David Szalay - London and the South-East

Amid the Albert’s faded Victoriana, fortified by a drink or two, Paul turned his phone on. There were three messages — not as many as he had expected. The first was from Eddy. He sounded embarrassed, fumbling, as he explained that the job had ‘unfortunately fallen through’. The next message, from Lawrence, made it very plain that if Paul had been thinking of a return to PLP, he would not be welcome. It was unpleasant, especially today, after what had happened — and moreover in a fervent, suggestible, sleep-deprived state — to hear such a message, to get such an earful of poisonous hatred, to know that someone out there really hated you. The final message, which he had expected to be from Murray, was Lawrence again. More of the same. There was no message from Murray. He had not even tried to call, and it was this, more than anything, that seemed to verify — though Paul had never actually doubted it — what Eddy had said. Suddenly he felt very low.

He started to smoulder when he thought of his performance in Eddy’s office. How pathetic he must have seemed, sitting there, putting quiet, polite questions, seeming to take what had happened as if it were simply his due. He did not understand why he had acted like that. Why had he not shouted, smashed, hit? And as if to make up for it, he imagined himself — silently, as he sat in the Albert — he imagined himself trashing Eddy’s commodious, battleship-grey office. And then, when Eddy tries to stop him, he transfers the violence — more fantastically — to Eddy himself, hitting him, unleashing on him a wild savagery of infinite strength. He snapped out of this only when a member of the pub staff, entering his field of vision, said, ‘Excuse me’, and emptied the ashtray. Lighting another cigarette, he was ashamed of his fantasy. Not of the fantasy per se. Not at all. What he was ashamed of was the vast discrepancy between it and what he had actually done. And if he pretended, for a moment, to think that he might go back and mete out some real violence, he was still undrunk enough to see, from the start, that that was simply not going to happen. Instead, he meandered to the bar and asked for another pint of lager.

While he was waiting, he noticed a Chelsea pensioner, sitting on his own with a thrifty half. There is a man, he thought, who has probably known mortal danger, machine-gun fire, shelling. Who has waded ashore past the bobbing dead bodies of his friends, into a storm of bullets and explosions and seemingly endless barbed wire, and slithered up an open beach towards thousands of heavily armed men whose only implacable aim was to kill him. How would he have reacted to what had happened to Paul? With immediate surrender, as Paul had? With polite questions? It seemed unlikely. Had he punched Eddy in the face (and quite possibly Eddy would have punched him back, much harder — that didn’t matter), had he punched Eddy in the face he would undoubtedly have been feeling less venomous and self-pitying now, even nursing a flattened nose. But perhaps the pensioner, he thought, still waiting for his pint, perhaps the pensioner would talk about violence never being the answer — these pensioners often did, in TV interviews. When they said that, though, they meant wars, surely, not smacking a man in the face who had purposely wrecked your life with lies. The set of the old man’s mouth, his hard eyes on either side of his great nose, were not such as would lead anyone to believe he was against that sort of violence. As a sergeant (he still wore the three stripes on his soft, scarlet sleeve) he must have dealt out plenty himself, in feral bars from Portsmouth to Singapore.

It made Paul sick to think how Jaw had spoken of Murray as if he were some kind of saint. He knew Murray. Paul thought of a seagull swallowing a hatchling duck alive, gulping it down, its eye a staring orange horror. And a fresh sense of injustice flooded him with silent fury. He had been drinking for a few hours, and in a fierce mood he suddenly stumbled on a sense of pure righteousness — everything else, he felt sure, was just sophistry — nothing more than ploys to lure him into a moral murk, where everyone was equally sullied. The truly sullied always tried to do that. In fact, it was simple — he had been wronged, lied to, tricked into professional suicide in someone else’s selfish interests. That was what had happened. And Murray, supposedly his friend, had been fully involved. Impulsively, he tried for the first time to phone him. Murray’s mobile, though, was switched off. ‘Hello,’ the familiar, nasal voice intoned, ‘this is Murray Dundee. I cannot take your call at the present time. Because I’m busy. Please leave a message. Er. Cheerio.’ The high-pitched note invited Paul to speak, but he did not. He realised that he had nothing to say. Unlike Lawrence, his fury seemed insufficient to sustain such a one-sided showdown. What he had wanted was to hear Murray’s voice — to listen for the guilt. Murray had always been bitter about working for him, his former protégé. Bitter, bitter, bitter. He had worked for Paul at Park Lane Publications for two years. Had he spent all that time plotting something like this? Waiting for an opportunity like this? It was entirely possible. Murray, let us not forget, is a shit.

Paul noticed that it was two o’clock — the time he had told the others to arrive at Delmar Morgan. Vengefully, he imagined intercepting them outside, telling them that the whole thing had ‘unfortunately fallen through’ … But it was too late for that. By the time he got there it would be five, ten past. They would already be in a meeting room with Eddy Jaw, being told that unfortunately he, Paul, would not be joining them. Essentially, he thought, settling in his chair, in some ways pleased that it was too late, essentially it had been a coup d’état — after Christmas they would start work on the new, June edition of European Procurement Management , but instead of Paul, Murray would be managing the team. That was all that would really have changed — everything else, from Murray’s point of view, if not Eddy’s, was just mechanics. And what would the salespeople make of it, the overthrow of their erstwhile manager? Would they mourn? He found it difficult to think that they would. Would they even pity him? Probably not. They would be surprised, then shrug, and start their new jobs. What else can the little people do? They have their own livelihoods to worry about. Only Elvezia, perhaps, would spare him another thought. Secretly, silently, she might give him a single sad, pitying thought. They had worked together for several years, and got on quite well. He had once asked her to help him find a birthday present for Marie — he had had no idea what to get — and they had gone to Superdrug and picked out some sparkly hair clips for her. She had been delighted with them.

And would Murray be in that meeting room? Stationed up by the flip chart, sitting with his arms folded in his shapeless suit? Of course he would. That would take them by surprise, to see him sitting there — their new manager! He knew for a fact that they all disliked him. What would Marlon make of it, for instance? The thought led Paul to laugh out loud in the sun-filled pub. And Wolé, Elvezia — neither of them could stand Dundee. There would be dismay when they saw him sitting there, with that frozen smile on his grey face, squinting at them, unable to hide his nervous tension. He was not a likeable person, the Croc. And the salespeople, Paul thought, would hold him in contempt. Would they refuse to work for him? Not immediately. But they would soon be restive, resentful, openly disrespectful. Marlon would simply not be able to stomach Murray in a position of authority for long. And he would fall, like many another usurper, to popular anger, hung up by the heels, his face pissed on. Eddy would soon understand what a mistake he had made. With deep satisfaction, Paul lit a cigarette. No, Eddy would not be pleased with Murray’s performance. He had been sold a pup, and he would soon realise it.