She stands there just, the arms folded, triumphant, the Iron fucking Lady there with her mince for brains bodyguards — Haggis 1 and Haggis 2. The terms of your employment? What are they, well? He certain hasn’t seen them. Nobody moves. Not even the ringleader. She’s still stood on her chair, looking exposed and daft like a schoolwean who’s been caught goofing about by the teacher walking in. Everybody’s waiting for who’s going to do something, and it’s clear enough the operations manager isn’t in a hurry, the look on her face — she’s enjoying it, you can tell. The guy in the suit next to her scanning about the room and marking onto a notepad — their names, obviously, however he knows what they are. Mick stays watching like the rest of them. It hasn’t hit him that something real is happening.
There is a loud scurl from up on the chair and the ringleader steps down — she is marching toward the door and the haggismen sidestep together, but then the operations manager moves forward and the two women come at eyeballs.
‘It is not a meeting. How do you know it is meeting?’
The arms still folded. Smiling.
‘You sack us, then you have no staff.’
She’s pishing in the wind but, and the Milk Snatcher there knows it. ‘You can let me worry about that.’ She motions to the haggismen to unblock the door. ‘Those of you who are supposed to be working tonight’ — and she looks right at where Mick is stood with the KPs — ‘you will not be required to complete your shifts. All of you can remain in the hotel for the night but you will be required to leave the premises in the morning by 9 o’clock.’
And that’s that. Show over. They start filing out the room, slow, quiet, automatic, like at the lunatic. The haggismen itching for it to kick off, and the suit guy getting the final names down. There is the sound of the ringleader arguing behind them as they get into the corridor, and then, one by one, they each disappear into their rooms. With the staff room out, there isn’t anywhere else to go.
He is laid on the bed and the brain is dreiched over. A chapping on the door. Dia. He comes in, calm as ever; cheery even. He perches on the table as Mick sits up on the edge of the bed.
‘Don’t suppose there’s anything we can do, eh?’
Dia shakes his head slowly, tutting.
‘Who’s working now?’ A stupit question. What does it matter? It doesn’t.
‘Vincent. Obi is in the café bar, so it is only him.’ Dia grins. ‘He will have a busy shift. They say they will leave as well but I tell them, no, stay. Why go? They were not at the meeting. Why go? So now they will stay.’
‘What about you, Dia? What will you do?’
‘I sign again with the agency. They find work easily because they take all the money.’ He laughs. ‘And the hotel, they go to the agency as well. Maybe they take me again, who knows?’
Mick smiles, and he realizes then this is probably the last he’ll see of Dia. Unless he signs with the agency himself, of course, but even the brief thought of that starts curdling the stomach.
‘And you? What will you do?’
There’s no reason to lie to Dia but he feels instantly on the defensive. He hasn’t let himself think about that.
‘I’m fine. It’s no a problem.’ And then: ‘There’s someone I know telt me he’s got a job going if I want it.’
Dia nods. ‘That is good.’ He stands up and steps forward with his hand held out.
‘Good luck.’
‘And yourself, Dia, good luck to you too.’
He must’ve slept a little, because it is morning, almost six, when he wakes up, still dressed. He goes to the wardrobe and gathers up the rest of his clothes into his bag, and that’s him, offski. Nobody in the corridor, or up on the next level, as he leaves into the cold dim dawn outside the fire exit. Without much of a thought where he’s headed, he goes toward the terminal.
Chapter 22
‘Well, ladies and gents, I’m still waiting for the signal at Hatton Cross. Should be any moment, I’m told, but that’s what they said last time so your guess is probably as good as mine. Still time to sit back then, relax, read the paper, do your thing. I’ll keep you posted.’
A funnyman, the driver. They’re no laughing but. There is a business type sat opposite, shaking his head at the chummy patter that keeps crackling over the tannoy. So what, ye miserable cunts, we’re no going anywhere, what difference does it make? See but if he had somewhere himself he was headed, maybe he’d be the same. Genuine a strange feeling. He does not know where he is headed. Unlike all these lot, late for their meetings and that — or maybe they aren’t, who knows, maybe your man over there is just acting it, and actually all he’s got in that briefcase he’s finger-tapping on the now is a packet of sandwiches and a litre bottle of Buckfast.
‘Okay, folks, looks like we’re on the move, so mind the doors, please, and we’ll be off.’
The train starts moving and he tries to think. Where is he going? Out of nowhere he laughs. He can’t help it. It’s actually funny, the situation. A few scunnery wee looks across the way. Probably they think it’s something the driver said — Christ, what kind of headcase must that make him look? Serious but, what is he going to do? A good question, a good one, but still he can’t drum up the effort to get thinking about it, and he is falling asleep by the time the train is slowing into the next station, mind the doors doors closing mind the doors please.
It is a decision of sorts, but one it doesn’t seem he has made himself. A default. The easiest thing to do with no other brainwaves at the door; because even if No Breakfast is a crabbit bastard — which he is — he’s a familiar crabbit bastard, and that feels easier the now than making the effort to think up anything else.
He isn’t there though. Nobody is about. The Back in 10 minutes notice is up, so he goes back out and to the Costcutter for a sausage roll and a can of lager, and sits on a low wall under the bridge, sheltered from this Baltic wind that has got up.
When he comes back the sign is gone, but on chapping the door it is another man that opens.
‘I’m, eh, sorry, I’m wanting a room. I was staying here a couple of months back.’
‘Okay, sir, come this way.’
Here’s a change, well.
He follows him up to the top floor. There are two rooms either side of the stairhead, and the guy opens one of them and lets him in. There is a television, he notices as he gets handing him the money.
‘Okay?’ He is younger than No Breakfast. A brother maybe.
‘Fine, thanks.’
He must have been fair knackered, because when he wakes up the gloaming has came and went outside the window, and it is getting on for night. Okay, then. Nay use lying there just, composting on top of the bed, he needs to be up and about, decision-making. Better to keep the brain busy chasing after you, than you the one chasing trying to stop it. He gets up and goes over by the window. A plan needed, well. A decent plan. Firstly into the bag for a tenner from the money envelope, then out to the shop for what he needs.
He buys a pen, an A4 pad, a four-pack and a lamb samosa. Also, a free-ads paper, which, it turns out, isn’t actually free but then what can you expect, this is London, pal. When he gets back in the room he realizes, seeing his bag, that he in fact already has these things — pen, paper — and the empty, aching sensation that the memory of it brings back causes a setback to proceedings, as he leans back against the wall behind the bed and takes a long drink, trying to quiet it down.
First up, the financials. He gets out the money envelope and counts what he’s got, slowly, carefully, the first time, then a couple more times quickly just to be sure, the head of the English queen flashing like a flick book, the expression never changing, fish-lipped and disapproving. £497. Fine. Good. That gives him time. He doesn’t have to rush into the first job he finds; he can make sure he gets the right one, a decent employer, no another bandit out to rob him. He opens another can and gets the TV on. Falls asleep in the chair.