Story time: Not Missed

As well as the audio files, also contained within this blog, I have posted the complete story in text form.  Hope you like it.

Not Missed

Adam Holdsworth

Gilbert’s mobile phone doubled up as his alarm clock.  The previous night, however, he had forgotten to remove it from his inside jacket pocket and place it on his bedside drawers.  So when it beeped its wake up melody, heralding the start of a new day, Gilbert missed hearing it.  He didn’t awaken until an hour after he should have been closing the door to his house, and walking past the shrubbery, and heading around London to the bank HQ in Canary Wharf where he was employed.  Throwing yesterday’s rumpled shirt over his unwashed torso, he failed to find his tie, which meant he would have to go without as the others were being washed.  Which was OK – it was after all, a Friday. And you could dress down on Fridays at his bank.  Still disatisified though, he forewent his customary coffee and headed for the bus stop where he could connect with a train which would bring him closer to town, where he would then again transfer to the Docklands Light Railway to his place of employment.  Due to there being a school holiday, the bus which should have picked him up two minutes later, instead ambled leisurely past nearly empty.  Gilbert was a little beyond running distance from the stop to catch it.  The next bus broke down two stops before the station where his train was due to depart.  The bus driver noticed the fuel gauge and cursed the numpty, the complete zero, proably one of the new intake of barely literate kids taken on by the company the previous month, who had missed out this bus on his refuelling rota.

Puffing, Gilbert missed the train.  On the empty platform, with only the thudding  second hand of the clock to keep him company, it occurred to Gilbert that it was the big meeting today.  A meeting which he was now in the process of missing.  And he wasn’t wearing a tie.  Dress-down Fridays were one thing, not wearing a tie to a meeting, on whatever day, plus also donning a shirt which should rightly be sitting in a dry-cleaners rather than on his back, was unforgivable.  There would be disapproving noises made, possibly snide insults.  Or would have been, were it possible for him to arrive on time to be ticked off.  Eventually, his train arrived a minute later and he ran to the platform for the DLR.  As the small train passed overhead, he knew that once again, he had missed it. By a mere whisker.

Feeling grinchy because of the lack of coffee, and red-faced with embarrassment at the smart Alec remarks to shortly follow his tardy arrival,  Gilbert was greeted in the reception lobby of the bank which had been his source of income and in fact a certain amount of pleasure for the past five years, by the mug of Sullivan, coming out.  Was it lunch already?  No, the wall clock said ten .  “Don’t bother”, growled Sullivan.  His face looked as though it had been given a good hard whacking with a frozen tuna steak.  Gilbert was pondering on what could have caused the state of grumpiness to be so visible on Sullivan’s visage, a man who was generally a cheerful soul, when he realised that he was missing his swipe card.  One of those dratted days, he thought.  “Shhh…amrocks” he cursed.  But no problem, John, the big friendly receptionist knew him – they had passed the time amicably enough over the years, and occasionally bumped into one another on the train, or in the Silver Dollar bar, the nearby post-work watering hole less frequented by senior managers.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you in, sir, without a card”.  Gilbert was stunned.  What was this “sir” nonsense about?  “But John, you know me”.  “I’m sorry sir, have you not heard?  Were you not in the big staff meeting?”  John seemed genuinely concerned and his usual gentle friendliness hadn’t left him.  John was, however, stubborn on this issue.  His finger, which ought now to be hovering over the button allowing turnstile access, remained aloft.   Gilbert admitted that because he was late, he had missed it. “Well”, said John, “I’m afraid your whole team in Bonds have been sacked”.  “What?”  “”Sorry, Mr GIlbert, but I cannot divulge any more information than that, sir”.    Oh sod, it he’d been booted – really?  “You are joking, John, aren’t you?”  “You will need to speak to HR about your position in this company, Mr Gilbert”.  “For goodness sakes, John, call me Richard.  That’s what’s you’ve been calling me for years”.  John stared back, apologetically but with resolution and his hand a still long way from the release switch.  Gilbert sighed. He spied the row of plush leather sofas and chairs on which prospective clients and existing high flying customers of the bank awaited attendance.  They were padded and welcoming, and he crossed the foyer and sat on a sofa in front of an minamalist coffee table, but although he was so shell-shocked he could have curled up on one, the chance did not come. 

