At the Edge of the Game (5 page)

Dexter ran
his hand over the dulled fuselage at the top of the boarding steps.

‘The ship
has taken quite a beating. The things we’ve seen, the dangers we faced. See
here? Pockmarks from icy debris far out in the dark interstellar spaces. We hit
it approaching a wandering dwarf planet. Despite the dark and the cold, it had
life on it. Small crusty things that metabolised the organics-rich ice. They
were eating the planet bit by bit, reducing it, sustaining the thin atmosphere
with their own warmth. We tried to land, but something broke through the ice,
something with brittle tendrils that snapped when they touched the ship.’

‘I saw
something similar myself, but on a much warmer world, orbiting a giant, about
three Jupiter masses. Organics-rich slush full of wriggling things that burst
apart under the force of the engines as I hovered.’

‘But no
intelligence anywhere. Not the slightest evidence.’

‘No, not for
me either.’

‘Except for…
once we detected another craft. We were exploring a system about 100 light
years away. We curved in close to the star to refuel, saw another ship boost
away as we arrived. It was more advanced than ours, much faster and lighter. We
tried to radio it but it would not respond. It left the system towards the
galactic centre.’

‘Definitely
human?’

‘Impossible
to be totally sure. It did look human though, if you know what I mean.’

‘Are there
any images of it?’

‘Yes…’ he
said, as though I had spoken out of turn.

I kept
talking. ‘I never saw any other craft in all the time I was out there. That was
more or less the way I wanted it.’

Dexter
looked at me. ‘Does it displease you that we have broken your solitude?’

I considered
several ways to answer this.

He croaked.
A sound I took to be a laugh. Certainly, I never after heard him emit any sound
more like a laugh. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I see in you, well, more than you
probably want me to see. You like to hold back, don’t you, but you achieve the
opposite in doing so.’

This was a
man who had not seen another human being in decades, apart from his wife.

‘What do you
see?’ I ask him.

‘What?’

‘What sort
of man am I?’

Did I
frighten him in my fervour? I really wanted to know what he saw in me. He
looked away, down the beach, towards the far headland and the fadings of the
coast beyond.

‘A beautiful
world,’ he said, quietly. ‘Such beauty.’ Then his voice regained its vigour. ‘I
must get my wife outside. This intoxicating richness and vitality, it’s just
what she needs. You said you would help me.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then let’s
go and get her.’

I've found that
free time is no good, because it’s never really free. Rather, the time is free,
but the brain prevents you from feeling free. Always in the back of your mind
you are niggled by the knowledge that you have to find work, and soon. Making
use of the plentiful available hours is all very well, but there’s a background
radiation of guilt that induces lethargy, disillusionment, stupor. Gilded cage,
gelded rage, I wrote a while ago in my notebook of ideas, believing that I had
encapsulated this state in four neat words. I tried to find some way of working
this exceptional bon mot into my graphic novel, my labours on which had
initially coursed along gratifyingly after Boehm-Adler propelled me dolewards.
But every attempt failed, and after much pondering I perceived that the reason
for this was that gilded cage, gelded rage is in fact rubbish. This set off a
mental chain reaction, and a few consequent thoughts later I became quagmired
in the crisis of confidence that afflicts me still. The stacks of pages in this
box room seem now to be fantasist folly worthy only of the dump, the rotten
fruit of so much misguided effort. With all the free time I ever longed for, I
might be achieving creative breakthroughs to elevate myself into the ranks of
the comfortably fulfilled, but instead of that this dumb torpor ensures that
every hour of every idle day is spent on the actions of a lazy, woolly-headed,
talentless ne’er-do-well. Which is what I am. There’s no evidence to the
contrary.

Or is there? Now
that I think again, to flick through these pages at random is to see that maybe
not all is meritless. Impossible for me to be objective about my own work, but
some of this art is actually good. Not world-class, but well-rendered. I don’t
think any amount of criticism would convince me otherwise. I’ve nailed some of
these things, like the aurochs in stampede. It’s dynamic and full of character.
And the Neanderthal faces too. I mean, who knows what they really looked like,
but I think I have managed to achieve a good balance between scientific
accuracy and the requirements of storytelling. These Neanderthals are soulful,
melancholy, noble. Or brutish and evil, as plot-points here and there demand.
The world I’ve created may not be original, as such, but it is from a reasonably
fresh angle. Some new permutations of old tricks. The dialogue… well, bits of
that are regrettable, and it requires heavy editing. Helen won’t be a sounding
board for me any more. Will have to seek out some willing friend to take a look
at the newer material, try to get some ideas and perspectives bounced back at
me. That might get the whole thing going again.

But it’s cold
these days, some days cold enough that, with our inadequate capacity to heat
this house, I can’t work at the desk without gloves for my numbed fingers. Not
an ideal way to produce artwork. Another excuse not to buckle down. Outside a
spiteful wind swipes at stray bits of rubbish. A girl in heavy coat and a long
skirt squints against whipped-up grit as she slants along the puddled footpath.
A scene from any typical Irish November, and yet… The problem is that these
conditions are no longer the climatic steady state. People say heartily that at
last we’ve got our weather back, but it’s not really true. Everyone knows this
is just a transition from cruel summer to crueller winter. It doesn't really
feel the same at all. Impossible to pin down exactly what's different to the
old days, but something's definitely not quite right.

The phone is
ringing. No interest in answering it. But Helen doesn't come out of the sitting
room as I hoped she might. She's still napping on the sofa, or just lazy. I go
downstairs, glare at the insistent thing.

‘George Holden,
please.’ A terse woman's voice.

‘Yes, that's me.’

‘This is Amanda
at the Peoplefirst Temping Agency. We have a Dublin West mailroom position that
would suit you. Do you want it?’

