Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

At the end of the afternoon he checked with Sarah that his evening meal with the marketing people from Manchester airport was still on. 'OK, I'll need to pop home and change. Can you phone them and say I'll meet them at The Living Room at seven forty-five?'

'Fine,' answered Sarah. Before Tom got out of the door she added, 'Austen Rogers from X-treme called again, sounding very pissed off. He wants to know which promotions company is going to be handing out the X-treme gum at Piccadilly station. Shall I call him back?'

'No,' said Tom more forcefully than he meant to. 'I'll take care of it.'

The digital display on the side of Portland Tower had changed again. Now the countdown was complete, the lettering above the screen read, 'Bruntwood Welcomes All. 'The number on the screen had changed to '72' and the lettering below it read 'Commonwealth Nations.'

The pavement was alive with colour and activity as hundreds of people mingled through the city, many with plastic squares around their necks identifying them as Games officials. Sitting in his Porsche and taking long sips from a double espresso, Tom watched the crowds from behind his dark glasses. He took in the strange fashions and unfamiliar clothes: African men in loose-fitting shirts with green and gold patterns like the ones favoured by Nelson Mandela, women with elaborate headdresses and long, flowing shawls. Young white women, hair tied back in sensible ponytails, red Maple leaf badges sewn onto their Jansport backpacks. Squarely built South Sea Islanders ambling along in American T-shirts. Men in yellow and green rugby tops, hair looking like it had been bleached by the sun.

Tom examined their happy, excited expressions and thought about the days he had to drag himself through.

Passing the official Commonwealth Games shop, he looked at the queue of people waiting for customers to come out so they could get in, and he thought about the sales projections the taxi driver had mentioned all those weeks ago. It looked like they would be comfortably met.

Once he had got past Sarah, he shut the door to Ian's old office behind him, gulped down the last of his coffee, then took a pinch of powder. Staring at his computer screen, he cursed the cleaner for fiddling with the monitor's brightness control. Turning the knob had little effect and it was only when he went to rub a hand over his face in frustration did he realize that his sunglasses were still on. Shaking his head, he took them off and the room suddenly brightened.

By late morning he was feeling a lot better. The last of the building wraps had gone up the day before and he'd even received a couple of emails from clients thanking him for all his work.

He was turning his attention to lunch when his phone went. It was Sarah. Although she was trying to sound cheery, he could detect a slightly strained note in her voice. 'Hi there, Tom. I have Austen Rogers from X-treme chewing gum in reception. He's just arrived at Piccadilly station but can't find the promotion there.'

Tom looked fearfully towards the door. 'He's in reception right now?'

'That's right.'

'OK, just give me two minutes. Get him a coffee or something.'

He hung up, waves of trepidation suddenly making him feel queasy. Darting through to the toilets, he fumbled for his little bag of powder while checking his reflection in the mirror. Not too bad

— eyes still looked wrecked but the rest of his face was all right. He sucked powder from the tip of his forefinger, then straightened his tie and wandered casually through to reception. Sarah flashed him a wide-eyed look of warning. The client was standing on the other side of the room examining photos of previous building wraps on the walls. His posture looked far from relaxed.

'Austen, this is a welcome surprise,' said Tom, stepping across the room with his hand out.

The other man turned around. He had wispy brown hair and a slightly pudgy face, red at the cheeks. His kept his hands clasped behind his back. 'Tom,' he answered with a fractional dip of his head. 'I've been trying to contact you for weeks.'

'I'm so sorry. We've been having an awful time of it. Poor Sarah here is only just back from sick leave.' He turned to the reception desk. 'How long were you off sick for, Sarah?'

'Almost three weeks,' she replied woodenly.

'You know how temps are, 'Tom continued. 'Messages have been going everywhere but to the correct person.'

Austen eyed him suspiciously. 'I assume you received all the merchandise? I couldn't find any sign of the promotion in Piccadilly station just now.'

'Yes, it's all been taken care of,' said Tom, attempting a smile. 'Can we not offer you a coffee?'

'No thank you. I'm keen to see the promotion, actually.'

'Right,' said Tom, clapping his hands together. 'I can understand that.' He turned to Sarah, trying to look relaxed. 'Sarah, could you order us a cab, please? Just down to Piccadilly.' He turned to Austen. 'There's no point in even trying to park in town at the moment.'

'That's fine. In fact, I'd prefer to walk.'

'Why not? In fact, I could take you on a little tour of the city centre if you'd like.'

'That should be interesting.'

Tom knew the other man suspected there had been some sort of balls-up. He fetched his jacket, put his sunglasses on and they set off towards the centre of town.

'What's Key 103?' asked Austen, pointing up at the airship circling lazily in the clear blue sky above them.

'It's the main commercial radio station in Manchester,' replied Tom, looking up at the zeppelin-shaped balloon. 'They've got a reporter up there delivering traffic and travel information along with Games bulletins.'

'Nice idea. 'Austen seemed to relax a little.

As they carried on past the BT office and towards the back of Piccadilly station, Tom was glad to be able to point out the building wrap that had been hung the week before. 'It's one of over thirty we've arranged to be on display throughout the Games.'

'Quite an achievement,' answered Austen, looking up at the giant image of a sprinter handing over a baton that was marked with the logo of a courier company. 'We'll get it to you first', the headline announced.

'Thanks,' said Tom, wondering what to do once they got into the station. 'So, are you booked on any particular train home?' 'Yes, the 3.50. A tour of the city centre would be a nice way to use up the afternoon.'

'Absolutely!'Tom wondered how to stall the other man for the next few hours.

Standing below the live billboard for the Manchester Evening News with its ever changing headline display, they waited for the lights to change before crossing Fairfield Street and walking round the queue of taxis swallowing up passengers in ones, twos and threes.

'All this was derelict about a year ago,' said Tom, waving a hand at the sandblasted brick archways and spotless sheet glass windows. 'The entrances were all blocked up, except for some grubby little tunnels leading to the tram platforms below the station. Not the type of route you'd use after dark.'

They walked through the giant sliding doors into an airy lobby area where a gleaming escalator took them up through the bowels of the station and into the main terminal area.

The final few days before the Games' official start date had consisted of twenty-four-hour shifts as the contractors fought desperately to have the station ready. Somehow they had almost succeeded. Full-size palm trees had been wheeled in across the newly laid tile floor as the last retail units had been cleared for the staff of various shops to swarm in. Displays, shelves and stands had appeared with miraculous speed and in hours each shop was crammed with merchandise, tills manned and ready. Only the odd corner or section of the station remained screened off behind building boards that had been draped in colourful banners welcoming visitors from around the world to Manchester and the XVII Commonwealth Games.