Another Day At The Grindstone
Dry, cool, artificial air blasted out from the aluminium air vents - filling the windowless, low ceilinged room with a soft, constant drone. The drone, however, was more or less lost in the background amidst the melee of loud, mixed chitter chatter that echoed throughout the cramped works cafeteria. The stark white lighting emanating from the plastic coated, energy saving light bulbs, reflected glassily upon the dark turquoise walls and the dull grey, linoleum floor, which characterised the whole facility - casting a clinical glow over all - and illuminating the mixed faces of each employee in their crisp, white uniforms, who sat, three or four to a cold, metal table, upon a plastic blue chair bolted firmly to the floor.
The shutters rolled up and hit the top of the self-service bar with a rattling bang. Lunch had now begun. A few employees ambled over to the tray pile - calling out amiably over the throng, requests as to what everyone else at their table wanted. Soon enough, almost everyone was up at the lunch queue - talking animatedly about anything except work - save those who were being provided for…
…and William Birkin.
William Birkin was scribbling away feverishly at his table in the corner - out of the way of all the blue collars and the obnoxious techs - his pen jerking and looping elegantly across the clean, white page of his notepad, murmuring quietly under his breath as he noted, calculated and clarified the results of the morning's work, never lifting his sandy haired head once, and taking absolutely no heed to the animated hustle and bustle around him - for, the cafeteria, in his opinion, was a ridiculous place: disgustingly noisy, disgustingly mainstream and just generally… disgusting. He always much preferred not being there. His colleagues, in turn, paid no heed to William Birkin - for that was his custom - and they knew well enough to let him be.
There were a few words used amongst his colleagues that were utilised daily to describe the strange, young man: precise, methodical, diligent, and dedicated to the cause. Less used (for that was the competitive nature of his colleagues) were: gifted, brilliant, and, by far the most pre-eminent scientist in the facility. The latter (although by no means more accurate than the former) were most suitable to describe the rather unremarkable looking young man in the corner. Even his features were unremarkable. He had a chalk-white, slightly puffy, boyish face and sandy coloured hair - which had begun to be badly in need of a trim - as it fell in thin strands, over his watery, icy blue eyes. He had long, skeletally thin fingers, which - added to his slender build and pale, slender features - giving the impression that he could have been carved from ice or glass or some equally delicate material.
William Birkin, nevertheless, knew nothing of this, and continued to grip his old, emerald green fountain pen - losing himself in the complicated dance of loops and scratches - the ink running smooth, dark and rich - like blood seeping from a small wound. It was compelling. It was hypnotic. It was almost… therapeutic. It was so utterly compelling, hypnotic and therapeutic, that he did not even notice a very familiar figure crossing the cafeteria - weaving her way through the throng of dining colleagues, bearing a little, plastic, blue tray bedecked with various foodstuffs - and coming to rest, eventually, beside him, slipping one arm around his thin waist and placing another delicate hand upon his - making him start.
"William, darling, put down that pen for a moment…"
Annette…
His heart warmed a touch, the cafeteria seeming not quite such a ridiculous place after all, and with a small smile, he replied:
"A moment, my dear," his pale blue eyes still fixed immovably from his work. "I shall just finish this sentence…"
True to his word, upon rounding off the concluding paragraph, firing out the last few words with a flourish and a sharp full stop, he pushed away all the papers and turned to face his wife - taking in her delicate features, her deep blue eyes and her thin, blonde hair - the cold, pale yellow colour of a winter's sun.
"William, I can't collect Sherry from school today…"
"Why not?" William replied, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked upon Annette, who had sank back into the uncomfortable blue chair, turning away from him - staring out at the masses of happily chattering colleagues with her arms folded.
"The report is due in tonight, William," she replied, quite calmly. However, William felt a tug of guilt as he heard the subtle hint of irritation in her gentle tone. He sighed, and joined his wife in sinking back into the toxic blue chair and gazing, unseeing, out onto the bustling works canteen - aware that there were several pairs of eyes on them.
