Stark was busy in the afternoon. Work continued, regardless of the situation. Nevertheless, his mind was preoccupied. He had much to consider. The police left at 2.30. No one was the wiser for their visit, and rumours raged. But the partners remained tight-lipped, which only intensified the speculation. Stark couldn’t have cared less.
One of the rooms off the hall contained two photocopiers, and a fax machine. The fax machine was rarely used, considered almost as an antique. Stark was in the process of copying a fifty-page commercial lease. He was aware of a presence behind him. He turned. Edward Stoddart stood in the doorway. Stark was caught off guard.
“Make sure you’ve got it on the black-and-white setting.” Stoddart winked and smiled. “Colour copies are twice as expensive.”
Stark nodded. “Thank you for lunch…” he began.
Stoddart waved a hand. “Don’t mention it. I thought I’d come down, to see how you were doing.”
“All good. As you can see…” and he gestured at the photocopier, “…doing all the amazing jobs no one wants to do.”
Stoddart leant against the frame of the doorway. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. His complexion was deathly pale. Under the bright striplighting, his cheekbones seemed sharp and harsh, his eyes two glossy black pebbles. Skull-like. He looked frail, insubstantial. A wraith, rather than a man. Much frailer than he looked in his rooms on the top floor, where the lighting was muted.
“I should venture to the depths more often,” he said, grinning. “To remind myself who the real workers are.”
Stark said nothing.
“You will be aware we had a visit from the police,” said Stoddart.
“I’d heard something of the sort.”
“I dare say you have. Lawyers and fishwives have that particular trait in common – they each wallow in scurrilous rumour. But you must understand, Jonathan, it’s the first time anything like this has happened. I hope…” he blinked, seemed suddenly uneasy, “…I hope that it hasn’t put you off. I mean working here. As I said before, this firm desperately needs new blood. New blood like yours.”
Stark again was taken off guard, not expecting such a comment. “Not at all. I’m pleased to be given this chance.”
“That’s good, Jonathan. It gives me hope when I hear you say that.”
Stark had no response to give. He found the conversation bizarre. But then, the man had cancer. Possibly, he looked at the world from a different perspective.
“You’ve been down to the basement?” Stoddart asked suddenly.
Stark blinked, adjusting his thoughts to the abrupt change of conversation.
“Yes. A lovely place.”
Stoddart gave a sympathetic shake of his head. “A trial to be endured. You know, it holds every file ever opened by this firm. Or at least it did, until the destruction process started. Now everything’s to be ‘uploaded’ or ‘downloaded’ or whatever the terminology is. Everything is to disappear, retrieved at the push of a button.”
“So it would seem.”
Stoddart made a half-step forward, still clutching the doorframe. His eyes gleamed. “But it’s not the same,” he said. “It’s important to have something physical in your hands, to feel and touch these old documents. Documents which make up part of the history of a person’s life. The issues and dilemmas and situations they experienced at the time. You look through a file, and you have a window to the past. They capture a moment, preserving it perfectly. Whether good or bad. Don’t you think, Jonathan? If I had my way – which, in this regard, I don’t – I would keep the files forever, as a shrine to those lives we have touched, and to those who have touched us. Once they’re destroyed, something’s lost. Something that can’t be reproduced by pressing a button on a keyboard.”
Stark swallowed. What was the old man trying to say?
He uttered a bland response. “I haven’t honestly given it much thought.”
“Of course not. Why would you? And have you noticed the other feature of our wonderful basement?”
Stark cocked his head, waited.
“It’s always cold,” said Stoddart. “The chill never leaves.”