For his boss, a pretty, slight woman called Susan Sheldon, breezed by with a male  executive in a power suit close behind.  Her laugh tinkled daintily until she glimpsed Gilbert, now almost in tears, a shell of what he had been a mere moment or two before.  “Richard, I’m sorry to have to let you and your team know how bad things were in such a…. (she paused, considering the most appropriate word)…corporate manner…”  So, Richard thought, she had let his team know they would be staring into a P45 in a meeting for heaven’s sake.  And what’s more, she hadn’t even realised he hadn’t been there.  This was more than he could stand.   He hoofed it to the revolving door, leaving the surprised Susan, her pretty executive legs (which he’d spent many an hour admiring on the quiet) and her power-suited buddy to their own devices.

Walking dumbstruck along the Bladerunner landscape of Docklands, he realised a few things.  Number one was that he had in fact been fired.  This would take some time to sink in. Sullivan had proved  he wasn’t alone in being served this information from nowhere.  At this very moment, he was in some kind of perjury or limbo.  Number two, of more immediate concern, was that his cash card was locked in his desk with a few other valuables including his work Blackberry.  Won’t be needing that, he chortled in his head.  Thirdly, he had disgraced himself in front of his now former line manager.  Number four, she had been laughing.  Either she was riding out the day, or toughing it out whilst with a client until it was time for her to leave, at which point she might or might not smack straight into a weekend-long nervous breakdown, or, most likely, the redundancies had bypassed her.  She looked cheerful as usual though. Perhaps, giving her the benefit of the doubt, she was simply relieved to have completed the task of being company doomsayer, for that morning, until the next time.  Five, this meant she would not be sympathetic to him returning to his office, tail between his legs, asking for reasons why he and his team had been sent out the office with a flea in their ear and seeking his cashcard.  No doubt those on the hitlist had already been told to clear their desks and definitely not switch on their computers without ITC supervision and she would want to know why he had seemingly disobeyed instructions.  He could of course claim to have been too upset, but in the hard nosed world of banking, hell hath no fury like an employee dumped.  And that's why the bank operated so strictly when it came to employee relations.  Screw their policies, he though: yes, it was normal practice to give staff gardening leave in lieu of notice in the banking industry, being told his second home was now a no-go area…well that hurt. 

He stepped inside a branch of Starbucks and ordered a latte, realising too late that he was down to his last couple of pounds.  “Sorry, I’ve just decided I’m not hungry” he said, faking second thoughts as he handed back the Panini which the server was about to toast for him.  He sat down, when a very large lady passed by with a couple of whining kids, one of whom was in the midst of a tantrum.  As the snot-nose passed Gilbert’s table, his steaming coffee was sent flying.  The trout faced mother stared at Gilbert accusatorily as his latte, like the rest of Gilbert’s life, went sliding out of meaningful existence – with a crash, and in pieces.

