Twelve

Pran returned to his desk carrying a disposable plastic cup of water and took two Paracetamol tablets. Graham noticed and grinned.

‘Rough night last night?’

Pran avoided eye contact with him and stared at his computer monitor. ‘No, it’s just a headache.’

Graham suspected he was lying and laughed. ‘I had a couple of pints on the way home last night. Then my wife Jane and I did two bottles of wine. And I had the lion’s share. But what’s worrying is: I felt fine this morning. I think my body needs it. I can’t sleep at night unless I’ve had a couple of drinks at least.’

Jenny came striding into the office, carrying a folder which she handed to Graham. ‘Here’s the budget outline for that community project. How did your conference go?’

Graham gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Well, it was - interesting. But I should never have worn a pink shirt. Roger went on about it. You know what he’s like. He said to me: “You shouldn’t have worn pink, Graham. All the boys’ll be queuing up to kiss you”.’ Graham flicked a limp wrist in front of Jenny and put on a camp voice. ‘“Why d’you think I’m wearing it?” I said.’

Jenny gave a little, snorting laugh. ‘Oh, you know that chap ... Michael I think his name is ... used to work for the DTI. Did you know he’s gay?’

Listening to this conversation, Pran could feel a tension in his shoulders.

Graham raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘Really? How d’you know he’s gay?’

A triumphant gleam came into Jenny’s eyes. ‘Colin told me. Apparently this Michael’s quite open about it.’

‘He doesn’t look like a shirt-lifter.’

Pran felt a pressure inside him, like a fear running through his body.

‘I know,’ Jenny went on. ‘It’s a shame. He’s quite good looking.’

‘Well, at least you don’t have to worry about keeping your back to the wall.’

Jenny shook her head. ‘I don’t know. On the train home last night, this woman was giving me the eye.’

‘You mean she was one of them. How could you tell?’

Jenny pursed her lips. ‘I don’t know. There was just something about her.’

Graham sniggered. ‘Maybe it was the Doc Martens she was wearing.’

They both laughed. Suddenly something broke inside Pran. ‘This is so unprofessional!’ he yelled.

Stunned by the outburst, they both turned and stared at him. ‘Sorry?’ said Jenny, in a voice that was dangerously devoid of human feeling.

Committed now, Pran said, ‘You’re supposed to be a manager. And all these homophobic jokes are out of order. Unprofessional.’

Had Pran criticised her homophobic joke telling, it just might have been acceptable. But calling her unprofessional was something she resented with a hatred bordering on psychosis.

‘There’s no need to shout.’ She cast her eyes around the large office. And sure enough, other workers were looking towards them. When they caught her eye, they looked away, pretending to get on with their work. But she could tell they were all listening.

Pran, realising that perhaps he hadn’t handled this too well, began to back down and lowered his voice. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that ... we ought to watch our language. I mean, a fair percentage of our customers could be gay.’

Graham threw a glance at Jenny, a despairing look, before replying to Pran. ‘Well, it’s not as if they can hear us, is it?’

‘No, but I can. And I find some of the things you say offensive.’

Suspicion crept into Graham’s voice. ‘Oh? Why?’

‘Because I...’ Pran faltered. He still couldn’t bring himself to say it. ‘Because I have some gay friends. And I don’t like to hear them slandered. mean what you say in the pub is up to you, but...’

Jenny interrupted him. ‘Well that’s a small mercy.’

‘Yeah,’ Graham sneered. ‘We don’t have to answer to the thought police yet.’ Pran glared at him. ‘OK, OK. No more jokes while we’re in the office. In future we’ll mind our Ps and Qs.’

This was followed by an awkward silence. Jenny shuffled from foot to foot. Eventually, she excused herself. ‘I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. I’d better push on.’

Pran kept his focus on the computer monitor. He could feel waves of hatred emanating from them both, and he knew it was the “unprofessional” accusation that had done it.

Another job bites the dust, he thought.

***

Ted hovered outside Mothercare waiting for Marjorie, clutching a rolled-up copy of Big Issue. As soon as Marjorie emerged from the shop carrying a large carrier bag, she spotted the magazine and demanded, ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

‘It’s a copy of Big Issue.’ Ted unrolled it and held it under her gaze. ‘I bought it from the woman on the corner of Body Shop.’

Marjorie sniffed loudly. ‘What d’you do that for?’

Ted gestured helplessly. ‘I felt sorry for the woman. And she seemed pleasant enough.’

‘You know I don’t approve of these asylum people, getting handouts and begging.’

‘She’s not begging,’ Ted sighed. ‘She’s selling something. Selling magazines to be precise.’

Marjorie stared at her husband, her eyes icy. ‘Oh, and you’re going to read that rubbish, are you?’ She nodded at the picture of the Kaiser Chiefs on the front of the magazine.

‘Well...’ Ted began.

‘I thought as much. It’ll end up in the bin. And you say that’s not begging.’

Ted shrugged. ‘I might have a go at the crossword.’

But Marjorie had stopped listening. Her eyes widened as her attention was caught by two figures walking towards them.

‘Hi there!’ said Bamber, as he approached with Donald. He grinned at Ted, enjoying his discomfort. ‘Long time no see.’

Marjorie glared at Donald, who looked and felt as awkward as Ted did.

Excuse us!’ she blurted out after a brief and awkward hiatus. ‘We’re in a hurry.’

Ted gave Donald a slight, apologetic shrug, and caught up with Marjorie as she tore towards BHS. Once inside the store, she rounded on Ted.

‘That man,’ she hissed, ‘was the one you was with in our house, asking questions about crisps and things. Pretending he was doing some sort of research. Right! That’s it, Ted! We are going straight home after this. And you have got some explaining to do.’