The Fool - Chapter Four ======================= I - His face is huge, bright red, and snarling. He is shouting and yelling and screaming and moving forward at a rapid rate. A wild fire burns in his eyes and his nostrils flare. He is incoherent with rage, cutting a determined path through the endless folds of red cloth that all at once seem to surround him on all sides. At length he comes to a clear area and stops. Across the space from him there is a throne of stone, with ram's heads carved on each corner. Upon the throne sits an old but virile man robed in red, with armoured boots and a large golden crown set with diamonds and rubies. His long flowing hair and beard are white; in his right hand is a sceptre, in his left, a globe. The younger man yells. "What the fuck? What the blithering fuck?" The old man is silent. "You look fucking ridiculous. What is all that?" Still the old man gazes forwards, impassively, in silence. The younger man begins to shake, physically, and though his jaws continue to move, no further sound comes out. "Son," says the old man, in a rich, deep voice. The younger man falls to his knees. "Get up son," says the old man. "Get up. You do not need to kneel before me." The younger man rises, dumbly, quivering. "What are we to do with you, son," says the old man, shaking his head slowly. "What are we to do with you." As he speaks he raises his sceptre and holds it level, pointing directly at the younger man. A shaft of fiery red lightning shoots from the sceptre and hits the younger man directly between the eyes. He remembers no more. II -- When I finally get to work this morning, I am late again. This is now the twelfth day in a row I have been late. I arrive to find that Baz and Joachim are nowhere to be seen, and there is a sticky note attached to my monitor. "Please ring Rochelle at the agency. Urgent. 0208-555-1234" The note is clear enough. I get some coffee, return to my seat, and dial the number. "Permatemp Services Rochelle speaking, can I help you?" she says. "Hi Rochelle, it's Adam here," I say. "Oh Adam. Hello. Thankyou for getting back to me. How are you doing?" "Well, thank you Rochelle, and how are you?" "Fine thank you Adam. Now what's this I hear about you getting in late in the mornings?" "I..." "Your data entry rate is excellent. They are very happy with you. They want to keep you on there for another few weeks. But you've got to be there at nine o'clock in the morning." "Wha..." "They've decided they only want one temp, for the moment, not three. That's why Barry and Joachim have gone. But you must get in on time. Otherwise you're letting yourself down and you're letting us down." "I do apologise," I say. "Since no-one had said anything to me about it, I thought..." "Rubbish," she says. "You know what your hours are. Nine o'clock. Now, who is it you are reporting to?" "Um..." I have absolutely no idea. There is a name written on a piece of paper somewhere at home which I have lost, but whoever it is, they weren't there on the first day and have yet to introduce themselves. "It's Peter Chapman isn't it. Now I want you to go and apologise to him for having been late, and tell him you'll be punctual from now on." There is a pause. "Ok," I say at length. "Alright." "Thank you Adam," says Rochelle briskly. "Speak to you soon." She hangs up. III --- Peter Chapman. Who is Peter Chapman? I never met the guy. But across the way from the office I have been working in is a door with a large sign on it saying 'Peter Chapman'. Through the smoked glass window I can see a shadowy figure reclining in a large swivel chair. The figure is either resting its head on its hands with both elbows raised high or is wearing a huge Ming-style wing collar, and I giggle, shifting from foot to foot, wishing that had not occurred to me. I collect my thoughts and knock on the door. "Come," says a bored voice from within. IV -- "Hi," I say. "I'm..." "Good morning," says Peter Chapman. "You must be the temp. Barry, isn't it?" "Adam." I say. "Ok. Fine. Adam." He stares at me for a moment, and I stare at him. His suit is grey, but his shirt is dark red, and his tie is black. A bulldog-like monster with huge teeth, chains and an Iron Cross grins at me from his tie, a Motorhead pin done in black pewter. "Adam. Look. We've been happy with your work. But you haven't been in on time." "I..." He looks down at a print-out. "Nine thirty, nine forty-five, nine twenty, nine thirty, nine thirty... you haven't been in on time once yet." I stare at him. "We're logging all your keystrokes, you know. So we know when you've come in by the time you start typing." My jaw drops. He smiles. "You've been doing well on the backlog, though. We're pleased with that." "Th..." I manage. "So we'll keep you in for another week, and then we'll see." "Er..." "Thank you Adam." "I..." "Thank you Adam," he says again, and turns to his computer. "Close the door please," I hear, as I close the door behind me. V - I return to my desk, fuming. Soon I am taking my anger out on the keyboard, hitting it much harder than Baz ever did, making the monitor shake from side to side and the desk itself vibrate. After a while the tips of my fingers begin to hurt, and I stop for a while. Then I remember they are logging every keystroke and I start again, trying to remember whether that is in fact legal or not, realising with a sigh that it almost certainly was, since we had had to sign some papers before this job started, on one of which we had agreed that our work could be electronically monitored at any time. Back then, Baz, Joachim and I had agreed that this was extremely unlikely to have meant they were logging everything we did. "There's no way they would be monitoring our every keystroke," Joachim had said. "How could they possibly store and use such totally pointless data? And why go to all that trouble just for us?" "Perhaps it's not just for us," Baz had said. "Perhaps they monitor all keystrokes on all machines as standard." "Yeah right," I had said. "Like a bunch of people who hire three temps to do a job a three line script could do are going to do