle with all my might. I kick the door in frustration. It won’t budge.
OK, don’t panic.
I pound on the door again, shout even louder than before.
“Help! Somebody help me! Get me out!”
I punch the door until my knuckles are raw. I punch so loudly, I almost don’t hear the reassuring voice on the other side.
“Calm down, love! I’ll get you out.”
My panic subsides. I know that voice. It’s Jon the security man! There are a couple of short clicks, and the cupboard fills with light. The door’s open! I practically throw my arms around his neck, then, seeing the crowd gathered behind him, I try to regain my composure.
“Thanks.” My voice is little more than a whisper.
“Need a cigarette?” he asks.
“I’ll just get someone else to mop up the Ribena,” I say, shakily. “There’s no way I’m going back in that cupboard.”
“You sure they won’t mind me coming?” Alicia looks anxious as I lead her into Rhett and Deacon’s place.