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<\/h1>\n<\/h1>\nby Neil Brosnan<\/p>\n
\u2026 but Sunday night, I get a fright, when I think of Monday morning.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span> Although his grandfather\u2019s old rhyme had little resonance during Justin\u2019s school days, his transition from college student to company employee has been his steepest learning curve yet. The job, however, is not the problem; Justin\u2019s Sunday night panic attacks are due totally to his virtual ostracism by the firm\u2019s inner-circle: Marcus, Shane and Darren \u2013 the self-styled three amigos. It started on day one, eight months ago, and has been going from bad to worse ever since. Justin has no idea what he has done to deserve their snide remarks, insidious innuendo, and covert bullying. He has tried to be a good colleague: he is competent, conscientious and cooperative, and he believes that he has much more to contribute if allowed to perform to his full potential. To date, he has been limited to the more menial tasks: the shitty stuff no one else wants to do \u2013 and there is a lot of stuff which nobody wants to do. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Are the amigos jealous of Justin\u2019s greater academic achievements; do they fear he might leapfrog them in the office pecking order? Justin has dismissed such thoughts: promotion depends on the boss, and his attitude suggests that Justin would be the first thing he would want to scrape from the sole of his shoe. Neither does the deputy manager inspire optimism; while ensuring that the boss\u2019s in-tray is sufficiently up-to-date to keep the Head Office bean counters at bay,<\/span><\/span><\/span> Dep<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span> \u2013 as the amigos refer to him \u2013 observes a strict <\/span><\/span><\/span>see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil <\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span>policy. Dep does occasionally raise his eyes from his work, but with the air of someone who suspects that something may have happened, but neither knows nor cares what it might be.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Liz, who joined the staff about six weeks ago, is Justin\u2019s only ally, but her support has come at great personal cost. With stage-whispered references to <\/span><\/span><\/span>Justine<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span> and <\/span><\/span><\/span>Lezzie<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span>, the three amigos swap jokes about ladyboys and lesbians whenever either Justin or Liz is within earshot. The amigos then up the ante at the slightest interaction between the outcasts, with a practiced routine of barely audible grunts and groans, interspersed with suggestive slurping sounds and exaggerated high-fives.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n This Monday begins as usual, with Justin and Liz arriving at the office almost simultaneously, shortly after the deputy manager, but more than ten minutes ahead of signing-on time. While Justin deals with an early telephone query, Liz sorts and then allots the morning mail to its various departments \u2013 except any items bearing the boss\u2019s name, which she ferries to his inner office. The other staff members \u2013 the three amigos and five ladies \u2013 trickle in over the next fifteen minutes, sipping coffee from take-away cups, or water from plastic bottles. The new arrivals split into two groups: one forms a little gossiping huddle by the office notice board, while the smokers gather in the tiny yard outside the open fire exit door.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n At ten o\u2019clock, Liz unlocks the main door. Justin winces as the glow deepens in her cheeks at each encounter with an amigo on her way back to her desk. Seeing Liz suffer is even more distressing than his personal pain. College does not prepare one for situations like these: such modules have yet to be conceived. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n The boss appears about an hour later: his eyes are red pinholes in a pallid balloon face; his nose, a purple-blue gobbet above a slash of thin bloodless lips. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cMy office \u2013 now,\u201d he barks, rapping his knuckles on Justin\u2019s desk before disappearing inside his inner sanctum.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYes, Mr\u2026?\u201d Justin begins, knocking politely on the open door.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cShut it!\u201d Unsure as to which <\/span><\/span><\/span>it<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span> the boss has referred, Justin silently closes the door. \u201cWell, why are you here?\u201d The boss growls, and then turns his back on Justin to drape the jacket of his suit over the shoulders of his leather swivel chair.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cBut you said\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou know what I mean; why are you here \u2013 here at work \u2013 today?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry, I don\u2019t\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou are supposed to be on leave; haven\u2019t you seen the notice board? No? Of course you haven\u2019t! You\u2019re due seven days of annual leave, which you must use up before next Monday-week. Because of Easter, you have to take them straight away \u2013 today \u2013 now\u2026 Young <\/span><\/span><\/span>Lizzie<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span> can finish whatever you\u2019re working on. Go on\u2026 go!\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Muttering under his breath, the boss slips his jacket back on and, forcing his bulk past Justin, storms through the main office, and back out to the street. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Justin has been saving those days; he has made plans, but nobody had informed him of the constraints regarding when annual leave must be availed of. A quick calculation tells him that if his holidays were to begin today, he would be due back to work on the Friday after Easter. He checks the office clock and, rather than add to Liz\u2019s workload, decides to remain at his desk until lunchtime. At twelve-forty-five, he delivers his completed projects to Dep\u2019s tray, and then discretely returns the pending files to the desks of those who had foisted them upon him in the first place. Seething within, he enters twelve-fifty next to his signature in the attendance book, and slips quietly from the office.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n On the way to his favourite caf\u00e9, Justin is intercepted by a young woman.