Nicola Barker - Darkmans

The kid shrugged again.

‘You’d be amazed at the level of bio-diversity which exists even in a superficially low-grade site like this,’ Beede informed him, ‘in the low bushes, the incidental scrub, the trees…I’ve actually seen several firecrests in that Scotch Pine over there.’

He paused. ‘And a wren.’

‘They’re plannin’ on expandin’ the place,’ the kid volunteered.

‘Expanding?’ Beede looked astonished. ‘There’s a brand-new store not half a mile away. How much more business can they possibly sustain here?’

‘They’re gonna extend the cafe, for starters. Move it upstairs, out the back…’

‘Why?’

The kid shrugged.

‘Move it upstairs ?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Move it to the back and upstairs when the vast proportion of its customers are pensioners, or young mums with toddlers and prams?’

‘They’re puttin’ in a lift.’

‘A lift? But what on earth for ?’

‘So the mums can get their prams up.’

‘That’s absolutely typical of these people,’ Beede grouched, ‘to create a problem and then pointlessly throw money at it.’

He gazed over at the contractors, balefully. ‘I mean where’s the harm in just leaving things as they are?’

The kid shrugged. He looked at his watch.

Pause

‘I’ll tell you what their reasoning is,’ Beede suddenly started up again. ‘They move the cafe out to the back so that anyone who wants a drink or a snack has to traipse all the way through the store. And naturally, on their way there — human nature being what it is — they’ll pick up a little something extra . It’s just a scam — in other words — a cheap trick to encourge people to spend more of the money they don’t have on more of the stuff they don’t need …’

‘I just work here, mate,’ the kid said, starting to move off.

‘Taking those trees down,’ Beede persisted, ‘will significantly impinge on your working environment. The air quality, for starters…’

‘Who cares?’ the kid sneered. ‘It’s just some crappy, old job anyway…’ ‘Rubbish,’ Beede wouldn’t let him have it, ‘you’re serving an essential function here— uh …’ he inspected his name tag, ‘ Brian , and don’t you let anyone dare tell you otherwise.’

‘I’m on my break now, mate,’ Brian smirked, ‘so they can tell me what the hell they like …’

‘But I’m serious ,’ Beede maintained, ‘your so-called “crappy” job is absolutely critical to the smooth running of this supermarket. You’re a fundamental cog, a facilitator, a lubricant …’

The kid scowled.

‘You’re an essential component,’ Beede persisted. ‘If this store were a car you’d be something small but powerful: the spark plug, say. And you know as well as I do that without a spark plug this huge capitalist enterprise — this vast and impressive machine — simply couldn’t start up.’

The kid continued scowling. He was still struggling to get past Beede’s casual use of the word ‘lubricant’.

‘I mean look at it this way,’ Beede continued, ‘if an actress or a pop star or a footballer doesn’t turn up for work one day, then what d’you imagine the consequences are?’

The kid shrugged.

‘In real terms? There aren’t any. The bottom line is that they don’t facilitate. They simply entertain. If Capitalism was the ocean, all they’d be is the scum, riding on the crest of a wave.’

‘ Rich scum,’ the kid muttered.

‘That’s a good point,’ Beede allowed, ‘and a fine pun. But the plain fact is that if you don’t turn up for work then people can’t shop. And if they can’t shop, they can’t eat .’

‘If I don’t turn up for work,’ Brian observed dourly, ‘then they get some other sucker in. Or they don’t get someone in and the customers just have to shift their fat arses over to one of the other collection points to pick their trolley up.’

‘But what if they’re disabled?’

Beede challenged him.

‘Then they can get their shoppin’ delivered on the internet.’

‘And how many people are needed to facilitate that ?’

Brian shrugged.

‘Well let’s count them off, shall we? There’s the person at the computer — for starters — who receives the order, the person who goes out into the shop and collects the order, the person who stores it until delivery, the person whose job it is to coordinate the transport…’

‘Excuse me,’ a woman’s voice suddenly piped up from behind him, ‘but I can’t find a trolley. One of the little trolleys. The ones with the metal thingy on the front which has a clip that you can pin your shopping list on…’

Beede glanced over his shoulder, irritably. He started. It was Laura . Laura Monkeith.

‘Beede?’ she looked equivalently stunned.

‘Laura…’ Beede stuttered. ‘Good Lord.’

‘Are you waiting for a trolley too?’ she asked.

‘Waiting…?’

The kid took this as his cue to quietly slope off.

‘…Uh no …we were just…’

Beede winced. He put his hand to his neck.

‘They never have enough trolleys here,’ she grumbled (the kid still within earshot), ‘at least not the sort I’m always after…’

‘Life invariably gets more complicated,’ Beede promptly informed her, ‘if your needs grow too particular.’

‘I know,’ she nodded, ‘and they hire Moguls , too. It’s store policy. I mean don’t get me wrong …’

‘I think you’ll probably find,’ Beede interrupted her, with a small smile, ‘that the word you’re searching for here is “Mongol”. Although — strictly speaking — a Mongol is someone from Mongolia, which is a country in the remote, mountainous regions of the USSR…’

She gazed at him, blankly.

‘The real irony is that you’re not as far off-track as you might suppose,’ he continued, ‘because a Mogul — used in its original form — was actually a person of the Mongolian race —for example the Mongolian conquerors of India became known as “Moguls” because of their extraordinary wealth and power…’

Laura opened her mouth and then closed it again.

‘I believe the word Mogul,’ he doggedly persisted, ‘is originally derived from the Persian, Mughul …’

‘Can I just say ,’ she took a small step closer (rapidly putting their linguistic differences behind her), ‘while I have this little opportunity, that I was sorry not to seem more positive when Pat mentioned your appointment to the Road Crossing Committee yesterday. The trouble is that Charlie isn’t very keen on the whole thing, but Pat’s got this bee in her bonnet…’

Now it was Beede’s turn to stare at her, blankly.

‘I mean it’s not that he doesn’t like the idea — he does — it’s just the way he sees it, it doesn’t really matter how many road crossings we build, or where they are, because they’ll never bring Ryan back. And when Pat keeps harping on about it, it just makes him feel…’

‘Beede!’

It was Gaffar (red-cheeked, slightly out of breath, wearing Kane’s Dennis the Menace scarf). Beede turned, frowning, ‘ Uh …Oh. Gaffar …’ he blinked.

‘Hello, Laura…’ Gaffar grabbed Laura’s hand and squeezed it, smiling, then he turned to Beede. ’What’s up, old man? You look all cross, all red, all stiff…’