I hear Keats’s fingertips on his keyboard. Acutely feel his presence next to me. I want it to be me sitting in his chair. Rifling through his files until I find the funeral programme. I could simply ask, I suppose. Humbly doff my cap to him and fling myself on his better nature. But he doesn’t have a better nature. He tried to get you fired by bad mouthing you to Michael. The gormless little twit.
Perhaps he resents me getting a job here in the first place and gatecrashing his boy-only buddy club. Gets some kind of sexual kick out of frightening women by locking them in basements. I’ve noticed how he runs the show down here. He gets a constant stream of messages from the zombies, which he replies to immediately, unlike his responses to me.
Occasionally, a zombie will cross the floor and whisper something in his ear and get a nod or shake of the head in reply. Or he scribbles something on a notepad and hands it over. There’s no doubt that Michael must be right about Keats being brilliant, it’s difficult to see any other reason why he’s allowed to rule the roost down here. I don’t know about eccentric though. I prefer the word evil.
The only way I’m going to get at his computer is when he’s not there. I was annoyed with Michael earlier but now could kiss him on his forehead; he’s given me the space to do it, going through his online courses late in the basement. Starting next Monday. Alone.
My cheer drops away when I catch the screen of the zombie in front of me, slightly to the left. My neck stretches as I peer harder. Is he playing a computer game, like the zombie sitting next to him? Although I can’t understand why either of them would be doing that since Keats seems to be so red-hot on preserving a hardworking environment. My mouth twists; probably he only applies that standard to me.
What the hell? My gaze zeros closer to the zombie’s computer screen. I see more clearly what he’s watching. My heart thunders in shock. This is no computer game. A battered and bruised woman is sitting on a stool in a darkened room filled with shadows, tears tracking miserably down her cheeks. She looks scared witless.
There are two other people cloaked in anonymity because their backs are to the camera. The sound’s turned off, but that pitiful shape of her mouth tells me she’s pleading. Begging. The figures cloaked in the dark inch closer and closer, almost circling her in a menacing dance. Her mouth opens wide in a silent scream. Without warning, a hand flashes out, lashing the woman across the cheek, sending her flying onto the barren floor. I feel the power of the slap tear through me. The screams exploding from her lips booming horribly in my ear.
WTF is going on in this place? This underground world that no-one else knows is here? Right, that’s it. I’m furiously messaging Keats to stop this outrage. Now.
Me: Have you seen what this guy in front is doing?
He clears the message and ignores me. Can you believe this guy? I refuse to go away.
Me: HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT THIS GUY IN FRONT IS WATCHING????????
I don’t give Keats a chance to delete me this time. I lean over and tap his message box with insistent fingers. He grunts lightly behind that ridiculous bandana, which I swear to God I’m in the mood to rip clean off his face. His stone-flat black shades give me the eye, then jump to check out the zombie’s computer screen.
Seconds later he’s typing away so I hurry back to my screen, impatiently waiting.
Keats: He’s watching a video. So what?
I’m on the point of slapping someone silly myself.
Me: You think that’s acceptable behaviour in the workplace, do you? Some creep watching a video of a woman being beaten black and blue?
Keats: Dunno. Isn’t in my job description.
Me: You’re supposed to be in charge down here, aren’t you?
Keats: Not correct. I’m only meant to boss you.
That makes me mad. So mad. Leaves me feeling the sensation of a slave collar biting into my neck.
Me: What are you going to do about it?
Keats suddenly flicks his head to the side, staring me down. I don’t have to see it to know it’s hard, pissed, drilling with utter displeasure. I stare him down too. Two can play the bring-it-on game. He turns away in a swift single motion. His fingers flash at his keyboard.
Keats: Nothing. Now leave me alone.
The rustle of whispers in front of me draws my attention. The zombie watching the video talks below his breath to the other zombie who was playing computer games. They both turn to the offending video. Watch with rapt stillness as the woman is kicked and punched on the floor by her assailants.
The zombie sharing this disgusting scene must sense my distressed eyes on them because he side turns and notices me watching. With a gesture of his thumb, he warns the other guy that I can see them and their viewing habits. He in turn moves his chair so I can no longer see his screen.