that." "Yeah," Joachim had said. "They barely have a network here. I don't think they're monitoring our keystrokes." Baz had nodded. "Joachim, I want to believe you," he had said. VI -- The morning passes as if in a dream. No-one comes to check up on me. I head to the caff for lunch alone, and sit there alone, feeling oddly conspicuous. The eggs are particularly greasy today, and the sausage is burned to a crisp. I begin farting before I have even finished eating, and lose my appetite. I end up leaving half of it, feeling vaguely guilty. As I am returning to the office, I see Peter Chapman coming along the street towards me. He sees me coming, winks at me, and says "Hello Barry." "Adam," I say. "See you later," he says, without breaking his stride. A minute more and I am back at my desk, sucking on coffee, emitting evil farts, and staring balefully at a screenful of data. The piles of papers to work through are taller than ever before, and there is a dull throbbing at the back of my head. My stomach bubbles. It takes me a long while to get into the rhythm of typing again. I am hitting the keys erratically, making many mistakes and beginning to find the green text on the screen annoying. Can I not change it to something else? There is a tab at the top marked 'Options'. I select it. Baboom. 'Colours...' thank you. I keep the black background but make the text orange. Much better. Much less annoying. I let it all go and steam forward into the sea of data. VII --- The darkness of space is all around me. I am suddenly very calm. I seem to be able to rotate in any direction I please, and to control my speed absolutely. I come to a smooth halt and survey my surroundings. Stars blink and flicker in the depths of the darkness, too many to count. I can make out nothing that I recognise. I don't mind. It is peaceful here. I can rest. There is a sudden howling whine as something flies past me at great speed; then two more. I catch a glimse of three shining dart-like objects flying away from me at a rapid rate, they bank and turn, and then a blue flash of light heads directly for me and hits me on the shoulder. I am shaking. I open my eyes. Peter Chapman is shaking my shoulder. "Barry," he says, letting go. "Adam," I say. "No, I'm Peter Chapman," he tells me. "And I'm Adam," I reply. "Yes. Adam. Sorry. Anyway. How's it going?" "Fine," I tell him. "Yes. I know that. Your log for today is very good. 100% accurate. Carry on." He goes over to the two piles of papers, picks up the top sheet from each, looks at them, tuts, and returns them to the piles. Halfway through the door he turns abruptly, returns to the piles of papers, swaps round the sheets on the top, and leaves without saying a further word. I keep typing. VIII ---- How does he know my log is 100% accurate? It bothers me. Unless I am not the only one typing in this data. If there were two of us working on the same thing, or three, you could cross check our results and minimise the possibility of errors. Of course, if two out of the three temps made the same error, you'd have a problem, unless you already knew what the correct answer should be, in which case, why bother with the whole thing in the first place? It makes no sense. Unless, what he means by 'accurate' is something other than an indication that I have not made any errors. Perhaps it just means that Peter Chapman is not aware of my having made any errors. That would be it. Just sloppy language, nothing more. Not that any of this makes the job overall make any more sense. I decide not to let it bother me. The orange is annoying to me now. I change it back to green. Much better. I carry on typing. IX -- On my way to the bus stop I am distracted by the pub, and find Baz and Joachim in there, heavily ensconced in one corner behind a wall of empty pint glasses. "Adam," says Baz. "Alright?" say I. "We saw you go to the caff at lunchtime, mate," says Baz, "but we couldn't be arsed to move. We were already here. We'd been in the caff all morning." "Adam," says Joachim. "Hello Joachim," say I. "It's your round, Adam," says Joachim. I nod. "Guinness," says Baz. "Stella," says Joachim. "Guinness. Stella. Ok," say I. As I return with the beers, Joachim says, "So, they kept you on, did they?" "Yes they did," say I. "Strange," says Joachim. "I was faster at it than you." "How do you know?" asks Baz. "Well, it's this way. You used to get through twelve sheets a day, Baz" says Joachim. "Around that, yeah," says Baz. "Adam does about fifteen," continued Joachim. "And I was doing sixteen or seventeen. Every day. I kept count." "Maybe you weren't being so accurate," say I. "Maybe not." Joachim makes a strange face and smiles. "I was very bored. So I don't care. Anyway, tomorrow I have an interview for a proper job. And the agency says there is a new data entry job starting Monday, paying 50p an hour more." "There is?" says Baz. "There is. Only for one, though," says Joachim. "Did they not tell you anything?" "They said they'd get back to me," says Baz. "Good luck," says Joachim. "Remember, you must call them every day until they tell you not to." X - Having intended to have no more than a quick pint then head for home, I naturally end up staying in the pub for far longer than that, and get pretty pissed. As we are leaving, a fight breaks out between two large blokes standing in the area in front of the doorway. They are pushing one another, yelling in each others faces, nose to nose, breathing heavily. Joachim tries to break it up, holding his arms widely apart as if to embrace them both and saying "Guys guys," but before either one even notices him, two even more burly men have appeared, one from behind the bar, one from in front. Each one grabs one of the fighting men, and swivels them round; then one by one they are shoved roughly out of the doorway. The taller of the two bouncers stands in the doorway and leans forward. "You two can fuck off," he yells into the night. "And don't come back." He turns back to face Joachim, Baz and myself, who are standing stuck in the doorway behind him. "Goodnight sirs," he says. "Safe journeys." We leave.