Richard left the coffee emporium and considered going home.  But he needed his cash card! What could he do?  Returning to the glistening office block, Gilbert saw that John had been replaced by Kwame on the afternoon shift, another good bloke.  Maybe he would reason with the receptionist. Kwame tried to help.  “You’ll need to speak to HR.  Wait. I will call them”.  After trying several numbers, Kwame told Gilbert that no-one was answering.  “Have you heard about the redundancies?  The department is very busy today”.  Gilbert reminded Kwame that he was very well aware of the redundancies as he was one of them.  When Gilbert asked Kwame if he could enter the building, the receptionist smiled sadly, shaking his head.  “I am sorry, Mr Gilbert, but you are aware of the rules”.  He pointed to a plastic sign attached to the top of the desk.  “No card – no admittance under any circumstances”.  And another:  “all guests must be issued in advance with a visitor’s card.  “Could you write me out a card?” he asked Kwame.  “I cannot, as you are an ex-employee - ah so Kwame knew!   Therefore, special rules apply.  You can only be accompanied by your line manager, a level C member of staff or a Platinum Security operative if you are a contractor”.  Gilbert spotted from the corner of his eye that a lift door, one of six metal doors on the back wall had just slid open.  If he ran for it….  Leaping the turnstile like an Olympic high jumper and sprinting like he was at the 2012 Games, Gilbert caught the lift just as its doors were closing.  Hitting button 20, he waited tensely for the doors to open. Maybe the elevator would be intercepted between the ground floor and his office’s level.  But no, the digital readout flashed 18, and the lift came to a well-mannered halt.  Luckily for him, as he left the elevator, the fire door, on a magnetic security lock which could only be deactivated with the credit card key Gilbert had left behind, was being opened by a colleague – ex-colleague - heading towards the lift.  “Hiya Rich” said the man.  “Sorry Stu, in a bit of a rush”.  “OK old chap, see you round”.  Running to his desk, it was with horror that he realised, digging into his left trouser pocket, that his desk key had gone missing too.  And a second later, Gilbert’s dignity disappeared with his keys as he was grabbed on both sides by two Platinum Security guards.  In his stunned shock, he hadn’t heard them pacing toward him in a pincer movement. 

Frogmarched from the building and turfed out like a common ragamuffin on to the street, Gilbert glimpsed at his watch. That was missing too.  What a surprise. Then he remembered the time would be displayed on his phone.  Pulling it out, he observed that there were two messages for him:  The first message was from Sullivan:  “Absolute shit isn’t it?  How can they do it to us? Total bolt out of blue. See you in the Dollar, and sorry about this morning – I was shocked, as you will be.  PS: Like the shirt mate, style”.   The second message was less polite:  “I bet you’ve forgotten it’s my birthday. Getting trashed on my own.  Leave work early and meet me for a beer in Wapping at the usual, or die, you fucking wanker”.  Only his brother would write such a message and not end up with a bloody nose.  This would be an opportune time to become reacquainted with the old lush. 

Gilbert’s brother, Charles, was well travelled, older than him by three years, bitter as bitter lemons, and a fiend for the Grappa.  What had started out a case of bohemian bonhomie had, over the intervening years, turned into determined alcoholism.  You wouldn’t know they were brothers by looking at them, Richard, small boned, thin, creased of brow, tall.  Charles was rotund, grey haired, expansive, red of face and elegantly louche.  Richard had always been a little awestruck by his brother, who often said the kind of things Richard would have said had he not been such a coward and, unlike his brother responsibly employed.  From which source or sources Charles obtained a seemingly plentiful supply of money was anyone’s guess, though having a French countess of an on-off girlfriend, a woman who dwelled in Haverstock Hill, Hampstead, and to Richard’s thinking was a high octane air-head, despite allegedly winning an Oxford degree in Philosophy, may have helped. Sylvie, other than having access to a personal money tree, had the distinct charm of being completely at ease with Charlie’s relationship with grog.  But yes, it was her wealth (he assumed) which offered Charles the main reason he could afford to sit pretty and rakish in this rarefied environment, drink as much boutique wine as he pleased and not give a single pence for anyone or anything else.