The report. Of course he knew the report had to be submitted tonight. The board would have it no other way. They had explicitly stated that they needed the information by nine o'clock tomorrow morning - and would brook neither refusal nor pitiful excuse. The research had been done, of course. He had been in charge of that. However, Louis Thurman had been delegated the job of compiling the report - a grave mistake if there ever was one. In vain, he had hinted to the board the fact that you would not entrust an ape to write up such an important piece of work, therefore trusting Louis Thurman would be even more catastrophic. However, his warning fell on deaf ears, and they continued with their plans. That was why things were running late, and why they could not fulfil their promise to their little girl - and why he felt another brief tug of regret as he thought of Sherry.
How could he have forgotten? How could he have forgotten Sherry?
You know they're watching you. Your work is becoming increasingly important to them… You need to keep up appearances, that's why.
"Shall I phone Rosa?" Annette asked quietly, even though she knew what the answer would be.
"Yes. Phone Rosa," William replied monosyllabically, shifting forward and placing his head in his hands. He could feel them all watching him. "Tell her we won't be back till late…"
Annette nodded, and, given her task, leaned over and kissed her husband lightly.
"Sherry will be fine…" she whispered in his ear, before she got up and left through the double doors as silently and as carefully as she came in.
His head was reeling. His cold, blue eyes stared glassily at the metal table - watching a cold, thin finger trace swirling patterns on the surface around the various scuffs and scratches and dents and stains that pot marked the little table.
How could you let them make you forget about Sherry? How could you…?
Suddenly, a loud, cheerful - and above all - unwelcome voice entered his swirling mind from close proximity - making him grit his teeth. He felt his fists clench instinctively - bunching on clumps of his sandy hair, causing him to pull at it feverishly as he stared obstinately at the metal surface of the table…
"Hello, William!" the voice bellowed irritatingly, as its owner sat down heavily, thumping an over full mug of coffee onto the table, which spilled slightly, causing some of the steaming brown liquid to drip onto his work that he had previously pushed away.
Realising that it was no use ignoring the man, and that, by doing so, he was only delaying the inevitable, he raised his head and smiled a cold, emotionless smile - grabbing a napkin that Annette had left and wiping the droplets of coffee from his morning's work pointedly, and replying:
"Good Afternoon, Dr Thurman. I wondered when I would be graced with your presence today."
"Ah! No, my boy. The pleasure is all mine, I can assure you," he said, waving a fat hand and grinning as he drank deeply from his steaming mug of coffee - leaving a wet, sticky ring on the metal surface - adding to the catalogue of stains. "Our new head researcher! And only twenty-six years old, eh? Remarkable! Absolutely remarkable, is what I say!"
William permitted himself a small smile. He had known since he'd started that Thurman had wanted the job. He had also hated the man since he'd started. So snatching the coveted prize from under his fat nose had been a wonderfully gratifying experience. There was no doubt about it that Thurman grudged him the job - he could see it day to day in his eyes as Thurman was forced to call him "Sir" and "Dr Birkin". Everyone knew it and everyone watched it happen.
"I thank you, Dr Thurman," William said slyly, sitting forward slightly and focusing intently on his vacuous colleague - aware of the eyes upon him, but beginning to revel in the attention. "I am settling in quite well, and I am sure that everything will run its course smoothly and without incident?"
He knew perfectly well why the fat sluggard had dragged himself over to speak to him. Thurman had probably been working up the courage to confront him for days. The report was nowhere near finished. He had been privately checking up on its progress via Annette.
"Well…you see, William," Thurman began awkwardly, putting down his coffee and scratching his fat, bald head.
"What do I see?" William asked in a deceptively soft tone, smiling a cold, manic smile and leaning over until he was nearly face to face with the now nervously squirming Thurman.
Yes… Let's let him stew for a while. No use in letting the day go completely to waste, is there?
"The report might not be able to be submitted tonight, William, and that's the bottom line." Thurman answered, his words flying out of his mouth in a nervous rush.
"Why not?" William, asked, still smiling dangerously at the detestable Thurman. "The research had been done two days before schedule. I have given you time, Doctor."
