Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

Jon remained silent for a second. 'That's what I like about getting pissed with you,' he suddenly said, affection flooding his voice. 'Football? Women? Films? Yeah, they're worth covering. But you always drop in some big psychological point.'

Tom grinned at him. 'But you still play,' he said. 'When I think of the adrenaline surge I used to get on the pitch … At the time you don't realize how immune you are to the knocks, the impacts, getting stamped all over in a ruck. You get so into the match you don't feel it until afterwards. And that pain is a reminder that you've been out there, that you're actually alive. If I went out and played tomorrow, the first tackle would have me hobbling. I've gone soft. And this life I lead has made me that way.'

Jon nodded. 'But you're talking about our lives which, comparatively speaking, are very safe and comfortable. Some parts of Manchester I work in — the run-down areas, the parts where people are trying to sell stuff like curtain rails in their local newsagent's window for two quid. Cushion covers. Old plates. Knives and forks. And those are the people trying to get by honestly. Then there's the scum and what they'll do for cash. Plenty of people experience pain in their daily lives thanks to them. Plenty of people are made aware that they're alive and reminded how shit being alive can be, thanks to them. It's a different world to ours and believe me, you don't want your world coming into contact with the one those scum live in.'

Tom breathed deeply. 'Yeah, I suppose you're right.' He glanced at his empty glass. 'Anyway, get them in.'

The next morning Tom found himself looking up at the massive yellow side of Portland Tower once again. Only this time he was a passenger in his boss's car.

Despite the exhaust fumes drifting through his open window, Ian took a satisfied breath in. 'Can you smell it in the air?' he said, waiting for Tom to ask him what he meant. Dutifully Tom turned his head and raised an eyebrow in question. 'Money, my friend. Filthy fucking money!' He growled with delight and pounded the heels of his hands on the top of the wheel, making the steering column judder.

The traffic began moving forward and he casually pressed 'play' on the dashboard CD. Though the action appeared to be spontaneous, Tom suspected it was a pre-planned move. Sure enough Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries' started and his boss looked to the side. 'Don't you just love the smell of money in the mornings!'

Tom knew that barking out a GI-style 'Yo!' in reply would be the appropriate answer, but it was too early in the day to start putting on an act, papering over his true emotions with a veneer of enthusiasm. Instead all he could bring himself to do was smile, then sip at the small hole in the lid of his Starbucks coffee cup.

They battled their way to the top of Portland Street, then turned left into the traffic jam leading down to Piccadilly station. As they crawled along, Ian said, 'We need to get on to the owners of that derelict building on Great Ancoats Street, the big white one with the bushes growing out of its gutters.'

'Will do,' answered Tom, taking the lid off his cup, swirling round the dregs and draining the last of his latte. Fraction by fraction he succeeded in arousing something that resembled a professional interest, and as he did so his feelings of self-loss increased. He knew by the time they reached the office, the real Tom Benwell would have been fully replaced by a serious and eager executive for yet another day.

At last the car made it onto the emptier road beyond the lights, Tom glancing wistfully at the Bull's Head as they drove past. Soon they had parked outside It's A Wrap.

The driver's door of the Porsche Boxter swung open and Ian hauled his bulk onto the pavement. Holding his empty coffee cup, Tom climbed out, raised his arms above his head and gave his far thinner frame a good stretch. Then he followed his boss through the front door.

The woman behind the stainless steel desk said chirpily, 'Good morning,' and lifted up two piles of post.

'Morning Sarah,' replied Ian. Tom greeted her with a smile and nod of his head. They took their post and crossed the flagstone alleyway into the other half of the office. Ian walked towards the door marked 'Head Honcho' while Tom, with a heavy heart, started climbing the iron staircase to his office. 'So if you find out who owns that derelict building that would be great,' called out Ian as he opened his door.

Tom leaned over the stair railing, careful to sound keen, but not sycophantic. 'No problem — it will be perfect for any one of our sponsors.'

'Good work,' answered Ian, disappearing into his office.

Tom continued up to the top of the metal steps. As he stepped into the room, Creepy George was just sinking down behind his monitors and their eyes met for an instant. Waving hello to his more friendly colleagues, Tom lobbed his empty cup into the bin by his desk and heard the empty Becks bottles from the evening before clink together. Next he dropped his post into his tray, sat down and turned his computer on in one fluid motion.

Safely out of sight behind his monitor, he dropped his cheerful expression like a piece of litter. Raising a hand to his head he gripped his temples, head still pounding from last night. He'd got in at about ten o'clock, nicely drunk from the beer session with Jon. But then Charlotte had wanted to go out. A dab of speed later and he was up for it too, joining the other clubbers desperately in denial that the weekend was over. They hadn't got in until after two.

Hung over on a Monday morning. Not good at any age, much less at thirty-two, he thought while shifting round the contents of his top drawer looking for some paracetamol. And he had to get his Audi back from the garage and put a halt to these Monday morning drive-ins with his boss. What a way to start the week! No easing into the day with some Zero7 or Cafe Del Mar album gently washing over you. Instead it was stop-start all the way along Oxford Road with a continual stream of enthusiastic business talk battering his ear. Then a quick diversion through the city centre to check on the abandoned properties and half-finished developments that needed screening off for the Commonwealth Games.

He went to 'Favourites' on his screen and scrolled down to an entry that simply read 'Cornwall'. He clicked on it and the view from the web cam overlooking Fistral Bay filled his screen. The golden sand was almost deserted. There were just a couple of people walking their dogs, waves breaking nicely about forty metres out and the bobbing heads of half a dozen surfers visible in the swell beyond. Tom's shoulders sagged a little more and he let disillusionment flood his head like a wave rushing into a rock pool. Shutting his eyes, he imagined the life he was yearning for more and more. Striding along the beach at dawn with a Border collie or perhaps a long-haired Alsatian at his side, sucking in the clean air, feeling the sea spume fleck his face with microscopic drops, skin growing tight as the salt water dried.

He let the image hang in his head, savouring it like the delicious instant before a long-awaited sneeze.

Then a phone rang from the next workstation and the reality of his surroundings returned. With an effort he pushed the listless feelings back down and opened his eyes. The view of the beach still filled his screen. He stared at it for a second longer, then closed it down and reached for his post.

After shuffling paper round for as long as he could, he turned his attention to tracking down the owner of the derelict building on Great Ancoats Street. He could remember it used to have a religious message across its front, something about miracles happening every day. Obviously not where paying the rent on the building was concerned, he thought. A phone call to the Land Registry revealed that the Christian Mission had sold it on to a businessman, a Mr K Galwi. He dialled the man's phone number but got a 'number no longer available' message.