Love, Hate, and Accounting
Chapter 1
In which we are introduced to Matthew Williams, Alfred Jones, and their less refined coworker-turned-drinking-buddy, Gilbert.
"So, did you hear about Craig?"
"Hmm?" Matthew Williams glanced up from his computer, quickly minimizing the Tetris game flashing in an open window and turning to face his co-worker. Fresh out of university, eighty thousand dollars lighter with nothing but a degree in economics to show for it, he had been thrust into the world of business just in time for the market crash. Fucking perfect.
The one perk for which he could credit his university experience was meeting his best friend, Alfred Jones, aka 'that overly-happy looking blonde kid who annoys the crap out of the old British guy one cubicle over'. The two had met at a party in first year. Or rather, Alfred had discovered Matthew, streaked with blue paint and reeking of less-than-legal substances, flopped limply over an unknown student's bathtub. Matthew, being French Canadian (and, though he was loathe to admit it, a bit of a hipster), had wavy blonde hair that reached just past his chin, and Alfred had taken this to be a sure sign that Matthew was in fact, a girl.
So, being a little (read: incredibly) drunk, Alfred had taken it upon himself to rescue the damsel in distress. (Who, in reality, was sleeping peacefully in the bathtub, unaware of both the drunken student leaning over him, and the impending hangover that would slam into him like a freight train upon his awakening.) Alfred dragged Matthew to his dorm and placed his limp body on the bed before passing out on the floor. It was only the next day, when both boys had woken with fragmented memories of the past night, that Alfred discovered that Matthew was in fact, male. It had been a slight disappointment, but Alfred had never been one to dwell on things, and had taken it upon himself to make the best of the situation.
Five years later, the two were inseparable.
"No, sorry. Who's Craig?" Matthew asked, turning his attention back to his computer, absently fiddling with the mouse and debating the merits of continuing his game to tetris. He didn't really want to be perceived as lazy during his first month of employment, but then again, it wasn't like his co-worker would really care.
"Oh, right, I keep forgetting you've only been here for a few weeks. Time flies and all that shit," chuckled Gilbert Beschmilt, the co-worker in question.
Matt snorted, flicking a pencil in Gilbert's direction. "I agree. Spending 10 hours a day slaving over a computer, doing pointless work for pointless people and never getting any appreciation for the time I've wasted has made me realize just how valuable a business degree really is. I'm really glad I spend a fuckload of money to get here."
"So much hate for such a small guy. You're going to grow up to be one of those serial killers, you know? It's like they say, the quiet ones are the guys to watch out for."
"Suck it, princess," Matt growled, smacking Gilbert and turning his attention back to his computer, his eyes skimming over the pile of papers spread across his desk. He'd get to those later.
"Easy there," Gilbert whined, holding his arm. "You know I bruise easily." Gilbert prodded at the blossoming red mark contrasting with his freakishly pale skin. He was a genetic albino, complete with white hair, red eyes, and paper-white skin that was a source of eternal amusement for his friend. When he and Matt first met, Matt had gone to elaborate methods just to see just how easily the albino's skin would burn if exposed to the sunlight, having been partially convinced by a shady website that albinos were descendants of vampires. Gilbert had woken up the next morning in an unknown bed, hung over and suffering from frostbite on one arm and first degree burns on the other. It was only when Matt had stumbled into the room, equally hung over, and apologized profusely that Gilbert learned what had happened. After 24 hours of being waited on hand and foot by an anxious Canadian, Gilbert was ready to forgive him. That and, Matt had used the defense of intoxication to form a rather compelling argument as to why he shouldn't be beaten and left to die in a gutter. And so, a friendship was formed.
Gilbert's attention was drawn back to the present as he registered another slap cracking along his arm. Matthew smirked. "Was there a point to your interruption, or were you just fucking around, as usual?" Matthew asked, spinning in his chair idly.
"Whatever, it's not like you were doing anything anyway," Gilbert snapped, ignoring Matt's sputtering protest, "And yes, there is a point to this. I'm surprised you haven't heard of Craig. I thought you would have met him by now; he usually goes out of his way to flaunt his superiority over the less fortunate dregs of the corporate system."