Plying Richard with drinks, Charlie proved to be rather sympathetic, which surprised him as Charles had been nothing less than hostile towards his brother of late. He viewed Richard as a corporate sell-out, a slave to the money-god, a willing worker on a production line whose dirty goods made life miserable for everyone else.    Seeing Richard bought down a peg or two had appeared to soften Charles, however, and it wasn’t long before they were talking about growing up with their mum and two dads in a home which was both incredibly intellectual, lacking in warmth, and an environment where a dedicated attitude to becoming a professional adult rather than a child or teenager was par for the course.  Whereas Charlie was irreverent and in fact downright rude to his parents, had an never ending stream of friends, all of who seemed to be dabbling in something or other, be it drugs, girls, booze or unorthodox sex, Richard, more sheep like in general, tended towards pleasing his parents, doing well at school and making sure they hadn’t a clue as to how much of a struggle he found meeting this aim.  Charles didn’t care whether he pleased them or not and was hence the person they appeared to love more.   Richard cared too much.  And it was because of this caring too much that he never had a girlfriend for more than a few months at a time.  Commitment scared him.  What if he made the wrong choice?  What if his potential wife-to-be thought him inadequate?  Charles on the other hand went through girls and flung them aside as though they were things for him to savour, enjoy and bin, like empty bottles of Grappa. Men too, he claimed.    Chalk and cheese, these two men were, but they were brothers, and being in an expansive mood, Charlie told Richard that he was well shot of the bastards.  “Think of the bank as a woman”, he told Richard, “and you’ll find she’s walking with a pointy stick rammed firmly betwixt her buttock cheeks with a face on her like a badly used orang-utan.  No fun, no hope, no joie de vivre, no booze, no sex, no love, no spontaneity.  She’ll get you to sell your soul and the worst thing of all is that after you’ve blown your salary on her (at this point he belched expansively) salary on her, she won’t even think about even having the remotest consideration of lowering her knickers for you. Or even giving your fleshy stalk a good gumming”.  He lifted his left leg and ripped leisurely and fruitily.  He continued:  “Anyway, you old whoremaster…you must be loaded now with all those investment thingies you do.  And you’re the kind of secretive pizzle who’s probably been defrauding them for years. I do hope so, old chap”. 

Hours passed, and having spent the evening being wined, though not actually dined, by his garrulous, corrupting brother, Gilbert realised that he needed to get home as it would be a long walk without the cash card.  He’d have to go begging for it on Monday and tough it out over the weekend.  He was sure that there would be some beans and a few Pot Noodles in the house.  And it wasn’t as though he had a social life to care about.  Not really – not beyond workmates and (he hiccupped) this lovely brother of his. What a fine bloke was Charles, what a kind yet boarish, misunderstood specimen of mankind.  What an honourable bounder.  Gilbert realised that he was extremely sozzled.  “Better make a move home”.  “Don’t skedaddle yet, you old shyster. Here, order us a last round while I take a Johnny Cash”.  As his brother headed downstairs to the mens, Richard was just in time to catch the bell.  “Last orders” he asked.  “No, closing time” grunted the barman.  

On his return, it was an emotional goodbye.  “I’m staying over at Sylvie’s tonight or I’d offer you a lift old man” said his brother as he waved down a cab.  Just before they parted, Richard gave his brother a bear-hug and told him, with complete guilelessness, that he missed Charles.  A sincerity which surprised both of them. The emotion between then hung in the air for a while.  Then, with an almighty slap on the back, Charles dived into the bowels of the taxi.    “We’ll do it again, soon, bastard”, he growled.  “And next time, you’re paying.  Don’t worry, I know how much you miss screwing over the proletariat with your money grabbing tendencies  Won’t be long before you’re living off the pig’s back again while the peasant class squawk beneath you like the wretched and undesirable vermin they are”.  With this, they parted.

Gilbert began his long trek home.  He estimated that it would take him about two hours to walk the five miles back to this lonely house.  Just as he was bracing himself for the long foot-slog, a bus passed by. Well, he thought, a cab was undoubtedly out of the question, but he could take a bus home for a couple of quid.  Digging amidst the fluff in his pocket he remembered that he could use his season ticket on buses on all the outer zones, so he could get home for free, which was good as he now possessed one pound and a set of door keys to his name.  Looking at his suit, he realised it was missing a button.  And his shirt was a ruin. But he would not need it on Monday.  And besides, who cared? -  life was good.  Maybe Charles was right about the bank.  Maybe he should button down a bit, think of life as being more than serving the fickle needs of industry which would (he tried to remember Charles’s words about this and failed). Anyway, whatever the words were, in essence it was that the bank would screw everyone over and that life was a (a minestrone…no) that was it, a rat race where the wheel was rigged and the only thing which came from it was destructified (hiccup) human beings.  He leant towards the gutter.  Thought he was going to vomit, but sucked in several lungfulls of air, which made him feel much better.  Oh the air in this city was so sweet. He hadn’t noticed before.  Happily he lurched on.  He may have sung out loud for a while, but didn’t much care.  A fews cars passed by and the occupants were almost univerally surprised to see the  skipping, singing man.

