‘I feel ill,’ David says, suddenly.
‘Ill how?’
‘I dunno.’ He sits down on a plastic chair.
‘What do the doctors say?’
‘I’m on a waiting list.’
‘What for?’
‘I dunno.’
Owen comes in. ‘Right, well you can forget about going home tonight, you two.’ He laughs. ‘Cheer up. It’s not that bad. Julie, you’re going to have to take sections C and D. Fern’s coming in and she’s going to do A and B. It’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do.’
‘Fern can’t do two sections,’ Julie says quietly.
Usually two waitresses share one section, which comprises roughly ten tables, each table seating between two and ten people. On a busy night a section could have between twenty and thirty people all wanting another drink, a different sort of garlic bread or a clean fork; or to know where their pizza is or why their garlic mushrooms are still frozen in the middle. On a busy night a waitress will be taking orders for drinks and starters one minute, giving other customers their bill the next and trying to keep up with cleaning and resetting tables as well. Julie’s the only waitress at The Edge who can handle one section by herself. Two is going to be a nightmare. In her head, and without meaning to, she starts developing a strategy. She and David could use sign language instead of the computerised tills . . . That could speed things up. Or . . . Julie’s tired. Her brain isn’t working properly this evening. She was looking forward to going home.
‘You can help her,’ Owen says.
‘Julie can’t do two sections and help Fern,’ David points out.
‘She’ll have to.’
‘Why?’ David asks, getting up. ‘Why will she have to?’
The atmosphere in the small room changes. You don’t openly question managers and supervisors like this. Conversations at The Edge are usually a swirl of self-deprecating jokes, good-humoured grumbling, bitching, or just having a laugh. Great here, isn’t it? On holiday? Chance would be a fine thing. It’s all right for some. Heather should watch Phil when he does the salad – he throws so much away. That’s it, Owen, I’m leaving – only joking! Friday night? You’re taking the piss, aren’t you? It’s my sister’s hen night. Well, only if you’re really short. At The Edge, you never ask anyone why anything is the way it is – you wouldn’t; you’re just there to do a job, and you know it’s a bit shitty, but if everyone has a laugh then it’s all right. And anyway, why is the exclusive domain of children, hippies, students and losers. Everyone knows that.
‘Why?’ David asks again.
‘There’s no one else. That’s why,’ Owen says, confused.
‘Why don’t you just shut, if there’s not enough staff? Or shut more sections?’
‘We can’t. You know we can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we’ll lose money.’
‘Who’s going to get all the money we’re not losing, then, Owen? I’m not. Julie’s not. You’re not. Why don’t you pay Julie double if she’s covering two sections?’
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Owen says. ‘You know we can’t pay her double.’
‘But you’d usually have two waitresses. Why not?’
‘You know why not. What’s wrong with you?’ Owen looks from David to Julie and smiles uncomfortably. ‘Students, eh?’ he says. ‘Always have to question the bloody obvious.’
As Owen finishes his sentence, David punches the wall.
‘Fuck you,’ he says. ‘Fuck your exploitation. I’m trying to do a fucking degree and I work here part time, in this shitty, meaningless job, so I can pay a bit of my rent, and put a bit of money on my electricity key, but you actually want this – this shit – to take over my fucking life.’ David starts emptying his locker, throwing loose change, fag packets and old newspapers into his sports bag. His hand is bleeding where he punched the wall. ‘And her life.’ He points to Julie. ‘And even your life, Owen. And the poor fucking customers – they pay too much for what we do for them and we get paid too little for doing it. Who gets the fucking money we’re all generating? Why is it against company policy to give doggy bags? Why do staff have to pay for their meals? Why can’t we do half-and-half pizzas? Why can’t we be more fucking human?’
‘You’re sacked,’ Owen says. ‘And this is fucking great, because I don’t have a chef, and I’ve only got two waitresses . . .’
Julie’s putting her coat on.
‘Julie?’ says Owen.
Julie looks at him. ‘Make that one,’ she says.
As they leave, David looks Owen in the eye. ‘I’ve got cancer, by the way,’ he says. ‘And it really gives you some fucking perspective. I’d get a life, if I were you, before it’s too late.’
The rain falling on the carpark looks orange, because of all the lights. Half the shops are shut at this time, but their lights are still on, and the carpark has little yellow streetlamps illuminating all the geometrically perfect, space-efficient parking bays. If you screw up your eyes and look at the retail park from certain angles, it looks like an alien spaceship.
‘Well, we’re fucked now,’ David says.
‘What you said was right,’ Julie says. ‘We did the right thing.’
Beyond The Edge and past Homebase, the A12 pulses like an electric current through a circuit board of round-abouts, lay-bys and slip roads. Yellow lights, white lights, blue lights, hazard lights, fog lights, bull bars, noise. The noise is wet tonight. An urgent, relentless wet noise punctuated with lights.
‘I suppose I’ll be dead soon, anyway,’ David says. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘You won’t be dead soon. Anyway, there are other shit jobs out there.’
‘Where shall we go now?’
‘Huh?’
‘Well, we are going somewhere, aren’t we?’
‘I forgot McDonald’s went No Smoking,’ Julie says.