Everyone is watching, Thurman - and you had better give me the right answer…
"Well…you see… Not my fault, William… How could it be? Dr Woo… You know? Looking back on one of the test subjects a while ago… Errors, you know? Not serious ones, of course. But errors nevertheless…"
William's thin hand shot out of the air and grabbed the sluggish Dr Thurman by the throat - and as he gazed down at the slowly reddening face of Louis Thurman, staring intently into his eyes that were filled with terror and hearing the strangled pleading, gasping chokingly from his constricted throat, he became aware of a sudden hush. Hauling Louis Thurman over the table, he increased his grip ever so slightly and whispered venomously into his ear:
"You sanctimonious prick… Oh yes, you'd never blame me, not openly, of course, but you'd blame Woo. You'd have to blame someone. Technically your inferior, my good doctor - but in sheer talent and ability, much your superior, I am afraid to say…"
Everyone was watching, and, as he held the violently shaking Dr Thurman in his unrelenting grasp - he felt… that feeling. He had felt it before - when he'd seen the look on Thurman's face when he had gotten the promotion - and he loved it. He felt the electric tingle run hotly down his spine, making him shudder - making his mind swirl and churn chaotically. He felt the adrenaline coursing wildly through his thin veins - his breaths coming shallow and ragged and rapidly - and he felt that his teeth would melt together if he did not stop smiling…
It was power - sheer power.
He loved the feeling of having them all at his fingertips. He revelled in the way that they feared and respected him. William Birkin did not make many friends - but he made enemies like a craftsman - and like a craftsman, he knew how to work his tools…
"You will have the report by tonight. The Board know that I have completed my research, without flaws, as I sent it to them myself as soon as the opportunity arose. You will have the report by tonight, or you will be dismissed. Do I make myself clear?"
Thurman nodded - his face now turning a rather delightful shade of purple - and William, with a derisive laugh tossed him back into his seat, letting go of Thurman's collar and saving himself the trouble of dealing with being branded a murderer. That wasn't his job - and he did not really wish for the title.
William stood up, abruptly, and swept through the cafeteria without a backward glance - snatching his clipboard from a frightened tech and throwing on his stained lab coat. All eyes were on him now - and they were afraid.
He laughed as he pushed open the double doors, his cold blue eyes alight with malice and his sandy hair flying wildly over his face as he strode down the dark corridor - his coattails flowing out behind him - all too well aware that the now terrified tech had to run to keep up with him.
The lights flickered in the corridor, which was decorated with the same clinical turquoise and dull grey linoleum as in the cafeteria, and the acrid tang of disinfectant permeated all - coating the back of his throat unpleasantly. There were several doors, thick, steel doors, leading off to different rooms - and muffled screams and frantic yells could be heard from behind them.
"Room Five B," he snapped. "I do not need your assistance this afternoon."
The tech nodded, clearly relieved, and practically ran back to the cafeteria without a second thought. William grinned widely and laughed.
Stupid bitch…
After a moment of searching and fumbling in his lab coat (still shaky with the after effects of the adrenaline rush), he produced a key card from his pocket which he slotted into the reader. The door slid open oilily. The smell hit him. After being in the cafeteria, he hadn't been prepared, and he pulled out the rag from his lab coat pocket - ready soaked with alcohol.
Isn't it strange how human senses adapt? he thought, his head swimming with the combined smells of the room and the alcohol.
There, in front of him, was the table covered in familiar scuffs and scratches and dents and stains, with the Velcro restraints - dark and crusted with dried blood, and the pads at either end - more recently soaked with somewhat fresher blood. There was the set of needles he had requested and also the new box of rubber gloves. As he was filling up the hypodermics, he heard others enter behind him, and a pair of hands wrap a hospital mask around his face.
"Did you phone Rosa?"
"Yes. I phoned Rosa. She will pick Sherry up from school," Annette replied, tying a secure knot at the back.
"Good," he replied, wrapping a thin arm around his wife's waist. "I think we are going to be here a while," he said as he watched the test subject being bundled in and restrained - although she did not really need restraining any longer. It was just a matter of protocol.
"Sherry will be fine," he continued absently, as he squirted some of the clear liquid from the end of the needle. "We can pick her up sometime next week. I've also taken care of Louis Thurman. He will be out of the facility by tomorrow."
"Wonderful, darling," Annette replied. "Pass me that needle, will you?"
William handed his wife the needle and put pen to paper. Sherry would get over it, he was sure. Besides, he had more important things to worry about. His work was, indeed, becoming increasingly important to them. They were all watching him. He could not afford to make one slip up. One mistake, and he was out. Sherry could wait. He had to keep up appearances. They were all watching him.
Everyone was watching him…