David Szalay - London and the South-East

Then, however, turning away, he mutters, ‘I only know what I been told.’

Paul follows him to the water cooler.

‘What have you been told?’

Gerald slowly swallows two cups of water. ‘What have I been told,’ he says.

‘Yeah.’

Perhaps not used to people taking such an interest in what he has to say, he seems suspicious. He and Paul are alone in the canteen — Mark has vanished. Gerald peers at Paul for a moment, perhaps wondering what his motives are.

‘If you don’t want to tell me …’ Paul says, with a shrug, and pours himself a cup of water, tilting the cooler’s blue plastic tap. ‘Is it a secret?’

‘I don’t know, my friend. I don’t know.’

‘Fair enough.’

And in silence, side by side, they descend the stairs to the shop floor.

In the morning, Paul is waiting for the bus. Suddenly aware of someone standing near him, he turns. It is Gerald, trussed up in his donkey jacket. He is wearing his woolly hat even though it is not cold. ‘Oh, all right?’ Paul says. And in a quiet voice, looking off to one side, Gerald says, ‘’Cos of the perishable and seasonal nature of the produce, the fresh-produce manager’s got a certain degree of autonomy in purchasing matters.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

Starting to fear that Gerald is a muddled and lonely man looking for someone to latch on to, Paul is not listening properly. He tries to seem uninterested. His eyes fixed emptily on the horizon, he hears only isolated phrases. ‘Budget for discretionary purchases … To take advantage of short-term availability … Temporary price troughs … Unexpected surges in local demand … You’re talkin’ about produce that’s decayin’ all the time … Once it’s gone its value is nil, right?’ Paul says nothing. ‘Fink of the stock as perishable money … Everyfing happens fast … That’s why he’s got to have more autonomy.’

A bus is approaching, and Paul squints to see the number. Half a dozen different buses stop there. It is not his, and he stands aside to let people on. They jostle him, and he hears Gerald say, ‘He’s supposed to go through the approved suppliers only.’

‘Is he?’

‘That means from the list. To add a supplier to the list takes time. He’s got to send the information up to head office. They got to investigate …’

‘Yeah.’

‘So he’s got some autonomy, but he can only use the approved suppliers.’

‘Sure.’

‘Well, what I heard …’

Paul sees his own bus, pulling in behind the one that is there. ‘Sorry, that’s my bus.’ He starts to move towards it, and is surprised — and perturbed — when Gerald follows him and waits while he pays for his ticket. He is even more perturbed when Gerald purchases a ticket himself, and sits down next to him. Paul, squashed in the window seat, stares through the soiled glass as the bus pulls out into the road. ‘What I heard,’ Gerald says, steadying himself.

‘Is this your bus, mate?’

He waves the question away. ‘S’okay. I can take it. What I heard is —’ his voice sinks to a whisper — ‘Short’s been usin’ suppliers who’ve not been approved.’ More preoccupied with the possibility that someone mentally ill is following him home, Paul says, ‘Oh? Why?’

‘That’s the question.’

Still staring out the window, Paul says nothing as the bus turns onto the Old Shoreham Road, and the low morning sun hits it full in the face. ‘Could be the suppliers we’re talkin’ about wouldn’t be approved,’ Gerald says, in an offhand sort of way, turning to look out of the windows on the other side of the bus. Wheezing, it stops at the lights.

‘Why not?’ Paul’s voice is equally offhand. He is wondering whether to get off in Portslade. ‘Why wouldn’t they be approved?’

Gerald just shrugs.

The bus has started to move again. It is turning into Boundary Road, the streaming low sun showing its filthy windows for what they are, when he says, ‘Might be they use illegal immigrant labour. Might be they don’t pay taxes. Who knows.’

‘So why does he use them?’

Gerald laughs. ‘Why d’you fink?’

They cross the railway line, and for a moment, with the sun in his eyes, Paul looks straight up the white tracks. ‘Dunno,’ he says.

‘’Cos they’re cheaper, innit.’

‘Are they?’

‘Course. And if they’re cheaper …’ For the first time he looks at Paul, with a small teacherly smile of encouragement.

Paul says, ‘Fresh produce makes more profit?’

‘Exactly.’

The bus is scudding down Portland Road, towards the sun. Perpendicular streets flash past on either side — down some of which, in the distance, it is possible to glimpse a small glitter. The sea. ‘Exactly,’ Gerald says again, tapping his foot. Paul turns to the window. He jumps off two stops too soon, and is thankful when Gerald stays on the bus.

They wait in the alley, Paul and Oliver, in the stare of the security camera, outside the metal door. Paul yawns. One evening the previous week, he was eating his porridge in the kitchen. Oliver was there, in his pyjamas. ‘How’s your job, then?’ he said, with his face in the fridge. The question was surprising because since Paul started his job Oliver has never mentioned it. There has in fact been a frostiness between them since the morning when Paul got in from his first shift and Oli, staring into his Coco Pops, seemed to ignore him. It is something that has quietly depressed Paul for the past two months. ‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ he said. Working through his porridge, he tried not to show how pleased he was. ‘It’s fine.’ And a few moments later — ‘Thanks.’

‘That’s all right,’ Oli said.

They talked snooker for a while, and Paul suggested a visit to the club. ‘How about Saturday?’

‘Won’t you be too tired?’ Oliver — not one to be fobbed off with empty promises — was openly suspicious.

‘Nah,’ Paul said, ‘I’ll be all right.’

And so they wait on Saturday morning until Ned shows up, whistling, with the keys. He seems surprised to see them. ‘All right, Paul?’ he says. ‘All right, mate? All right, Oli? You’re here nice and early.’ It is ten past twelve. ‘Yeah, well …’ Paul says. Ned smiles. His small, friendly eyes seem to search Paul’s face — which is, he thinks, unusually pale and tired-looking, with several days’ stubble. ‘You all right, mate?’

‘Bit tired.’

‘Are you? Are you? Big night, was it?’ He starts to unlock the door. It takes him a minute — there are four stiff locks. ‘Not seen you two for a while.’

Oliver says nothing, so after a few moments Paul mumbles, ‘No, not been around for a while.’

‘Why’s that then?’

‘Just … Been busy. You know.’

‘Busy?’ The door opens, and Ned stands aside for them to enter.

‘Well, I’m working nights at the moment,’ Paul says, starting up the damp concrete steps. In the echoic stairwell, his voice sounds huge.

‘Nights?’ Ned shouts, following. The word is drowned out by the boom of the door as it closes. ‘You’re working nights?’

‘Yeah,’ Paul shouts, without stopping or turning.

‘What you doing then?’

‘Supermarket. You know.’

‘What?’

‘Supermarket …’

The snooker hall is in darkness — velvety darkness, with a mouldering smell. Paul and Oliver wait while Ned walks into the void. A few seconds later neon tubes flicker where the bar is. Even when they have established themselves, their unwholesome bluish light is very localised. Most of the hall is still invisible. In this sickly light, Ned is stirring. He switches on the illuminated taps — Foster’s, Guinness, Carlsberg, Coca-Cola — and then a warmer tungsten filament in the bar. ‘What you say you were doing?’ he asks, putting the pint of milk that he has with him into the fridge with the alcopops and bottled beers. Paul, who was hoping that the subject had been dropped, says, ‘What?’ Now leaning on the bar, he seems engrossed in rolling a cigarette.