Iain Banks - The Bridge

He shakes the clipboard in my face. 'Not so fast, chum,' he says. 'There's the small matter of a broad-brimmed hat .'

'This is the office of Dr F.Joyce, and a very good afternoon to you indeed .'

'This is Mr Orr; I want to talk to Dr Joyce; it's very urgent.'

'Mr Orr! How nice to talk you! How are you, this fine day?'

'I... I'm feeling quite terrible at the moment, as a matter of fact; I've just been thrown out of my apartment. Now can I please talk to Dr Joy -'

'But that's terrible, absolutely terrible.'

'I agree. I'd like to talk to Dr Joyce about it.'

'Oh, you want the police, Mr Orr, not a doctor ... unless; well, I mean obviously they haven't thrown you out off the balcony, or you wouldn't be around to -'

'Look, I'm grateful for your concern, but I don't have much money for this phone, and -'

'What, they didn't rob you as well, did they? No!'

' No . Now look, can I please talk to Dr Joyce ?'

'I'm afraid not, Mr Orr; the doctor's in conference at the moment ... ahm ... the ... let's see ... ah, the Buying Procedures (Contracts) Committee New Members Subcommittee Elections Committee, I think.'

'Well can't you -'

'No! No, silly me; I tell a lie; that was yesterday; it's the - I thought that sounded wrong - it's the New Buildings Planning and Integration Standing Sub-'

'For God's sake, man! I don't care what damn committee he's on! When can I talk to him?'

'Oh well, you should care you know, Mr Orr; they're for your good too, you know.'

' When can I speak to him ?'

'Well, I don't know, Mr Orr. Can he call you back?'

'When? I can't hang around this call box all day.'

'Well, how about at home then?'

'I just told you! I've been thrown out!'

'Well, can't you get back in? I'm sure if you get the police -'

'The doors have been chained. And it was all done with official authorisation and signed by Dr Joyce; that is why I want to sp-'

'Oooooh; you've been relocated , Mr Orr; I see. I tho-'

'What was that noise?'

'Oh, that's the beeps, Mr Orr. You have to put more money in.'

'I haven't got any more money.'

'Oops. Oh well, nice talking to you, Mr Orr. Bye now. Have a nice d-'

'Hello? Hello?'

Level U7 is seven levels beneath the train deck; quite close enough for one to be able to distinguish the difference between a local train, a through-train express and a fast goods by their vibrations alone, even without the concomitant rumbling/screaming/thundering noise as confirmation. The level is broad, dark, cavernous and crowded. On the floor below there is a light engineering and sheet metal works; above, six more levels of accommodation. An odour of sweat and old smoke pervades the thickened atmosphere. Room 306 is all mine. It contains only a single narrow bed, a rickety plastic chair, a table and a thin chest of drawers, and it is still crowded. I smelt the communal toilet on my way here, at the end of the corridor. The room looks out into a lightwell hardly worthy of the name.

I close the door and walk to Dr Joyce's office like an automaton: blind, deaf, unthinking. When I get there, it is too late, the office is closed; doctor and even receptionist gone home. A floor security guard looks at me suspiciously and suggests I get back to my own level.

I sit on my small bed, stomach rumbling, head in hands, looking at the floor, listening to the shriek of metal being cut in the workshop below. My chest aches.

There is a knock at the door.

'Come in.'

A small, grubby man wearing a long, shiny coat of dark blue comes in, shuffling sideways through the door; his eyes flicker round the room, and hesitate briefly only on the rolled-up drawing lying on top of the chest of drawers. His gaze settles on me, though his eyes don't meet mine.

''Scuse me, pal. New here, aren't ye?' He stands by the open door, as though ready to run back out through it. He sticks his hands into the deep pockets of his long coat.

'Yes, I am,' I say, standing. 'My name is John Orr.' I offer my hand; his grabs mine briefly, then scuttles back to its lair. 'How do you do,' I just have time to say.

'Lynch,' he says, addressing my chest. 'Call me Lynchy.'

'What can I do for you, Lynchy?'

He shrugs. 'Nothin'; just bein' neighbourly. Wondered if there was anythin' ye wanted.'

'That's very kind of you. I would be grateful for a little advice regarding an allowance I was told I would receive.'

Mr Lynch actually looks at me, his not-recently-washed face seeming to glow, albeit dully. 'Aw yeah, I can help ye with all that stuff. No problem.'

I smile. In all the time I lived in the more elevated and refined levels of the bridge not one of my neighbours even wished me good-day, far less offered help of any kind.

Mr Lynch takes me to a canteen where he buys me a fishmeal sausage and a plate of mashed seaweed. They are both appalling, but I am hungry. We drink tea from mugs. He is a carriage sweeper, he explains, and occupies room 308. He seems quite unduly impressed when I show him my plastic bracelet and tell him I am a patient. He explains how to go about claiming my allowance, in the morning. I am grateful. He even offers me a small loan until then, but I am too beholden to the man already, and refuse, with thanks.

The canteen is noisy, steamy, crowded, windowless; everything clatters, and the smells do nothing for my digestive processes. 'Chucked ye out, just like that, eh?'

'Yes. My doctor authorised it. I refused to undergo the treatment he had in mind for me; I assume that's why I was relocated, anyway. I may be wrong.'

'What a bastard, eh,' Mr Lynch shakes his head and looks fierce. 'Them doctors.'

'It does seem rather vindictive and petty, but I suppose I have only myself to blame.'

'Total bastards,' Mr Lynch maintains, and drinks tea from his mug. He slurps his tea; this has the same effect on me as nails scratched down a blackboard; I grit my teeth. I look at the clock above the serving hatch. I'll try to contact Brooke; he will probably be at Dissy Pitton's soon.

Mr Lynch takes out tobacco and papers and rolls himself a cigarette. He sniffs powerfully, and makes a grunting, snorting, catarrhal noise at the back of his throat. A hacking series of coughs, like a large sack of rocks being shaken vigorously somewhere inside Mr Lynch's chest, completes his ante-cigarette preparations.

'Ye got to go somewhere, pal?' Mr Lynch says, seeing me glance at the clock. He lights up, producing a cloud of acrid smoke.

'Yes. I had best be off, actually. I'm going to see an old friend.' I get to my feet. 'Thank you very much, Mr Lynch; I'm sorry to rush off. Once I'm in funds again, I hope you'll allow me to return your generosity.'

'No problem, pal. If ye want a hand tomorrow, give us a knock; it's my day off.'

'Thank you. You are a kind man, Mr Lynch. Good day.'

'Aye. Bye-bye.'

I get to Dissy Pitton's later than I intended, footsore. I ought to have accepted Mr Lynch's offer of money for the train fare; I am amazed at how much less pleasant walking becomes when it is adopted due to necessity rather than idle choice. I am also aware of being seen as the uniform I wear; my face would seem to be invisible for all practical purposes. Nevertheless, I pace, head up, shoulders back, as though I still wear my best coat and suit, and I believe my stick is more obvious in its absence than it was when actually held and swung.

The doorman at Dissy Pitton's is not impressed, however.

'Don't you recognise me? I'm here most nights. I'm Mr Orr. Look.' I hold up my plastic identity bracelet for him to see. He ignores it; he is embarrassed, I think, at having to deal with me and still tip his cap and open the door for customers.