Terry stood at the entrance and surveyed the conference hall with that feeling of impending doom in his gut. This was going to be a long day. He'd already sat in his car delaying the inevitable for fifteen minutes, slowly got out, struggled into the ill fitting suit jacket that he hated so much, picked up the agenda and made his way across the car park. 'A vital networking opportunity.' 'Lets see if we're going in the right direction.' 'Keep your ears open.' 'Suck it and see.' The endless spiel of management no-speak droned off his boss' tongue with shameless abandon. If it was so fucking important then why didn’t he come? This was just his kind of environment. Pompous professionals with an over inflated sense of self-importance and receding chins. He could have mingled to his hearts content, or at least sorted out his order of batting as a starter for ten. Terry however, couldn’t give a flying fuck about the new challenges in sustainability and the changing face of brownfield regeneration, but here he was. Time to get his ducks in a row and push the envelope until the close of play.
He joined the registry queue and dutifully signed his name. He got his badge, picked up his information pack and the all-important Continuing Professional Development certificate. And now he was in, no turning back. Great. Before him was a sea of professional arseholes, managing to say nothing while on permanent transmit. Charmless whores to corporate Britain. Nothing of interest to convey. No personality to exude. Not listening to anyone. Just impatiently waiting for their turn to speak. A charisma void. A swarm of suits and shoes and ties and bullshit. Terry shuddered to his bones.
Item #1 – Waste and it's role in the nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh. Wicked. Terry found his seat next to a fat bloke with a steady blizzard of dandruff falling on his shoulders. He was from BFT Andersons, apparently, and had a gimp-a-like assistant in tow. To his right was some crazy legged mental home escapee, who was something to do with risk assessment modelling, and blatantly shouldn’t be allowed out in daylight hours. Terry tried his best to sink into his chair.
As the speaker droned on about soil hospitals and bio-remediation, Terry's eyelids grew heavier. Only the dubious personal hygiene of Mr BFT and it's steady waft singeing his nostril hair, stopped him from nodding off completely. He also wasn’t totally convinced that Crazy Legs wouldn’t try to cop a feel or, god forbid, lick his face while he was asleep. Forty-five minutes later and the floor was open to questions. Why don’t you fuck off and die? How do you sleep at night? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you in the face and do humanity a favour? But no. It soon became apparent that Terry's finger was no where near the pulse of the environmental contracting society, as chartered this and accredited that probed Mr Waste in a desperate attempt to show the room how clever they were. Eventually The Chair stood and announced a short 'comfort break' and a polite request to reconvene in fifteen minutes. More networking, whoopdy fucking doo.
'So Terry.' Mr BFT leaned across to look at his name badge, stirring up a small cloud of recently flaked scalp in the process. 'What do you do at Dryton's?'
Ooh, I don’t know. Shower before I go to work in the morning? Use medicated shampoo? Get off my fat arse and walk around periodically? Leave people the fuck alone?
'We design and implement strategies for investigating and remediating contaminated land.' Terry regurgitated the party line and hated himself for it.
'Well it seems like we're fraternising with the competition eh Julian?’ Mr BFT's trained monkey nodded furiously with an over-enthusiastic toothy grin.
Christ.
'Yes, we're moving more in that direction ourselves. We've been in the civil engineering side since our inception but there's not many people out there who are doing it properly is there?'
Terry couldn’t recall asking the fat prick, but he was cornered now.
'We're a small company who relies on repeat business so we have to provide a robust service.' Trying to at least be civil.
'Mmm, of course we're only interested in the big players at the high end of the market. Large sites with complex problems.'
Of course.
'What do you do concerning risk modelling, particularly with regard to controlled waters?' Fucking Crazy Legs had saved him. He could rub Terry's leg till lunchtime for this. Well, perhaps not.
'We're looking to expand in that area too. Is that something you're in to?' They were talking over the top of him now, still no escape.
'I'm actually a freelance risk modeller. A gun for hire so to speak.'
A gun for hire?! This boys a right card. Oh bugger me, Julian The Gimp loved that one.
Terry saw his chance and took it. 'If you'll excuse me gentlemen, I shall have to take advantage of this comfort break.’ Comfort break, bollocks! Terry was busting for a slash.