Naturally, for his day had turned out to be one of things nearly caught and others prematurely departed, the bus he wanted came tearing past him as the rain started drizzling.  But that was OK - the rain, he thought would wash his tarnished existence away. Standing at the bus stop pole a few minutes later, he heard the sound of a beeping horn.  Pivoting his head towards the direction of the tooting car, he spotted, leaning from the window the pretty face of Kendra, Kwame’s sister.  “Yo, Rick dude, y'wanna a lift ‘ome, man”, yelled the friendly voice.  Kendra didn’t appear to be in a hurry to reach him.  “Hang on in there, me boyfriend’s just ordered a kebab innit? – be with ya in a minute, darlin, yeah?”  Well that was alright.  He had no idea what kind of situation he was about to get himself into.  He’d met Kendy a few times and Kwame himself described her as a nutter on speed, a real gone kid, but (Kwame said) she was a good little sis - just a wild one. 

Gilbert was becoming nervous at the prospect of sharing a car with...who knew what, but there wasn’t any need to fret.  Because the bus still hadn’t turned up, so no loss either way. Maybe if it did, he’d catch it, despite the offer.  No crackhead boyfriend to contend with at least, anyway.  

Tosh’s day had been shit from arsehole to breakfast. He’d lost his labouring job earlier that day as he’d turned up for work trashed. Again.  One too many times even for the generally laid-back foreman, to give him the blind eye for the umpteenth time.  Pete the gaffer had demanded Tosh return the company van too, as Tosh had “borrowed” it in order to perform a little moonlight removal job for a mate, the night before. Well, he could have his van back.  But Tosh would spend the afternoon getting tootled first.  Nothing like a few tins of Special, plus a joint or six, to dull the pain.  Close to midnight, Tosh decided then would be a good time to visit the yard.  His driving, as everyone knew, improved, the drunker he became. His girlfriend told him so, therefore it had to be true, didn’t it?  She was a good Catholic lady, and as all Catholics know, lying is a sin.  Tosh turned left onto the main road.  Swinging the wheel of the Transit way too hard to the left, he noticed too late that a dishevelled man was waiting for a bus.  The man’s shirt flew in the breeze and he looked like a proper lush, a right tramp.  As the front of the van whumped into him, the man did a pretty little summersault before landing face down.  Tosh, who played a lot of shoot-em-up style X-Box games, between jobs, yelled “BULLSEYE!”  A part of his mind, where the tiniest kernel of rationality remained, had already kissed goodbye to his licence and probably any future prospect of employment, with a jail time sandwich of some length in between.   His day was shit and now his life would be too.  He felt sorry for himself as the van’s engine juddered to a hissing halt. 

Kendra, who had spent the last ten seconds gawping in fascination, later, gave testimony as a witness  to the fact that her brother’s occasional friend, a man called Richard Gilbert, had been perfectly still during the collision, and no, he had not provoked in any way his assassination  That a large amount of alcohol was present in his blood, was irrelevant.  “Look”, she told the coroner, kissing her teeth in exasperation at the man’s basic inability to understand the fact that Gilbert and the man were utter strangers:  “Gilbert was just standing there waitin for his his bus.  He could not be missed man, he was a sitting target for that… t’ing, that numptyboy.   You no get it – once the van was cruising the pavement, his life was cancelled  - he didn't stand a chance.

This story was inspired by a couple of unrelated events.  First, I kept missing buses, trains and all manner of other things. My phone would ring, only I’d not catch it in time – it was one of those days.  The second trigger event was the news that 500 UBS banking staff hand apparently just been “informed” they were no longer being gainfully employed by being denied turnstile access to their office building.  This was I thought, a suitably harsh punishment. My gleeful humour took over at this point and the story more or less came to fruition while travelling home from a shopping trip – having just missed the previous bus!  There’s definitely a touch of Henry Rawlinson of Rawlinson End with old Charlie boy –that Viv Stanshall voice was present throughout his creation.