‘I left all those ashtrays at The Edge,’ David says regretfully.
They’re sitting upstairs in Burger King, smoking, looking at the rain. Julie’d suggested McDonald’s: it had seemed appropriate somehow, under the circumstances. But she’d forgotten that David used to work there and that it’s No Smoking. So they went to Burger King instead. It’s dark outside but there’s too much light everywhere. The retail-park lights were bad enough but Julie’s used to them. The lights in Burger King make her feel like she’s in a huge sunbed.
Apart from David and Julie, there are some kids in the other corner, shredding plastic cups, straws and cartons. One of them, a heavily made-up girl, is eating a cheeseburger. The others are flicking the shredded bits of plastic, and bits of lettuce, at her.
‘I wonder what they’re doing at The Edge,’ Julie says.
David shrugs. ‘Dunno.’
‘I wonder if they’ll have to shut.’
‘I hope so.’
Julie smiles. ‘Me too.’
David sips his coffee. ‘Ow. This is fucking hot.’
‘Maybe you should sue them,’ Julie suggests.
Some of the kids at the other table get up to leave. One of them, a thin, scrawny boy with messy orange hair and a big chain hanging from one of his belt-hooks, nods at David as he walks past.
‘All right, mate?’ he mumbles.
‘Yo, man,’ says David, sounding a bit hip-hop. ‘Sorry about that,’ he says to Julie, once the kid’s gone.
‘Who was he?’ Julie asks.
‘Just some kid. His older brother Anthony had to leave town recently.’
‘Leave town?’
‘Yeah. Because he was going to get killed.’
‘Killed? Why?’
‘Selling fake gear, wasn’t he?’ David laughs. ‘Moody puff. Do you know what it turned out to be?’
Julie shrugs. ‘What was it?’
‘Bonsai-tree fertiliser.’ David laughs.
Julie laughs too. ‘God.’
‘It was fucked up. How stupid’s that? Those little fertiliser pellets . . . I’d never s
een them before, but they do look like the real thing . . . Just taste of earth, that’s all. You know Jesus, that guy that deals in The Rising Sun?’
‘Who?’
‘Jesus.’
‘Seriously? A guy called Jesus?’
‘Yeah, you must have seen him. He looks like, well, like Jesus, hence the nickname.’
‘Oh, that guy.’ Julie can vaguely picture a guy with long mousy hair, a mousy beard and dirty clothes who often drinks in The Rising Sun. She didn’t know he was a dealer. ‘Yeah. What about him?’
‘He bought a load of this moody gear off Anthony, but the thing is, Jesus actually has bonsai trees and so he recognised what these pellets were. He said he was going to kill Anthony, so he left. Charlotte knows Anthony,’ he adds.
‘Charlotte knows everyone.’
‘She’s all right, isn’t she? She was showing me some yoga move the other night in The Rising Sun, to help with my headaches.’
‘She hasn’t always been like that. Luke was right last night – she is way more hippy now compared with what she was like when she lived in our street. She used to eat Findus Crispy Pancakes and shoot an air rifle in the back garden then.’ Julie realises she’s talking too quickly. ‘Are you having bad headaches?’
‘Yeah. And nausea. It hasn’t been too good this week.’
‘Is it to do with . . .?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Shit.’ Julie looks at the table.
‘I went to the hospital yesterday. I’ve got some weird complication that I don’t really understand. There’s some treatment I can have, but you have to be worse than me to get it. This thing I need – they’ve got two machines in the country or something but there’s more in America. All I can do here is have one of my balls removed and hope for the best.’
‘What if you go to America?’
‘Could cure it. I’ll never know.’
‘Does it cost loads?’
‘Yeah. There’s no way I could afford it. Got my passport, though, in case I win the Lottery, but there isn’t much chance of that.’
‘God.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, it’s not that bad. At least I don’t have to have my dick cut off.’
David catches Julie’s eye and for some reason they both laugh.
‘They should protect people from this,’ Julie says.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, all the money they spend on space travel and consumer research and making things more efficient . . . You’d think they’d try immortality first.’
‘Try immortality first? What the fuck are you going on about?’
‘You know, if they valued life above everything else – they could find a cancer cure instead of sending people to the moon. Or instead of developing cars that went faster, they’d make safer cars. Instead of developing aircraft, they’d make ships one hundred per cent safe first. I don’t know. It seems stupid to me that cars are made of this really thin metal so that when you crash there’s maximum damage and maximum injury. It’s stupid. Why not make cars out of rubber, or put magnetic forcefields around them so they repel each other or something?’
David shrugs. ‘People aren’t that into safety, are they?’
‘And these train disasters . . . They make me so angry.’
‘Yeah. That’s privatisation, isn’t it? Profit first, safety second. I agree with you there. I’m not sure about rubber cars, though.’ David laughs. ‘You’re so fucking mental.’
‘Trains are terrifying,’ Julie says. ‘I don’t understand why they go so fast. I’m sure people would rather get to work alive than fast.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Of course. Don’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’ David lights another cigarette and draws on it hard, holding it between his thumb and index finger. ‘It’s not that simple, is it?’