"Well, that's capitalism for you," remarked Matt, re-opening his tertis game and cursing under his breath when a mountain of coloured blocks filled the screen.
"True that," Gilbert remarked, wheeling his chair next to Matt's. "Man, you suck at that game."
"Not nearly as hard as you. Anyway, you had news about Craig?"
"Right. Well, he's a real asshole. Like, he sends his intern out every lunch to get Starbucks just so he can come back later, order a different cup, and sit down with the other pretentious assholes on their Macs and discuss slam poetry."
"What do you know about slam poetry?" Matt joked, closing his game and bringing up an excel document as three knocks sounded on the wall of their cubicle.
"Scott's coming, by the way." He rolled his eyes as Gilbert returned to his side of the cubicle and pretended to sift through paperwork. A few seconds later, a man in a pressed black suit strode by, stopping briefly to and confirm that Matt and Gilbert were indeed working before continuing on his way.
As soon as he left, Gilbert stuck his head outside the thin wall of their cubicle. He watched as the retreating figure stepped through a set of double doors –shoving an intern to the side as he did so- and disappeared from sight.
"Ok," sighed Gilbert, "About Craig. He's dead."
"What?" Matt exclaimed, eyes darting about the cubicle as though Craig's ghost had nothing better to do than listen in on their conversations. (Which, to be fair, maybe it didn't.)
"Yeah. They found the body sometime over the weekend. Accounting's in a real mess; apparently he encrypted all his files."
"Is that all you're concerned about?" Matt asked, staring at his friend in horror.
"Well," Gilbert mused, lowering his voice and leaning in conspiratorially, "I don't know about you, but I find it kind of suspicious. I mean, he sure as hell didn't die of natural causes. And if something public happened, we would have heard about it one way or another. Maybe not from the people stuck here," he snorted disdainfully, "but certainly in a memo or something."
"So they didn't announce his death," Matt replied, rolling his eyes. "Plenty of people want to keep things private. No sense playing into the blood sport of modern media."
"Think Matt. This was no ordinary guy. If Craig had any idea he was going to die, he'd make it so that nobody living in the same city would forget him for a long, long, time. At the very least, he would have taken out a full-page ad in the newspaper. So why haven't we heard anything?"
"I don't think he'd go that far, but I guess you have a point. Congrats princess, you've convinced me that his death was slightly abnormal. So what do you think happened?"
"Nobody knows. But if I had to guess, I'd say it was murder."
Matthew sucked in a breath. "That's a dangerous accusation."
"Well, it seems like the only possible option."
"Still, you shouldn't just say things like that. What if there's an investigation? What if you're suspected because someone overheard? What if," he growled, voice rising angrily, "they take you in and then come after me because they think I'm somehow associated with you?"
"Well," Gilbert interrupted, "They're right on that last point. You are my co-worker. I have to put up with you for 9 hours a day. From a cop's perspective, that's plenty of time for me to slowly convince you to join me in my quest for vengeance." At this, he spread his arms dramatically, cackling like a maniac.
Matthew shoved him roughly on the shoulder, sending him toppling sideways in his chair into a filing cabinet. "Shut up, asshole. I'm just using some common sense, since you seem to have none."
"Yo, Matt, Gilbert. You bros up for lunch?"
Matthew and Gilbert both looked up, nodding at the sunny blonde who stood in the entrance to their cubicle.
Gilbert sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Nah man, I have a report due tomorrow and I haven't even started. Much as I'd love to get out of here, I think I'm stuck for at least another five hours."
"Sorry to hear it," Alfred replied, grinning apologetically. "Matt?"
"Hell yeah. Anything to get away from this loser." Shrugging on his jacket and wincing as Gilbert slapped his ass, Matthew flounced out of the cubicle.
"See you in a hour," he called, winking at Gilbert before disappearing down the long row of cubicles leading toward the exit.
"He alright?" Alfred asked, gesturing in the direction Matthew had left.
"Yeah, poor muffin's just anxious with the news about Craig."
"You heard too? Well, I guess it's not that surprising. The news has probably spread through the whole building by this point."
"So what do you think about it?
"I think I should catch up to Matt before he gets too pissed. He's my ride home."
"You're so responsible."
"I know!" Alfred beamed, sending Gilbert an Oscar worthy smile.
