Alex Gray - The Riverman

West closed the door and leaned against it, aware of a pulse throbbing in his temples. For a time he simply stood as if protecting this, his own designated space that had suddenly become a sanctuary from the world outside. His was a large corner room looking out over the river and beyond towards the suspension bridge. The high walls were painted a pale salmon colour, the ornate cornicing picked out in dazzling white; crystal droplets from a chandelier cast their fragments of light across the dark oak furniture and the blood-red carpet. It was a room West loved to be in. Sometimes his fingers stroked the velvet curtain fabric by the side of his desk or he would simply breathe in the smell of well-polished old wood. All the partners’ rooms had similar furnishings but each of them had personalized their own office. West had purchased several pictures from the Glasgow Art Club’s exhibitions and two of those, one standing figure and one reclining nude, were displayed to the right of his desk. The early morning light often made the skin tones seem to come alive as a rosy glow came from the east of the city.

But right now the man was blind to the seductive charm of his surroundings. A feeling of lassitude suddenly overwhelmed him and he walked unsteadily towards the chair behind his desk. What he’d heard behind those closed doors meant the end of all his plans. It couldn’t be true. This wouldn’t happen to him, surely? With a rising sense of dismay, Graham West sunk his head into his hands and wished an impossible wish.

‘He’ll do what I ask him to,’ Alec Barr growled. ‘And so will you!’

Catherine sat still, hands folded tightly on her lap, breathing deeply. Would this be the day she took a risk and told him what she really thought? Could she throw over the traces that held her here in this job and this fruitless relationship? She could say a great deal to this man across the desk from her but they would be words wasted. Alec had decided on their fate and she must comply with his decision. As she always did.

A familiar feeling of self-loathing swept over her and she clenched her hands so hard that the tips of her fingernails left small indentations of crescent moons on her skin when she eventually made herself relax. Breathe in for four, breathe out for eight. Funny how she’d never forgotten the ante-natal exercise and yet the whole process of giving birth to that poor creature had been long erased from her memory.

‘It has to be done, Catherine. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it will all work out in the end, you’ll see.’ Alec removed his half-moon spectacles and rubbed his nose. The eyes staring at her from across the desk willed Catherine to trust him just once more. Her heart sank. Trusting Alec Barr had been her undoing all those years ago.

Catherine watched as his hand came across the desk, searching for her own to respond, and she saw her treacherous fingers reach eagerly across and be enveloped in his grasp. Any thoughts of rebellion died in that moment, the strength of his clutch and the depth of his stare into her own eyes stilling her into submission.

‘Same time next week, Mr Adams?’ The woman behind the raised desk smiled at Malcolm and held his gaze. She knew, he thought suddenly. Maybe they all knew. Did the consultant gather them together to brief them on how to treat their terminally ill patients? Possibly. Malcolm had never come into contact with any of those softly-softly people: therapists, counsellors, whatever. Up until now he’d had no need for them and no patience for those who chose that sort of path. But now, as the woman’s eyes gleamed with genuine sympathy and unspoken words, and he nodded his agreement for the next appointment, Malcolm wondered if he’d simply shut himself off from other possibilities.

His life consisted of compartments, boxes into which he’d file troublesome things as ‘pending’; but to be truthful they should be marked ‘no intention of going there’. Malcolm bit his lip, uncomfortable with this self-revelation, but the idea had caught hold of him and would not let go. It was the same whenever he read the papers. A trite remark about the latest wave of terrorism sufficed then he could turn to what really mattered: the business section of the morning papers. It was all a matter of perspective, wasn’t it? If you had a relative involved in the armed forces then each and every inch of news about the conflict in the Middle East would be scanned with a growing eagerness to know what was happening and if any danger could touch the person involved. He’d learned to shut off any possibility of acrimonious discussion during his university years. The debating-society types were anathema to Malcolm, his preference had been for the film theatre whenever accounting lectures allowed. There he could indulge the perspective of others for a quiet hour or two before returning to his own much more satisfying existence.

Malcolm Adams found he had walked all the way past Charing Cross and up Sauchiehall Street before he realized. He’d meant to call a passing taxi to take him downtown and across the river but now he stopped, considering whether he could manage to walk the rest of the way. The very act of thinking about his strength seemed to make it ebb away and Malcolm felt the pain in his head pounding as if there were something actually inside striking against his skull. He swayed slightly then took a deep breath. It would never do to collapse in the middle of the street. Just then a black cab appeared round the corner of Elmbank Street and he raised his hand as the ‘for hire’ light shone out like a beacon.

‘Carlton Place, please,’ he told the cabbie, sinking back against the leather seats. None of the staff knew that Mr Adams was attending a consultant on a week-to-week basis. When the echelons of partnership were finally reached, such things could be concealed from even the most eagle-eyed secretary. Random or even regular meetings were up to each individual and breakfast meetings were now a popular norm in the city’s business life. If Shirley thought Malcolm had such calls on his time, then that was up to her and he did not see any need to enlighten his secretary further. His diary simply noted that Mr Adams was not available at certain hours. Some of the others abused this privilege, he knew; Graham West being one of them. How that fellow got away with his trips to the gym and long weekends sailing he never knew.

The taxi rounded the corner of Blythswood Street, past the bijou galleries and then over the hill towards the river. Malcolm watched, detached, as the people streamed across the street in obedience to the traffic lights. They were all going somewhere on their own personal journeys, no doubt, but just now they seemed like ants scurrying at the prompting of some collective inner will. The feeling of being small and unimportant made him shrink further into the corner of the cab. He would pass out of this vehicle, just another fare, and then be immediately forgotten as the driver scanned the streets for custom. Would it be like that a year from now when he was dead and buried? Some other audit partner would be sitting in his place at Forbes Macgregor, well-meaning friends of Lesley might even be thinking to encourage her out of widowhood and back into the marriage market. The thoughts passed Malcolm by as if he were considering the fate of one of his clients, not his own place in the scheme of things. The sudden realization of his own unimportance had been revealed the first time he had seen the X-rays. Now his days were spent planning for Lesley and the kids, his best achievement and the only part of his life that deserved a good inheritance.

‘Just here,’ Malcolm leaned forward as the taxi slowed down outside the elegant Georgian building. ‘Thanks. How much?’

Standing on the kerb, Malcolm breathed in the cool air with its faint smell of the river and was suddenly and unreasonably grateful for the work that awaited him.