Julie thinks for a second. ‘All right, imagine there are two train lines. One runs really slow trains. It takes, say, an hour to get to London from here, but you know you’ll definitely get there safely. There’s a hundred per cent chance of survival. Right, so there’s another line, with faster trains that get you to London in fifteen minutes, but on this line there’s only, say, a ninety-six per cent chance of survival. Wouldn’t everyone take the slower train? I would.’
David’s laughing. ‘Julie. No one would. You’d be on that train on your own.’
‘But why not? I don’t understand.’
‘People take risks all the time. People don’t think in terms of percentage chance of survival. They just want to get to work quickly.’
‘But why don’t they think about survival?’
‘They just don’t. If you thought about survival all the time you’d . . . I don’t know. You’d just go fucking mental, wouldn’t you? You just don’t have that level of control. You’ve just got to live with it.’
‘Why? What if you don’t want to live with it?’
David shrugs. ‘I suppose you’d just never go out, or do anything.’ His phone starts playing an electronic version of ‘Guilty Conscience’ by Eminem and vibrating across the table. ‘Hang on,’ he says, picking it up. ‘Don’t know who this is going to be.’ He flips it open. ‘Yo,’ he says into it. ‘Oh – all right? How did you get my number? Huh? Yeah, it’s true. Julie? Yeah, she’s here.’ He covers the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Leanne,’ he says to Julie. ‘Burger King,’ he says into his phone. ‘Do you want to speak to Ju – Oh, right. OK, then.’ He flips his phone shut. ‘She’s coming here,’ he says.
Chapter 25
When Luke woke up on Wednesday morning he had that feeling like he’d forgotten something important. It was a weird feeling, because Luke’s never really forgotten anything in his life. There’s not exactly much for him to forget. All his memories are collected around him in this room. Luke’s never out; rarely unavailable. He may well be the most organised person on earth. At least, he may well have been, before he decided to drink beer.
If an e-mail comes through, the computer makes a noise. If someone wants to speak to Luke on the phone, the computer makes a noise. When Wei tried to get through on the phone at eleven last night – as arranged – the computer didn’t make a noise. Luke had muted the sound when Chantel was looking at websites because she didn’t like the music. Then he got drunk and forgot to put the sound back on.
Charlotte came over soon after Luke woke up, looking like she’d just got up herself.
‘I’ve fucked it up,’ he said to her. ‘I’ve let Wei down.’
She made a phone call.
‘We’re going to see him,’ she said. ‘In Wales.’
It was as simple as that.
Then she showed Luke how to do the Hero, the Tree, the Cobra and the Cat instead of his usual exercises. While Luke stretched himself into these positions he considered the possibility not only of leaving the house, but also of going to Wales, wherever that was, and felt oddly sick at the thought of everything.
It’s almost nine when Julie rings. It’s dark and raining. Charlotte’s gone home.
‘We’re on our way over,’ Julie says.
‘We?’ says Luke.
‘Me and David.’ She sounds breathless. ‘We left The Edge.’
‘What, as in . . .’
‘As in walked out.’
‘Why?’
‘The manager was being a dick. David told him he was exploiting us.’
‘Good for David.’
‘We’ve got Leanne with us as well.’
‘Lucky you.’
Julie doesn’t say anything. Probably because Leanne’s there.
About ten minutes later, David walks into Luke’s room alone.
‘All right, mate?’ David says.
‘Oh – David. Hi. Where’s Julie?’
‘Out in the car with Leanne still. Leanne’s having a “mare”.’
‘A what?’
‘A nightmare. A crisis. She said she had to talk to Julie.’
‘Maybe she’s broken a nail o
r something,’ Luke says.
David laughs. Luke motions for him to sit down.
‘I’ve had a bit of a weird day,’ Luke says.
‘Join the club, mate.’
Luke’s breathing feels funny. There’s an unfamiliar uncertainty swirling around inside him like clothes in a washing-machine in one of those whiter-than-white commercials. Julie’s not here. David’s here and Luke likes David but he doesn’t know him very well. He’s not sure what to say to him. Julie’s not here. She’s late. She’s left her job. How is Luke going to tell her that she’s got to go with him to Wales? Where is Wales? Luke sees a street sign in his head, like the ones in American films: You Are Now Leaving Essex – Welcome To Wales. Will it take ten minutes to get there? Half an hour? It can’t be longer than that, surely. If it takes ten hours to get to California, then it can’t take that long to get to Wales. Maybe fifteen minutes.
One of Luke’s favourite programmes is starting on BBC2. It’s this thing about a group of people connected to a new Internet company. Luke found the first episode a bit tedious, then got hooked. He understands the Internet-related elements of the plot, and the narrative drive is very strong. They should have more TV shows based on the Internet, or people shut in houses. Usually, Julie would be here, and they’d watch the show together, in silence, like they always do, with their agreement – more than ten years old now – to discuss a show only after it’s finished. One of the many things they agree on is that if you discuss something while it’s happening, you miss it. Luke suddenly wonders if journalists feel they don’t experience the events they report because of this. He thinks of mentioning this thought to Julie, but she’s not here, and David is.