Stark got there at 8.30. He’d left early, making provision for an engine fail which, mercifully, didn’t happen. The offices were open. The female receptionist was there, sipping from a plastic coffee cup, engrossed in her mobile phone. She looked up when Stark entered, smiled, her demeanour entirely changed from their last encounter.
“Hi,” she said. “Welcome aboard. I’m Sarah. Go on through.” She gestured to the waiting room. “I’ll let Jenny know you’re here. She wants to show you around. Help yourself to coffee. Nice to see a new face.”
“Thank you.”
He went through to the waiting room. Nothing had changed. He helped himself to coffee. He heard Sarah on the phone. A minute later, the disguised door opened. Jenny entered. Today she wore a dark flared skirt, a dark puffy-sleeved blouse, a silk necktie the colour of pale cream. Her hair fell to her shoulders in an appealing tousled bob.
“You made it,” said Jenny.
“Amazingly the car didn’t break down.”
She reacted with a light careless laugh. He was reminded of his sister.
“That’s something,” she said. “But I meant, you got the job.”
“So it would seem. The trick now is to try and keep it.”
“Do you surf?” she asked.
Stark gave a somewhat bemused answer. “I haven’t tried it.”
“Nor me. But I’m sure staying in a job like ours is like surfing. Impossible at the beginning. But after a while, you learn to keep your feet on the board.”
“Unless a really big wave comes along.”
“But that’s when the fun begins. Follow me. I’ll give you the tour.”
He followed her, back through the door she had entered from.
“This is where we minions work,” she said. “Assistants and associates. You’ve heard of The West Wing? This is The Sweat Wing, as it’s fondly described by those required to endure it.” She glanced archly at him. “Only kidding. It’s far worse.”
They were in a corridor of bare white walls, illuminated by striplights on the ceiling. Doors on either side, all open, all occupied by people. Talking, on the phone, dictating into hand-held machines, tapping on laptops or computer keyboards, studying screens.
“Altogether, there are twenty of us on the ground floor, including you. We’re an assortment of lawyers and paralegals. There are ten offices on this level. We share. Two per office. You can get to know the team as you go along.” They got to the end of the corridor, to a closed door, which she opened. She turned on the lights.
“This is the meeting room we use for clients. That is to say – average, Joe Bloggs-type clients. For ‘specials’ – the wealthy and powerful – the partners see them in the conference room upstairs. Where you had your interview.”
“I feel honoured,” said Stark.
The room was a poor man’s substitute to the one on the first floor. The walls were as bare as the corridor, with the exception of a painting of some nameless mountain range. A simple table took centre stage, around which, four blue plastic chairs with metal legs. No frills. No requirement to schmooze clients on this floor, thought Stark. It was all business, without the glitz. A tall window at the far wall, looking out onto some trees. The same striplighting on the ceiling, bright and clinical.
“And your room…” said Jenny, turning to him, “…is right in here.” She beckoned him to an office closest to the meeting room, the door of which was open, the lights on.
It contained two desks, chairs, computers. Shelves on one wall lined with books and folders. Three filing cabinets. One desk was laden with files, a pen holder full of coloured pens, an open book, a notepad, discarded elastic bands and paperclips, a framed picture, and a coffee mug, which, judging by the steam rising, was freshly made.
The other desk was bare, with the exception of a closed laptop.
“Someone’s not finished their coffee,” remarked Stark.
“That would be me,” replied Jenny. “Say hello to your brand-new roommate.”
“You drew the short straw. My sympathies.”
She grinned. “Provided you’re clean, have no annoying habits, and don’t pick your teeth, then we’ll be fine.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“There’s also a small kitchen of sorts. A microwave, a fridge, and a cupboard. I suppose that counts as a kitchen. You’ll find that coffee and sandwiches form your staple diet in this place. Coffee, especially. If you’re not addicted to caffeine yet, you will be. If you want to smoke, go out into the garden, but don’t let the partners catch you. There’s also rooms for the typists. We share them as well. Ten typists, which means roughly two per typist. Needless to say, the partners each have their own personal secretary. Not us. We’re not deemed worthy, but there’s no point in complaining, because no one listens. If you need something out urgently,” and here she fluttered her fingers, “use these, and type it yourself.”
“Sounds daunting. As long as there’s a ‘spellcheck’, I should survive.”
“Glad to hear it. Without it, none of us would survive. The first floor consists of the partners’ offices, secretaries’ rooms, and the main conference room. Plus, there’s a library, for everyone’s use, and it’s well stocked and bang up to date. If you need anything, you’ll find it there. If not, then you have the magic of Professor Google. The second floor has only one office. And it’s out of bounds.”
“Only one office?” said Stark. “For the entire floor?”
“For the exclusive use of our senior partner. Edward Stoddart. Great grandson of the founding partner. And it’s not really an office. It’s more of a house. He rarely comes down to visit, and when he does, the men doff their caps and bow, and the females – including myself – perform a reverential curtsy.”
Stark couldn’t help smiling. “As one would expect, when royalty calls.”
“Exactly so. Now brace yourself, Jonathan. The next bit’s the creepy bit.”
“Creepy?”
“I’m going to show you the basement.”
The basement was accessed directly from the “Sweat Wing”. The door was heavier than the others, and Jenny had to tug it open.
“We got a new door put in, to keep out the draught,” she explained. “But the draught keeps coming. There’s always a chill in the basement.”
She switched on a light. Illumination came from suspended striplights, which flickered. Open metal stairs reached down to a large room, stretching either side.
They made their way down, shoes clanking with each step. The floor comprised ancient wooden planks, some parts springy underfoot. Looked like it had been laid a thousand years ago, thought Stark. Everywhere, rows of high, free-standing wooden shelving, upon which, cardboard boxes, forming a maze of narrow aisles. Each box had a coloured label with letters and numbers. The room smelled damp and musty. Stark noted cobwebs. Jenny was right. It was summer, but here, in the basement, it felt like winter.
“It stretches the entire width and length of the building,” said Jenny. “Which makes it rather large. We’re in the process of committing files to a database. But we’ve got a hundred and fifty years of clients to go through. And it’s all here. Everything we’ve ever done, from the day the firm started. We all take turns, when we get a chance. We come down, look through the files, make a record of the names, subject matter, and pack them in a box. Then they’re sent off to be uploaded, and then destroyed.”
“Sounds fun,” said Stark.
Jenny shivered. “Fun it ain’t.” She made a show of looking about. “As I said, creepy. I used to come down after work for an hour. But there’s too many dark corners.” She gave a strained laugh. “And if there’s no one about, who would hear me scream?”
“Murder in the Basement. Would be a good name for a book.”
“As long as it’s not me getting murdered. I’m sorry to say, as our brand-new fledgling trainee solicitor, you’ll be spending more time than most down here.” Another laugh. “Part of your induction.”
“Perhaps I should come to work in jeans and a hoodie.”
“Good idea. And thermals. I should mention, this place has a name.”
“A name?”
“We call it The Dungeon.”