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cExcuse me, please,\u201d she says, laying a tentative hand on his arm. He recognises her as the barmaid from the adjacent public house. She takes a nervous drag from her cigarette. \u201cSorry, could you come into the bar for a minute, please? There\u2019s a guy in there; he\u2019s giving me the creeps; I\u2019ll give you free drinks!\u201d Justin has been in the pub only once \u2013 months ago, at a charity table quiz. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not sure what I can do. I\u2019m\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI understand; I know it\u2019s your lunch break. Ten minutes; just have a coffee; you can have a few pints some other time \u2013 please.\u201d She seems genuinely distraught.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cOkay. Ten minutes, but no more, and don\u2019t expect me to get involved in anything physical \u2013 or even talk to him\u2026\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n It\u2019s a drinkers\u2019 pub. Everything is brown, but the little round tables and stools are a few shades deeper than that of the floor, ceiling and walls. There are beermats instead of pepper mills and salt cellars, and there isn\u2019t a napkin, or a sachet of mayo, mustard or ketchup in sight. There is only one customer: a shrunken, balding, middle-aged man, seated on a patched leatherette bench at the far end of the room; he is nursing a half-drunk pint of stout and studying a tabloid<\/span><\/span><\/span> <\/i>newspaper. Justin takes a seat at the counter, close to the front door, where he has an unhindered view of his subject.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThanks,\u201d the girl says, with a tight smile. \u201cWould you prefer tea or coffee? Sorry I can\u2019t offer you any proper food; how about a <\/span><\/span><\/span>Clubmilk<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/span>, or peanuts or crisps? Look!\u201d She lowers her tone to a hissed whisper, her fingernails biting into his wrist. \u201cSee, he\u2019s staring at me again. Look at his eyes; look!\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Justin looks, but the man seems focussed on his newspaper. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI think I\u2019ll have a pint of lager, please.\u201d Justin says, drawing the girl\u2019s gaze from the man. Self-consciously, she releases his wrist. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n The girl\u2019s phone rings as she serves Justin\u2019s drink. Mouthing an apology, she fishes the device from her jeans and, teasing it between shoulder-length waves of blonde hair, presses it to her left ear. Absently, she slips through the door of the keg store. Justin takes a sip from his glass and suddenly understands what had so upset the barmaid. The man is now staring at him, but it\u2019s more than just a stare; it\u2019s a glare \u2013 a black, murderous glare. Justin has a sudden urge to pee, but the man is situated close to toilet door. The man is now writing in his newspaper; he has a short green biro, the sort that usually bears a bookie\u2019s name. Deciding to take a gamble of his own, Justin risks a visit to the toilet, returning the man\u2019s nodded greeting along the way. The man doesn\u2019t react as Justin returns, relieved and unscathed, to resume his vigil. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Intermittent tinkles of laughter sound from the keg store; the barmaid\u2019s spirits have been restored. Taking a good swig from his pint, Justin allows his gaze to return to the man. Biro poised above his newspaper, the man begins to count the fingers of his left hand against its thumb. He takes a sip from his almost empty glass, sighs deeply, and again freezes into that look. This time, however, his eyes are not searing through Justin, or the muted TV screen, or the keg room door but, if looks could kill, the EXIT sign above the front door would have already shone its last. As quickly as it had contorted, the man\u2019s face relaxes into something akin to a smirk of satisfaction. He makes a couple of swift biro strokes on his newspaper, and then folds it and stuffs it inside his nondescript jacket. Rising to his feet, he downs the dregs of his pint, swaps the biro for a hand-rolled cigarette from his top pocket and, with a good natured wave in Justin\u2019s direction, exits the building.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Robbed of a focal point, Justin\u2019s thoughts drift to his enforced sabbatical. He had planned on spending his leave with his parents \u2013 but in early May; not late March. He has been looking forward to helping Mam prepare her flower beds, to sharpening Dad\u2019s tools, to servicing the lawnmower. Little things he had done through his teens, before his move to the city college had deprived his parents of his help, just when they were beginning to need it most. Brenda, Justin\u2019s sister, always comes home for Easter, along with her sons, Trevor and Colin, now aged twelve and ten. It seems to Justin that the boys have recently mutated from trusting toddlers to preteen terrorists. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIs \u2013 is he gone?\u201d The girl asks as, glancing cautiously around, she makes a timely return from the keg store.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYes, a few minutes ago; he finished his drink and just left.\u201d Justin drains his glass and gets to his feet.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cHave another, please; if you have the time. I\u2019d love to hear how you did it. By the way, I\u2019m Sandra,\u201d she offers her hand.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThanks, Sandra; I\u2019m Justin,\u201d he returns her grip with interest. \u201cI\u2019m actually on a few days\u2019 holidays; I have all the time in the world.\u201d He yanks off his tie, stuffs it in his jacket pocket, and opens the top three buttons of his shirt. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou remind me of Depp,\u201d she smiles, serving his drink.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou mean our deputy manager?\u201d Justin\u2019s burgeoning hopes instantly plunge.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNo, silly: Johnny Depp; you\u2019ve got his eyes\u2026\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n There is horseracing on the TV. The pub is suddenly alive with punters; jostling for counter space, calling for drinks, rushing next door to the bookies, encouraging their selections on the screen, questioning the parentage of jockeys, trainers and tipsters, before studying form for the next race. Justin has never placed a bet on a horse \u2013 or anything else \u2013 even in college. He wonders why he is surprised to see some faces familiar from across the office counter among the pub\u2019s clientele.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n