"You're killing me." Gilbert responded flatly, turning back to his computer.
Alfred laughed before heading off in search of Matthew, finally finding the blonde man sitting in his car and listening to sports radio.
"So what's up?" he asked, sliding into the passenger seat, turning down the radio as he did so.
"I don't know what you mean," Matthew replied, staring moodily out the window.
"You were more of a prick than usual, and I mean, you were talking to Gilbert, and that would be enough to piss anyone off-" Matthew chuckled quietly at this, "-But I mean, you're usually more patient than that." Alfred paused, waiting for an answer and signing when none came forward. He'd been friends with Matthew for a long time, and although he was loathe to admit it, he was beginning to really care for the little train wreck that humanity had presented to him that fateful evening in first year. He was even getting used to his hipster-talk, as Alfred affectionately called it, and weird taste in TV shows.
Alfred grew up in the Southern United States on his aunt's farm. He was considered to be the typical all-American boy, with his short blonde hair, sky blue eyes and passion for football. His aunt lived on an orange plantation, and everyday Alfred had gone out into the orchards after school to play baseball with the workers. (Some of whom, he would guiltily admit, weren't exactly legal residents and therefore didn't receive the proper thanks that they deserved.)
Still, he had an ideal childhood by most people's standards, which was why it had come as such as surprise when he announced that he would be going to university in Canada. His aunt hadn't received the news very well at first, but after several months of coercion, (and quite a bit of flat-begging), she had allowed him to go, and agreed to pay for half of his tuition.
And so, he had arrived in Ontario that August with his head filled with dreams and his bags filled with smuggled Florida oranges.
Of course, many of those dreams quickly changed after the first few weeks at school. Instead of studying every night, as he had promised his aunt, he found himself partying with the other first year boys. And although he didn't get the perfect average that he wanted, his grades didn't suffer too badly, and managed to graduate with passable grades in all his courses.
"Besides," Matthew had reasoned the night before graduation, "It's not like anyone cares what marks you had, as long as you have a degree. Bonus points if that degree is printed on expensive paper. They'll care more about that than what degree you have."
That advice had proved to be true, and Alfred now found himself working at the same company as Matthew, though the American was decidedly happier about it.
"I heard Craig died." Matthew finally muttered, bringing Alfred's attention back to the present. Matthew glanced in his direction, gauging the American's reaction as he started the engine and reversed out of the parking space.
"Oh yeah, Arthur said something about that this morning," Alfred replied, completely ignoring his friend's sulking. "I wonder what happened. Everyone seems to be coming up with their own version of the incident."
"Yeah, I know. Gilbert thought it would be fun to blurt his theory out where anyone could hear."
"Well, that's Gilbert for you," Alfred chuckled. "Seriously though, don't worry about it. Nobody takes him seriously."
"But he was talking about murder!" Matthew exclaimed, slamming his hands on the steering wheel exasperatedly.
Alfred stilled. "Really? Murder? I mean, other people have brought up the idea that it might he might not have gone out because of good ol' natural causes, but they've never outright…" he trailed off, glancing back at the Canadian.
"Yeah. Murder. And that's not the worst part. I think he could be right."
"How so? Alfred was cautious, cool eyes scanning the parking lot as they pulled into Tim Horton's. It sounded stupid, but the very mention of murder was enough to put him on edge.
Matthew seemed to tap into his nervousness as he pulled into a vacant spot –the only one left, coincidentally. Smirking lightly and cheering internally at the victory, Matthew gave Alfred a pat on the thigh. Really, it was more like a slap. "Don't sweat it. I'm overreacting. Gilbert just makes me want to smack him sometimes."
"Yeah," Alfred nervously chuckled, exiting the car and beginning the frigid trudge through the icy parking lot. Matthew jogged ahead, grinning at the fluffy snowflakes blowing off the roof and sprinkling the cars below. Pulling a pair of gloves from his pocket, Matthew scooped a handful of snow from its resting place atop some single, childless woman's minivan. He chuckled darkly as Alfred caught on to his plan a second too late, and rushing forward, he stuffed the snowball down his friend's jacket.
"Holy shit that's cold!" Alfred exclaimed, swiping another handful off of a bright purple Honda. "You'll pay for that, Williams."
