Read the opening Chapter of my short Story
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CORPORATE EXECUTION
I get there early; I’ve got a few minutes to kill. My mouth feels dry. I loosen my tie just a little.
I watch a fella try to stop people in the street, but no one’s buying.
A security guard nods as I enter the building, the light flooding through the glass like an old church. A few people are coming and going. There’s no one behind the reception desk. The security guard presses a button, and one of the gates opens. He tells me to go on through; they are expecting me.
I walk through a long hall. I see Frank and Tam. They just walk past. They don’t look at me, much less talk to me. The condemned man has fewer friends than anyone.
I keep walking down the hall to an open door. I stop in the doorway. There are three people sitting at the desk. I recognise two of them and a third person. Buttoned-up suit. Greased-back hair. Must be HR. I recognise the two managers from our floor: Evelyn and Massie. They both offer a weak smile. They look nervous.
“Thanks for coming,” they say, and we shake hands. “This is Ralph from HR.”
I offer my hand, but he refuses to shake it. Evelyn gives him a look, and Massie just looks beaten. We sit. Evelyn takes the lead.
“Thanks for coming. This isn’t easy for any of us,” she pauses. “We have followed a process as required under law. We have gone beyond requirements to offer support to our colleagues. Unfortunately, in order to keep the business functioning and to provide value to our shareholders, we have to reduce headcount. We have to terminate your employment forthwith. You will receive a month’s pay. We thank you for your service.”
She puts the paper down.
“Just like that,” I say. HR is grinning like a cat. “Just like that.”
My ID goes in a box by reception. Won’t be needing that, I guess. I walk out into the sunshine and run my hand through my hair. Everything looks the same, yet everything is different. I take a deep breath.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years.
No one comes out to see me. No familiar faces. Just silence. I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs. Out of the world.
I take a step forward. Suddenly, I’m in the middle of the road. A taxi driver is shouting at me from an open window.
“What is your fucking problem, pal?” he shouts.
I stand there. I want to move, but my legs don’t respond. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I spin around. I feel like a coiled spring, ready to attack.
“You alright, mate?” says a deep voice. “Here, let me help.”
I’m guided to the pavement and to a bench. Someone offers me a bottle of water, and I take a sip. I struggle to my feet.
The voice says, “Take a seat, big man. Take a moment.”
Arms are pulling at me, but I struggle free, and I’m stumbling down the street. I undo my tie and let it fall to the ground.
I hear the voice shouting after me. “Don’t be a fucking arsehole, man!”
But I keep moving, and the noise fades behind me. I go down the street, past the pub nearest work. I cross the bridge over the river. The water looks dark, cold, foreboding.
The Pub
Across the river is Tam’s, a pub with food and drink. I open the door and walk in.
There is no one here but a guy behind the bar.
“You look like you have had a tough morning, big man. What can I get you?” he asks.
“Pint, please. Whisky chaser.” “No problem.”
He pours my drink, and I take a seat away from the bar. I put my head back and stare at the ceiling for just a moment as the unmistakable snare crack and chords of Like a Rolling Stone fill the pub.
I’ll tell you how it feels. I’ll tell you. Like finding your wife in a hotel room. With strangers. And a video camera.
I take a sip of my drink. And beckon forth oblivion.
Time passes in a blur of drinks, strangers, and the barman with a Bob Dylan fixation. At 1 am, he is standing opposite my table.
“You’ve had a good go round, pal, but I need to close up,” he smiles. “Is there someone I can call?”
“Just a taxi,” I half-slur. “Where are you heading?” “Home,” I say. “Kirkentoun.”
“Christ, that’s a distance. No worries.” I must have been the best customer he ever had.
The taxi drives through the city, past deserted streets, to the motorway, until the concrete turns to grass. I ask him to stop on the edge of town. I pay the man, and as he drives away for the trip back to the city, I’m sick in the ditch at the side of the road.
I look up, and from here I can see the stars and what looks like a plane or a drone. I breathe in the country air; only it smells like shite.
Welcome home.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 