'Yes, yes, see you in five.' Mr BFT & Crazy Legs were already exchanging cards.
The coffee was weak as dishwater and only crumbs remained on the biscuit plate but at least Terry was on his feet. He had to stay alert and ready for the next strategic retreat from a networking opportunity. Keep moving and avoid eye contact. It was drizzling outside. Perfect. Less people smoking. Terry could murder a cigarette. He lit up close to two blokes about his age, maybe they were as pleased to be here as he was. Surely he wasn’t the only one at this gathering of automatons that viewed his job as just that? A job. Something to finance his weekend. Something that ended at 17.00 on a weekday. Something that bypassed him on a Monday morning and Friday afternoon. Maybe he could get into a meaningful conversation about football. He lit up his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
'How's it going lads?' Terry wasn’t even going to try and get it off on a formal footing.
They both nodded 'Hi.' Before the two fresh facers, who Terry supposed had shared a pot of brylcream that morning, looked him slowly up and down. Terry noticed that they both had pink linings to their suits. Pink linings? Ooh Tel son, shouldn’t have opened your mouth. Eventually tweedle dum spoke.
'It's hard to see how this new code of practice is going to change a great deal don’t you think?'
Terry looked him straight in the eye. 'Fuck off.'
He turned his back on two gaping jaws and slowly made his way to an empty part of the veranda to finish his fag in peace.
Terry got back to his seat. Crazy Legs and Mr BFT were deep in conversation. Julian The Gimp was furiously taking notes. Thankfully only nodded acknowledgement was required this time and Terry settled down for the pre-lunch amble.
Item #2 – Contaminated Land – A Contractors View. Riveting.
The temperature in the room was beginning to rise so Terry decided to try and slip out of his suit jacket. Never an easy thing sitting in the middle of a row of people. Especially when you’re right next to a fat bloke. He struggled awkwardly. Shuffling from side to side, the plastic seat cover making farting noises as he shifted and eventually got his jacket off. As he laid it over the back of his chair something thin and light bounced off his lap and onto the floor between his feet. The company credit card. "Terry, take this with you, get yourself a nice hotel for the night. Travel back up the next day. It’s a long haul so you may as well split it up. This is the PIN number. Don’t lose it." The boss' words reverberated round his head and Terry started to think outside the box. If politicians can claim for their moat on expenses, then lets see what we can get away with Tel boy. Get yourself a nice hotel? I fuckin will boss, cheers.
Terry was impatiently, tapping his feet with excitement, as he waited for the speaker to finish. He got up and left as soon as the last question was fielded, almost sending Julian The Gimp sprawling in his wake. He wasn’t alone, lunchtime is when all the tossers who want to sound really important phone their office to talk loudly about jobs which were rarely discussed. At the entrance, Terry squeezed through the herd of cattle shouting into mobiles. He jogged across the car park to his motor and jumped in. The company sat-nav sat like a spare part on his dashboard. A real swanky piece of kit like that contrasted totally with his old school Civic, with its badly wired self installed stereo, missing hub caps and brown rust colouration. He tapped in 'city centre hotels' and looked at the results. Lets away then Tel, we've got a fair bit to get through between now and bedtime.
*****
Terry rocked up at the Findlay Plaza Hotel about fifteen minutes later. He’d picked it because, although it looked quite swanky, it wasn’t so posh as to disapprove of what he had planned. He booked the best suite available, a massage and Venison for lunch. He’d never had venison before but it was the most expensive thing on the menu and would have been rude not to have it. Now he was sitting in the bar drinking a White Russian. He was waiting for a man to turn up whom the impossibly nice Sri-Lankan kid on room service had said worked here. He’d been having a bit chat with Dave, the barman, about the best places to frequent around town. He’d also persuaded Dave to join him for a sly half or two once he’d finished his shift. All of a sudden the conversation died, Dave nodded to the door and went to polish his glass at the other end of the bar. The man eyed Terry with a certain amount of suspicion as he slinked across the empty bar and slid onto the bar stool next to him.
‘How can I make your stay with us more comfortable Mr….?’
‘Terry, just Terry.’ Terry hated being addressed as ‘Mr’ or ‘Sir’ almost as much as he loathed being called ‘son’ or ‘young man’.