The two proceeded to shove show down each other's coats in a heated battle of will. Alfred, already cold and visibly shaking, rushed at Matthew with an armful of snow, throwing it up in the air and grabbing the Canadian by the shoulder. Matthew, realizing what was about to happen, thrashed in the American's grasp in a desperate bid for freedom before Alfred shoved him into a large mound of snow perched atop a bright blue smart car. The Canadian returned the favour not thirty seconds later, as he slid off the car and sprinted toward the Tim Horton's, shutting the clear glass door firmly behind him and refusing to let Alfred in the building. It was only after he received a stern warning from an agitated cashier that Matthew finally opened the door, laughing as Alfred stumbled into the building.
"No fair," Alfred whined, dusting snow from his jacket and sneezing. "You have home-field advantage."
"You've been here for four and a half years, you dork," Matthew called, already joining one of the three large lines leading to frazzled-looking cashiers.
"I still say you have an advantage," Alfred muttered, coming to stand beside his Canadian counterpart.
Matthew laughed, brushing a lingering clump of snow from Alfred's hair. "You'll live. What are you getting?"
"Coffee, doughnut, sandwich," he replied, glaring haughtily, "And soup. I need to treat myself for hypothermia somehow."
"So get better at snowball fights and you won't have that problem anymore. Well, actually, you still will, because let's face it; there's no way you're going to beat me anytime soon."
"Just you wait, Williams," Alfred cackled, rubbing his hands together menacingly. (Not because he was cold, there was no way he was showing weakness like that.) You'll get what's coming to you. You'll see," he raised his voice in mock proclamation, "You'll all see!"
"Whatever, princess."
"What's that quote from anyway?"
"No clue."
"So you just said it to be dramatic without knowing what the hell you were talking about? Real classy, princess. You're like a budding preteen hipster who just got Facebook."
"I'm a 12year-old girl who does nothing but post Facebook statuses about Beiber and how his music's really deep?"
"Yep."
"Harsh, man. That was uncalled for. Besides, you must read my statuses to know what they're about."
"Touché."
"I hate it when you speak French," Alfred pouted, ducking when Matthew moved to smack him.
"It kind of makes me wonder though," Matthew commented, picking up his own soup and sandwich and laughing as Alfred struggled to balance his own.
"What does?" Alfred replied, half-groaning the words through the spoon he balanced between his teeth.
"The whole business with Craig. I mean, I hate to admit it, but Gilbert may have a point. It is kind of odd how nobody knows what happened."
"Matt," Alfred groaned, dropping his spoon onto the table with a clatter, "Don't worry about it. I'm sure we'll find out eventually. Things are still in their early stages, and they probably haven't finished typing up a notice yet. Just enjoy your lunch."
"Alright," Matthew conceded. "What are you doing after work tonight?"
"Not much. I think I'm going out for a drink with Gary."
"The accounting kid?"
"Yeah," Alfred replied. "Why?"
"I'm just a little surprised," Matthew smiled. "I mean, I see him by the water cooler sometimes, and he just seems really high strung. Like, addicted to his work. I think he was in tears when someone found an error in the general ledger last week. My point is, he's not exactly your type."
"What are you implying?"
"Exactly what you think I'm implying. You're not good with high-strung workaholics."
"But-" Alfred whined,
"All the same," Matthew continued, ignoring Alfred's feeble protests, "I think it's good that you're making friends. Have a fun night out, princess."
"I will, thank you. Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky and you'll have to find another place to stay for the night."
"Oh," Matthew grinned. "So it's that kind of drink."
"You ass." Alfred groaned, burying his face in his hands. "You know I meant, you're just upset because you haven't had gotten any in months."
"Low blow Jones," Matthew muttered. "Low blow. And I'd like to point out that you're in the same boat as I am at the moment."
"But My luck could change at any time," Alfred grinned, flicking Matthew on the nose.
"Somehow I don't think you're going to be out that long," Matthew commented dryly.
"You're probably right," Alfred sighed. "With Gary as my wingman, I'm going to be taking another cold shower tonight."
"You're gross," Matthew muttered.
"So I'll see you at home then?" Alfred grinned.
"Yeah, yeah, my heart will yearn for your return, princess."