The images of the woman on the floor, attacked, battered, bruised, crying out for her life, claw into my headspace, painting a permanent grotesque picture that won’t let go.
Attacked, battered, bruised.
Attacked, battered, bruised.
Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.
I feel the sick rising. I have to get out of here. Now.
I don’t remember how I make it to the door; it’s the goosebump coolness of the tunnel outside that brings awareness streaming back like a slap of water to the face. I run with trepidation until I reach the stairs. I’ve never been so glad to see that trap door. My fist bangs it open. I nearly tip backwards in my dash to scramble out. The emotions bloating inside bend me double, palms flat on my thighs, the sound of what only a wounded animal would make rasping past my lips.
I’m done. Defeated. Can’t do this anymore. Even for Philip… For Philip… A thrum of solid heat beside me comes out of nowhere. Still panting, I lift up my head and look. It’s Philip. Standing right there. Smiling. I know this is manufactured by my brain cells, that he’s not really there. He’s as dead as he was… ten years ago? Four weeks ago? I don’t know. I do know I can’t live without knowing. Have got to capture the truth.
And that’s what makes me straighten. Vow not to let those abusive bastards beneath my feet get into my head.
‘If you ever have any problems you come to me.’ That’s what Joanie had promised earlier. With backbone straightening determination, I march towards her office.
The story’s barely there in Joanie’s office before she startles me by erupting out of her chair and heading towards the door, accompanied by a hot rage that clenches her hands by her side.
Somehow – I don’t know how I manage it – I’m at the door before her, barring her exit. ‘Please don’t make things worse for me.’
‘Worse?’ Joanie’s a growling tigress, me back in my guise as her defenceless cub. She slaps her balled fists onto her hips. ‘What they’re doing is wrong. I’ll give them a tongue lashing they won’t forget and drag them by their ears to Michael’s office.’
Joanie knows I won’t allow that to happen so she retreats with tight fury and heavily retakes her chair. I remain by the door as she shifts with unsettled tension. She informs me with a scowl, ‘I thought all you young girls were into this Me One thing. Standing up for your rights and burning your Victoria Secrets thongs.’
I don’t correct her on Me Too, mainly because she looks so hurt and frustrated. Helpless behind the enforced barrier of her desk. I don’t picture her in her heyday as one of the women willing to burn their bra, but I do see, in a way I hadn’t before, that she must have been a force to be reckoned with. Joanie The Destroyer.
‘I’ll speak to Michael about this video—’
The shake of my head stops her. ‘Please don’t. I just needed to tell someone. Another woman.’
I don’t give Joanie a chance to respond and exit her office. I feel better. A problem shared…
But the situation boomerangs back on me less than twenty minutes later when the steel door to the basement bangs open against the wall. Michael comes in, legs braced in the doorway, the spitting image of a man on the warpath. The room shudders still in a way I’ve never witnessed before. I swear even the beating heart of the walls stop. He looks at me, eyes glazed with blistering temper. Then gestures with a finger at the two zombies who were watching the film. I have to nod in agreement but don’t want to. Obviously, it was too much to ask Joanie not to inform him about what I’d told her. Or maybe he found her still brimming with outraged distress. Whatever happened, the cat is well and truly out of the bag.
Michael’s hiss is a whiplash across the room. ‘You two. In my office.’
They look at each other in alarm. Good. That’ll teach them to think moving images of women being brutalised is entertainment. The two hurriedly follow Michael out of the basement. There’s murmuring from the other zombies who clearly realise something is up.
Minutes later, the faint echo of shouting rings dully down here as if the basement has become a tin can. It’s Michael. He’s bawling out the two zombies about the film. This violent dressing-down is going on two floors above but we can all hear it. The volume rises.
It ends with Michael yelling, lungs fit to burst, ‘And if I ever, ever find out you’ve been watching that kind of filth on my premises again, I’ll give you a beating worse than anything in any film. Do you understand?’ There’s a pause. Then, ‘This is your one and only warning. Now get out of my office.’
My head drops. I suppose I should be grateful to Michael for taking such prompt and effective action. Still, I was hoping he’d dismiss them on the spot.
The door to the basement opens and the two zombies, heads bowed, I hope in everlasting shame, shuffle in and go back to their desks.
But as they do so, one of them looks at me with something approaching hatred.