Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

The two men looked around the station area, taking in the throng of people, most clutching bright yellow Commonwealth Games guides. Positioned around were clusters of Games volunteers, eager to give advice and information on where to get free shuttle buses out to Sportcity.

Tom felt his heart begin to flutter. 'Well, it's all go in here,' he said. 'Let's see where our team have positioned themselves.'

'Yes, let's, 'Austen replied. 'I certainly couldn't find them.'

They walked towards a stall loaded with umbrellas, toys, pens, keyrings, T-shirts, baseball caps, mugs, plates and ties. Most items featured a vaguely cat-like creature. 'That's Kit, the official Games mascot,' Tom explained. 'His cheeky smile is sure to be a winner with both children and adults alike — to quote the PR release,' he added.

Austen didn't look amused as they wandered round to the front part of the station.

All they could see were other stalls selling official Games merchandise, a stand promoting designer sunglasses and a cart manned by a red and white suited promotions team thrusting free cereal bars into the hands of the many people walking past. Tom faked a frown at the absence of the X-treme cart.

'Strange — I thought they were booked into Piccadilly this morning.' Suddenly he clicked his fingers, as if remembering something.' Ah — unless this is one of the mornings they've been given a slot at Victoria station.'

Austen raised an eyebrow.

'You see, we have a different catchment of people at Victoria — passengers arriving from the west and north of the country.'

'But I understood Piccadilly is the city's main terminal.' Austen pointed to a banner masking an unfinished set of side exit doors. 'Piccadilly: Gateway to the Games,' he read out.

Tom's stomach twisted into a tight knot and his mouth dried up. Knowing that his grin was imbecilic, he said, 'True — but I think you'll be impressed by Victoria station. As the name implies, it's all very grandiose — elaborate brickwork and wrought iron pillars.' He thought about its leaking roofs, moss-stained walls and padlocked doors. 'In fact, it will be a great opportunity for a stroll through the city centre. Shall we?' He held a hand towards the main doors and Austen reluctantly walked towards them. Pointing to a line of Rovers with the three figures painted on their sides, Tom said, 'That's the official Games transport for VIPs — the rest of us can walk or get the tram though.'

His attempts at light-hearted humour were drawing no response from Austen.

'I'll take you through Piccadilly Gardens, then down King Street. It's where the likes of DKNY, Armani and the rest are located. If we're lucky we could spot a celebrity shopper. David Beckham and Posh Spice perhaps.'

'Or Rio Ferdinand, now he's signed for United,' said Austen, with some enthusiasm. 'A United supporter then?' asked Tom, keen to open up some line of conversation.

'That's right.'

'Do you see them play much?'

Now he looked uncomfortable. 'Just their away games, really. It's hard to see them play at home when you live down in Surrey. How about you? Red or Blue?'

'I prefer rugby, to be honest,' answered Tom. 'But I suppose my sympathies are with Manchester City. The British thing about supporting the underdog, I suppose.'

They joined the crowds walking down the concourse and into the city centre, Tom struggling for another topic of conversation. 'It's a shame you won't have time to see the Olympic village, an entire purpose-built community. It's got the UK's largest temporary restaurant. They're producing almost fifteen hundred meals a day in it.' Tom realized he was beginning to witter, but his nerves were dancing at the prospect of how he would explain the absence of the chewing gum promotion at Victoria station. 'They anticipate the athletes will get through about ten thousand kilos of bananas and pasta in the next few days. And that's not to mention the hundred and fifty thousand condoms provided in their rooms. They should be describing them as bed athletes, I reckon!'

Austen glanced briefly at his sweating companion. 'Tom, that's all very interesting. But the purpose of my visit is to see how our promotion is going. We've paid you sixteen thousand to arrange it after all.' He held up a small leather pouch hanging from one wrist. 'I need to get some photos for our marketing department, too. The sporting details of this event really aren't of much interest.'

'Right… of course,' said Tom, feeling his skin start to itch as the effects of Brain's powder began to subside. The cacophony of noise started to reach them halfway up the road, and as they reached Piccadilly Gardens they entered a riot of activity. Giant TV screens mounted on platforms displayed reports of the coming events to the masses of people below. At the far end of the gardens, red and blue inflatable figures swayed and danced as air from a mobile generator was blasted up through them. To their side an urgent tattoo was being beaten out by a Samba band as young kids capered and whirled before them. Above it all towered the seventy-metre-tall banner of Ashia Hansen, caught in mid air during a triple jump. 'This is all part of the Spirit of Friendship festival,' Tom almost had to shout as two stilt walkers dressed as robots stalked past them, metal costume plates clanging as they went.

'Could we move on?' asked Austen, unmoved by the fun being had all around.

Tom peered through his sunglasses at Austen's impatient face. 'Of course.' He walked uncertainly onwards, unable to delay their approach towards Victoria station.

Turning right at York Street, they were soon passing the Athenaeum, a glorious building constructed in the Venetian Gothic style at the height of Manchester's domination of the cotton industry. Tom slowed down, pointing out the Ionic columns supporting a cathedral-like dome. 'I especially like the brickwork; the red colouring has led to the term “Slaughterhouse Gothic”. Manchester has got some of the best examples you'll find anywhere.'

Austen looked at his watch. 'Fascinating. And now it's a pub.'

His dismissive tone picked at Tom's frayed nerves. 'Not any old pub. It's increasingly the pre-match choice of Manchester City's firm. Go in there on a Saturday with a red shirt on and you'll probably come back out with a broken glass stuck in your face.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Not you personally. 'Tom smiled. 'I mean Man U fans in general. Though a southern accent wouldn't do you any favours either.'

Austen's eyes narrowed but he couldn't tell if it was a genuine piece of advice or a piss-take.

'Anyway,' said Tom, emotions alternating between a fluttery elation at having got away with a jibe at his client and heart-sinking dread at the prospect of reaching Victoria station. 'Here we are at the top of King Street.'

They looked down the long, straight road lined with designer stores. In front of each plate glass window were stone blocks and posts. Designed to look like seats, they were actually placed there to stop ram raiders.

'So where's Victoria from here? It's almost lunchtime,' said Austen.

'You're right,' said Tom quickly. 'Why don't we grab a bite now before everywhere fills up?'

Austen looked around uncertainly. 'Well…' 'It's on me. What do you prefer? Traditional pub or contemporary bar?'

'Traditional, I suppose.'

'Do you drink bitter?' asked Tom, stepping into Mr Thomas's Chop House. Austen nodded.

'Two pints of Landlord, please.'

After walking the length of the narrow bar, they entered the seating area at the back of the pub, dark wood tables glowing faintly in the light shining through ancient-looking panes of frosted glass. A young man in a shirt and bow tie showed them across the black and white tiled floor to a table.

After turning his mobile off, Tom opened his menu and looked down the list of dishes. 'I don't know why I even look — I always go for their home-made corned beef hash.'