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 Many of its contracts are in imminent danger of being withdrawn.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.
How happy it makes him to see her arrive every morning. To see her take off her coat. To hear her husky voice. To see her blush. To sit next to her, listening in on her calls, making helpful suggestions. To defend her from Lawrence, and make sure that she continues to receive her stipend of a hundred pounds a week long after it should have been stopped … He has become increasingly aware of some people sitting at a table near his own. There are four or five of them, young, all in dark blue or black office clothes. He has noticed in particular the way that the two of them not facing him occasionally turn, smiling mirthfully. Once, his eyes met the aquamarine eyes of a very blond, white-skinned young man. Once there was muffled laughter. These things are making him unpleasantly self-conscious. And for the last hour and a half he has been sitting there without even a newspaper to hide his solitude. He has even, it occurs to him, been muttering to himself. He starts to work through his pint hurriedly, in big cold gulps, telling himself that he is being paranoid, that their laughter probably has nothing to do with him. He is unpersuaded by this, however, and when the blond boy stands up and starts to walk towards him — it is obvious that the others are watching — he is painfully unsurprised. Stiff-necked, holding his pint, he waits. The blond boy is very tall and thin, probably in his early twenties, with a bony face and pale eyes. He looks Nordic. He has an unlit cigarette in his hand, and is smiling. ‘Sorry, have you got a light?’ he says. The flimsiness of this pretext is underlined by the fact that one of his friends is actually lighting a cigarette at that moment. Nevertheless, Paul says, ‘Yeah, sure,’ and hands him his lighter. When he has lit the cigarette, the young man stays standing there loosely for a second. Then he says, ‘Do you work round here?’ He is still smiling, and there is something insolent about this question, put under the laughing eyes of his friends. ‘Yes, I do,’ Paul says.
‘What do you do?’ the young man asks immediately.
Fuck off, Paul feels like saying. However, in a hoarse voice, he says, ‘Media sales.’
‘Ah,’ says the young man.
‘What do you do?’
‘Media, what sort of media?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Just curious.’
When he sees that Paul is not going to volunteer anything further, is in fact staring furiously at him, the young man says, ‘Do you live near here?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Said with such obvious impatience that the young man’s smile wavers for a moment. Then he says, ‘Thanks for the light.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘See you.’
Paul just nods, and the young man returns to his table. When he sits down, there is an unnatural lull in the conversation — though in low voices they are talking — then loud laughter, which suddenly stops with an emphatic ‘Shh!’
Slowly Paul finishes his pint. He will not let them force him out. He feels, though, as if the whole pub, having witnessed the short exchange, is turning away from him to hide its knowing smirk. People seem to look at him slyly. Time itself seems to have slowed. When, at last, he has finished, he stands unsteadily and leaves. Outside in the wind, poised to walk down to Blackfriars, he pauses. The prospect of the train journey seems unusually onerous, and he turns and starts to walk down Fleet Street. He is heading for ‘Dr Johnson’s’, the quiet little courtyard where the erudite doctor lived, and where, in the Northwood days, they would smoke their spliffs in the white depths of the afternoon. Now, in the tousled darkness, he stands next to Hodge’s memorial, skinning up. There is no one around. No one at all. The elegant Georgian houses are all solicitors’ offices and barristers’ sets, and the whole area is empty in the evening. He is still smarting painfully from the incident in the King Lud. A strange misery fell on him when the Nordic young man, with his insolent tipsy smile, started to question him, a misery which will not be shaken off. He does not know why it made such an impact on him. He lights the spliff. The first inhalation triggers a volley of flinty coughing, doubling him over, squeezing water from his eyes. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he mutters, when he is finally able to. He fiddles with his lighter. Smoking the spliff makes him feel unpleasantly light — even a bit queasy — and he throws it away unfinished.