The Crooked Bullet. Rotimi Ogunjobi

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ It was an open-plan office containing ten cubicles on either side of a central aisle. A conference room, as well as the office of the proprietor Spencer Cowley, was at the far end. Frank slipped in quietly, said a quick hello to Fernandez with whom he shared a cubicle. Frank had barely sat down at his desk when Spencer Cowley breezed by. He is a burly man with fat jowls and a booming voice

       “Could you come with me for a little chat Frank,” he said, without a pause in his steps and without looking in his direction. Frank noted that nobody was looking in his direction either. The greetings this morning had been quite lukewarm all around - something heavy definitely seemed expected.

      Frank found Spencer in the small conference room at the end of the corridor which ran the entire length of the office. Everyone remembered the room as the place where major negotiations were made: such as hiring, promotion, ass-kicking, and firing. Spencer was smoking a cigar when Frank came in, and Frank felt an irresponsible urge to point to the No Smoking sign on the wall. An irresponsible urge because here at the East End Mirror, Spencer Cowley, owner, Chief Executive, and Chief Editor was the law.

       “Good morning Spencer. Sorry I was late. I wasn’t feeling well this morning when I woke up”, Frank apologized.

       “Oh, of course, yes, and I guess I am the cause of it, isn’t that right? Especially as this happens so frequently. Frank, what do you think this place is about?” Spencer didn’t sound amused.

       Frank grimaced. He had a very bad headache which was presently being exacerbated by Spencer’s loud voice. He looked away into the clear glass tabletop and doodled nervously on it with a finger.

      “Frank, do you honestly think this newspaper is a joke?” Spencer asked, puffing violently on his cigar like a mad marijuana fiend. Frank thought this a trick question and safely kept quiet. Besides, his head hurt like hell.

      “Let me put it another way, Frank, do you honestly enjoy working here?”

      Against common sense, Frank this time around had an irresponsible impression that Spencer genuinely had his best interest at heart; like your anxious mother hassling you for spending the whole night out at a party. Frank looked away into the clear glass table and doodled nervously on the top with a finger.

      “No I don’t enjoy working here, Spencer”, he truthfully replied; and this did somehow make him feel good.

      “So why don’t you be man enough about it then and quit?” Spencer said to him, and this made Frank feel bad.

      “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to say that” Frank apologized. Too late though; he found Spencer looking into his eyes with contrived pity, slowly and very sadly shaking his head.

      “I’m sorry I’ve got to let you go Frank”, Spencer said to him; and this made Frank feel a lot worse. He tried to feel man enough about it nevertheless.

      “Don’t I get any kind of notice?”

      “Your contract entitles you to one month's notice Frank, but never mind. I have signed you a check for the next month, and you can leave today”, Spencer told him, offering a sweaty handshake.

      “If you need references, I will be pleased to give you some. I’ve already given Ellen a check for you, and you may collect it immediately. Good luck Frank”.

      Frank returned to his desk and silently began to empty the drawers. The entire office seemed unusually quiet and busy around him. He felt angry with them all, with Spencer Cowley and most of all with himself for handing Spencer the perfect excuse to throw him out, right on a golden platter. It hadn’t been a great job, but it paid the bills. Ellen came around a few minutes later with his check.

      “He’s in a hellish mood today, innit?” She commiserated.

      “Yeah, well it’s got to happen one day; and I guess the sooner, the better,” Frank puts up his brave front.

       Fernandez came over, cautiously.

       “Wat happened over there Frank?” he worriedly asked.

       “Just lost my job. I guess you will be doing the crime watch circuit all by yourself for a while unless Spencer has found a replacement for me yet.” Frank wheezed.

       “That’s awful. What are you going to do now Frank?” Fernandez sounded genuinely concerned.

       “I don’t know yet. You never plan to lose your job, I believe, or do you? I’ll get by somehow, I am sure.” Frank shrugged his shoulders.

      “I’m happy you can think like that. It’s all really no more than just a job, see? Just hang on to that truth and you won’t feel so bad anymore” Ellen advised.

      “Thanks, Ellen,” Frank said to her and signed the voucher for his check.

      “Good luck Frank, we’re going to miss you” Ellen shook his hand

       “Going to really miss you, Bro. I know we didn’t get along so well on some issues, but I really think you are a great guy. Namaste.” Fernandez also emotionally took his hand.

       Frank emptied much of the contents of his desk into the bin. They were mostly half-written stories that were long dead. This completed, he left the office of East End Mirror, giving one last tired salute at the door, and his few prized possessions in a little box under his arm. Spencer Cowley standing menacingly in the middle of the news office returned the salute.

       Frank caught a bus home from Shoreditch to Hackney Central, looking pensively out of the window all through the journey. At Hackney Central, he bought some fruits from a stall and walked to his flat which was about two hundred yards away.

      It was still just around midday. He found it strange and a really confusing experience to be home at this time of the day.

       Frank put the fruits in the fridge, took out a can of Guinness, and lay on the sofa to watch MTV. The Ex-Man’s newly released video was still getting prime-time play treatment. Every time he heard the song, he always got this feeling that he knew the voice even though it had been passed through a synthesizer. But then a lot of rap often sounded quite like the same, unless you were doing it in some patent way like Snoop Dogg or even like Grandmaster Flash, who he very much thought was the boss. Frank soon drifted off to sleep.

      There were three missed calls on his phone when he woke up. He dialed his voice mail. There was one message from Trevor:

      “How are you doing, Frankie? You did have quite a skinful last night, didn’t you? Talk later” [click]. The second message brought him fully awake.

      “Hi Frankie, it’s me Nancy. You’ll call me back, will you? [Click]”. No, he wouldn’t. Nancy Hughes was an old flame, who had house stepped on her foot three weeks ago at a rave party. Life had a way of working funny new habits into lonely people’s lives because as much as Frank had ever known, Nancy was chronically agoraphobic and would rather watch a golf game on television than from the middle of a mile wide green. That was how shocked he had been to find Nancy at a rave, where six dozen lunatics were getting smashed on cheap booze and screaming above the deafening music.

      The third was from his mum in Manchester, wanting to make sure that he was still wearing clothes and not walking around naked in the night like all those hooligans. Now, Frank knew this was an important message, and if he didn’t reply to his mum’s call, she would probably come СКАЧАТЬ