David Szalay - London and the South-East

Standing at the bar of the Old King Lud, Paul jingles the heavy mass of shrapnel in his suit pocket. He feels dissatisfied with the whole evening. He wishes — he can hardly admit it even to himself — that he had made a more imposing impression on Eddy, more symmetrical with the impression that Eddy had made on him. ‘Fuck it,’ he thinks, his pride wounded by the very fact of wishing this. ‘He can stick his job up his arse.’ Then, immediately, ‘I’ll call him tomorrow, to show I’m serious about it.’ And thinking this , he is instantly uncomfortable — obscurely aware of his querulous conscience. He wonders how he would feel if Murray did to him what he is proposing to do to Murray. He imagines it — coming into work one morning, perhaps a Monday, to find that Murray and the team are simply not there. It soon becomes obvious, when there is no word from them, and they do not answer their phones, that they have left en masse. How would he feel? Something like that would have to have been planned — mass ‘defections’ (as they are known) do not just happen spontaneously. Probably for weeks they had all known about it — it would explain the knowing looks he had seen some of them exchanging on the sales floor; the embarrassed silence that had fallen that time he walked into the smoking room … And Murray, his friend — who had undoubtedly organised the whole thing — who else would? — had known about it for weeks, known about it every day as they sat together in the Penderel’s Oak, known how totally it would fuck him up, how utterly humiliating it would be … Paul finds himself becoming more and more angry just imagining this scenario, and in the face of the great pulse of righteous indignation and wounded rage welling up inside him, he has to remind himself that it is not actually true. It does, however, suggest Murray’s probable response.

Whatever his faults, Murray is supposedly his friend . If Paul does this to him, it would suggest — would it not? — that he, Paul, has a sadly hollowed-out sense of the meaning of the word. What, in fact, would its meaning be? He orders a pint of Foster’s. Should he really pass up this opportunity, though? Make such a sacrifice for Murray’s sake? What sacrifices has Murray ever made for him? He is still pondering this when he returns, with his new pint, to the table. The only significant thing he can think of is an occasion, years earlier — they were at Northwood at the time — when he stepped in front of a car, and Murray, instead of going on to the Sports Bar with the others, had accompanied him to A&E, and waited with him there until his head had been X-rayed, and then put him in a taxi home. He may even have paid for the taxi — Paul does not remember — but whether he did or not, his actions that night were surely only what was to be expected. They did not constitute extraordinary kindness, Christlike love, extreme Samaritanism, only a minimum standard of friendship — decency, even — standards by which Murray, it has to be said, quite often fell short. Nevertheless Paul had been touched by what Murray did that night. (Though he has never told him this, has perhaps never even thanked him.) It had, after all, been Murray and not Eddy or the Pig — any of them could have done it — who had travelled with him in the sickly greenish light of the ambulance. Paul does not remember why it was Murray. He only remembers lying on the black, abrasive tarmac, aware of his head having been knocked against it with terrible force, fear leeching through the haze of alcohol, and Murray’s voice telling him not to move, and saying that he was going to be okay.

The need for secrecy, Paul sees, is the nub of the problem. If he were able to say to Murray, ‘Eddy Jaw has offered me a job working for him. I’m starting next month and taking some of the team with me. I tried to persuade him to take you on as well. Maybe you should give him a call yourself,’ Murray might be jealous, he might be hurt that Jaw had not asked him , but Paul would have done nothing wrong. Unfortunately, the secrecy is necessary — these things need to be done by stealth. And telling Murray in advance of a defection from which he was excluded would have only one outcome — he would go straight to Lawrence and, in the hope of a promotion, tell him everything. Lawrence. Imagining Lawrence’s fury on hearing of the proposed defection, Paul takes surprisingly little pleasure in it. What he does experience, thinking of Lawrence, is an exhilarating sense of freedom — the sense that Lawrence no longer has any power over him. And without this power, he seems pathetic suddenly. How pathetic he seems. Pathetic. Yes, pathetic . In his mind, Paul lards the word ‘pathetic’ onto the word ‘Lawrence’. He even shakes his head sadly — sitting alone in the loud pub — and mutters it.

‘Pathetic …’

And thinking of Lawrence, and of the wider implications, it occurs to him that this defection, were it to happen, might finally bring Park Lane Publications down. For some time it has been struggling. It is failing. Many of its contracts are in imminent danger of being withdrawn. Morale is at an all-time low. Single members of staff are already leaving, steadily, and filling the vacancies with people who ‘can actually fucking cut it’ is proving impossible. If a whole team were to disappear overnight, not only would it make it impossible to meet target on the publication involved — and while that happens every year, this time the sales total would be so derisory, the shortfall so indefensibly huge, that the contract would finally be lost — it might spark a general exodus. Trying to imagine the atmosphere if one of the other teams defected, and he were among those left behind — and for some reason he now finds this an almost unbearably depressing thing to consider — he pictures a scene of apocalyptic panic. People in large numbers pulling on their coats and heading for the lift. Others on the phone, openly looking for new jobs. Or just piling into the pub. The sense that everything was falling apart would have unstoppable momentum. This sense is so vivid to him that it is almost frightening. And he sees that he would take no pleasure in bringing the temple down, as someone in the Bible did. He does not feel fitted for that sort of task, and as well as fear at its enormity, he is already filled, imagining it, with pity for the innocents who would be smashed. Suddenly in a maudlin mood, he pours the warm lees of the pint down his throat, and goes to the bar for another. While he is waiting the barman says something to him. ‘Sorry, mate?’ Paul says.

‘No smoking at the bar, please.’

‘Sorry, mate.’ Paul stubs out his cigarette, and jingles the coins in his jacket pocket. Turning to happier matters, he wonders who he would take with him, were the defection to happen. Not Andy. That is the first thing that occurs to him. ‘Poor, bloody Andy,’ he thinks. What would happen to him? Left to fend for himself, to face Lawrence alone, he would surely be sacked immediately, the same day. Even if he was not, everything would be different for him — the social aspect would no longer be there. He and Murray obviously hate each other. And what would happen to Murray? Even if the company as a whole somehow stayed standing, he would probably lose his job — he has been on the slide for a long time now. Emptying his throat, waiting for his pint, Paul points his thoughts once more to the question of who he would take with him. Not Andy. Wolé? Yes. Marlon? Yes. Elvezia? Maybe. Nayal? Probably. Dave? Probably not. Claire? He pauses. It is impossible to maintain, even in the privacy of his own head, that on the basis of her ability to sell the answer would be anything other than a brisk no. But.

But, but, but.