Despite a pounding head, waves of nausea, and a burning thirst, Stark dragged himself to work the following day. He missed out his early morning run. The first time he’d missed it for months. He knew that if he tried even a shambling jog, he’d leave puddles of puke every hundred yards.
Somehow, amazingly, he got through the day. He reckoned he consumed a gallon of water, filling up a plastic sports bottle every half hour from the tap in the factory toilet. The pounding lessened, the nausea subsided, the thirst disappeared. He got back to his flat at 6pm, feeling considerably more human than he did when the day had started.
There, on the floor by the door, was a letter.
He ignored it, and went straight to the kitchen to fix a coffee. It was probably another damned bill. Electric. He was always behind on his electric. He had never quite been disconnected, but often teetered on the edge.
He began the process of pouring coffee beans into the grinder, then decided he wasn’t in the mood, that the whole thing was too much effort, and coffee always tasted shit after a “day before” drinking session.
He went through to the living room, slumped into his armchair, got his headphones, scrolled through his mobile, found some insipid piano music, and drifted off into a half-doze, letting his mind go blank.
He got up at midnight, and padded through to the kitchen. Suddenly he was ravenous. He checked the freezer, pulled out a twelve-inch pepperoni pizza, shoved it in the oven.
He remembered the letter. It lay as before, on the doormat. He debated. Either do it now, get it over and done with, or wait until morning, and open it when he would doubtless feel a million times better. He watched the pizza bubble and pop through the glass of the oven door.
He came to a decision. He went over, picked the letter up. He glanced at the envelope, then studied it with a little more care. Same neat window-box, his name and address typed in the same neat manner, same first-class stamp.
A next-day rejection, he thought. This firm likes to send bad news at blistering speed.
He was tempted to toss it into the bin, unopened. What the hell. He tore it open, tugged out the letter inside, unfolded it, gave the contents a cursory glance, expecting maybe a three-line special. Perhaps two, depending on how much he’d pissed them off. Same damned handwriting. Neat and precise.
He glanced again, focused, read what it said, read it again. He took a breath, sat on the kitchen chair, and placed the letter on the table before him.
He ran his hands through his hair, and thought This can’t be right. Something’s wrong. He read the letter again. He allowed himself a grim chuckle. Funny the tricks life can play.
He had been offered the job. Trainee solicitor. Starting salary not great, but still better than his current position. Telephone to confirm acceptance. If so, starting on Monday, 9am.
All this in three lines.
He smelled burning. He’d forgotten his pizza. He darted over, grabbed a dish towel to cover his hands, rescued what was left, turned the oven off. He slid something resembling a yellow-and-brown frisbee onto a plate, and sat back on the kitchen chair. He took a bite, and reckoned this was how cardboard tasted, but he couldn’t have cared less.
Unbelievably, incredibly, he had been offered the job.
His ambition was not yet crushed. An ambition not to become a lawyer, which was a mere side issue. Rather, an ambition to find the truth. And he believed he was one step closer.