‘Oh. Ah. Yes,’ I
stumble.

‘There are some
forms you need to fill out in the office. We need you down here as soon as
possible.’

I look at the
closed door of the sitting room, behind which Helen may be listening. ‘All
right. I'll be there first thing in the morning.’

Electrically
attenuated exasperation comes through the earpiece. ‘You get over here right
now if you want the job. I'm ringing other people too, you know. First one here
gets it.’ The line goes dead.

Here's the
gelded rage back with a vengeance. What might I have said if she hadn't hung
up? ‘Fuck off,’ would be topmost of all options, in a world where injustice and
evil could be properly combatted without repercussions. What'll I do...? I'll
just go, not tell her now. She'll take all the good out of it by giving me
orders. A fait accompli presented later on will garner brownie points.

Grab my coat off
the hanger. Seeing myself in the dusty mirror somehow brings clarity, sparks a
greater sense of urgency. Rush out to the garden shed. I've not rode the bike
in about two years. Chain's almost solidified with rust, and the bike has
virtually merged with the items of assorted junk against which it leans. I yank
it out into the unaccustomed daylight, give it a quick look over. Tyres soft
but not flat. Brakes partially functional. It'll do.

Against the
headwind I get three, maybe four knots out of the obstinate, squawking,
rattling contraption, this bastard of a machine. Lungs aching already in the
cold. Bobbing over the potholed surface I overtake the long-skirted girl in
Ranelagh village, reach the crest of the incline, discover that, such is the
friction inherent in the bike, it won't freewheel down the other side. So a
cursed eternity later I'm over the canal, violating the one-way system at the
Odeon, passing Stephen's Green, dodging down hushed side-streets, skirting a
bleak midweek Temple Bar. Over the brimming autumnal Liffey, finally to the
badlands around Talbot Street. The denizens of these parts are coarse of face
and of word. They know who is of their sort and who isn't, and I get the look
of the outsider as I weave past huddled congregations. For some reason
Peoplefirst Temp Agency has not moved away from the area, despite all the
trouble and all the hassle being here must surely attract.

I can see a
bloke in a combat jacket rushing up the road from the opposite end. Instinct
kicks in. Leaning into the bike for leverage I squeeze every bit of momentum I can
out of it, get to the door of the office before him, get myself buzzed in.

‘Shite!’ says
yer man, still yards away.

‘You are...’
says the woman at reception with sufficient derision to make me wonder if she's
Amanda. But no, she isn't. Name tag says Majella. Yer man starts pressing the
buzzer, knocking on the window. She pays him no regard at all.

‘George Holden.’

‘Holden.’ She
picks up her phone, murmurs into it, tells me to go through to the main office.
Going through, I spot yer man atop my bike, lofting a long finger as he wheels
away up the street.

A big fat
African man named Arthur bids me sit without deigning to actually look at me. I
take a seat in front of his desk. He pushes a form and pen towards me. ‘Name,
PPS, spouse name, spouse PPS, bank, etcetera.’

‘Right.’ His
drumming fingers are most distracting as I work through the form, trying to do
it quickly so he won't think I'm an illiterate who can't hold down steady work.

‘Okay...’ He
scans down through what I have written, seems pleased by it. Finally looks me
in the eye. ‘Good man yourself.’ You-ah-self, he says in that African way.

He puts a
photocopied road map on the desk between us. ‘You know west Dublin at all, my
friend?’

‘A bit.’

‘So here is the
place, you see? The company is called Avatan. You heard of them? Very large
drug plant, with many departments - manufacturing, research, admin, legal,
etcetera. Great need for exchange of physical paper documents. Not e-mail and
SMS and such.’ He makes a dismissive gesture, finding the thought of vulgar
electronic communications distasteful. ‘Huge amount of post also arrives from
outside every day. Need for a large Operations department, with well-staffed
mailroom arm. Avatan are our best client by far, my friend. Keep me fat.’

No idea how to respond
to this.

‘Naas Road. Bus
stops here, if you lack a car. Walk to here, around here, in here. 7AM tomorrow
morning. ‘

‘Seven. Right.’

‘You understand
how the system works, my friend? I think you are new to temping?’

‘I think I
understand.’ Not sure what he's driving at.

‘Here it is. You
have one hour, maybe two, to impress the boss lady. Her name is Candy. Ask for
Candy McThomas at reception.’

Candy McThomas.
No woman with a name like that will have any time for me.

‘Listen, and
learn quick. Mailroom is a busy job. You work non-stop. There are rest breaks,
when the load is light. Never unless, understand? She sees you stop, you're
gone. Most men we send, they make it to lunchtime, maybe, then they are sent
home. Paid for half a day, and then back to the dole queue. This is good work
if you can impress her. That's very important.’

‘Okay, I get
you.’

‘Do you? Okay,
take this map away. Don't forget, 7AM. It would make sense to be there early.
Say 645.’

‘Okay.’ I get up
to leave.

‘Oh’ he says. ‘One
other thing. Come over here.’

I follow him to
the corner of the room. ‘Lift that up.’

I lift up a box
of photocopier paper.

‘Good. You can
lift 15kg. You are physically capacitated for mailroom work.’

He shakes my
hand, leads me back to the desk, where I pick up my jacket. ‘Good luck, my
friend. I think you will do well. I don’t say that to many people.’

‘Thank you.’

As I turn the
handle of the door that leads back to reception, he says: ‘Are you going to
leave without asking?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Are you
interested in how much the job pays?’

‘Oh, well, I
assumed it’s minimum wage.’ Can it possibly be higher? I scan his slight smirk.

He leans back in
his chair, sighs. ‘Yes. I can confirm that in this you are correct.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

‘Again, goodbye
and good luck’