‘Ok then just Terry, what can I do for you?’ The guy wasn’t actually that much older than Terry and he had a glint in his eye that Terry could relate to.
‘Well you can start by sorting me out with a big bag of top notch Charlie.’ Terry laid his cards on the table.
‘I’m sorry Terry, I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.’ Terry didn’t believe him.
‘What, do you just sort out the whores do you? If that’s all you were good for, you’d still be pulling pints with Dave over there.’
‘And will you be requiring a whore as well?’
‘I’ll see how I get on the conventional way first, cheers. You just sort out the sherbet and organise me and Dave onto a guest list in a strip bar.’
‘And how will you be paying?’
‘Just stick it on the bill.’
‘As what?’
‘I don’t know. Sundries? Room service? Big, fuck off bag of cocaine? Use your imagination.’
‘I’ll be back within an hour.’ The man rose, told Dave not to charge Terry for any drink while he was away, and left the bar.
'White Russian please Dave.'
*****
An hour later and Terry was smiling. At least he hoped he was. The roof of his mouth was so numb he couldn’t feel his front teeth. He was telling Dave and some random stuffed suit, who’d entered the bar, his theory to solve the economic crisis.
‘Well it’s quite simple really. We have five yearly enforced euthanasia on the over 65s, you know what I'm saying? Think about it though, it’s flawless. We save public money on pensions, right, NHS treatment and road safety. That money can then go back into galvanising the economy or bailing out the next bank or car company, right. Yeah, then we cut greenhouse gas because they haven’t got their heating blasting throughout the summer, right. We immediately free up housing for first time buyers and care homes can be converted into flats. Plus we don’t have to put up with their shite stories and incessant whinging. I tell you fucking what lads, its spotless.'
Dave the barman placed another White Russian in front of him. ‘What about the people who work in care homes?’
‘We just set them on digging the mass graves and train them up for the firing squad. No point in wasting soldiers on that job; they’re needed for this perpetual Middle Eastern crap.’
‘I don’t think that bill would get through Terry.’
‘Bollocks! Its times like these when the tough decisions need to be made. Do we stand back and watch our great country crumble or do we get up and do something about it?’
‘By killing off all the old codgers?’
Terry waved his finger in mock admonishment. ‘Coffin dodgers Dave, coffin dodgers.’
At the break in conversation the two men’s eyes met and Terry crumbled into a fit of laughter. ‘I’m just making conversation Dave. What would you rather talk about? The weather?’
Dave looked out of the window, it was raining.
*****
Terry was staggering back to his seat in front of the stage where he'd left Dave. The hotel barman was making the most of his corporate hospitality, chatting to some stripper called Mya. Terry stood still, mopped his brow and made a vain attempt to focus on the room. The principle shapes were all there but the flashing lights and strobes were blurring the fuck out of anything further than 10 yards away. Then a sultry figure floated out of the purple haze and stood in front of him.
'Hey stranger, would you like me to dance for you?'
Terry looked her up and down, he had a predatory horn and she looked good enough to eat.
'What's your name?'
'Bobbi, who are you?' Her cutesy little mannerisms and big green eyes were taking Terry's alcohol fuelled brain by storm. Plus he couldn’t take his eyes off the tattoo that started below her right breast, curled around her ribs and snaked seductively towards her pussy.
'Terry'
'Well Terry, I've been watching you all night and what I really want, is for you to come through to the back and let me dance for you.'
'That sounds like a good start to me gorgeous.'
Bobbi took him by the hand and led him through a draped doorway to the side of the stage. They squeezed past an absolute hulk of a bouncer, who winked at Bobbi and viewed Terry with vague indifference.
As Bobbi gyrated her body in front of him and ground herself against his groin, Terry fought the urge to sink his teeth into her buttocks or lick her slender neck. His hungry eyes feasted on her taut body and That Tattoo. When the song finished, she clamped her knees round his waist kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear.
'Go to your seat and wait for me there, I won't be long.'
When Terry got back to his table Dave wasn’t there but a bottle of champagne was, along with some empty glasses. Terry poured two, sat back and waited for Bobbi to arrive. Dave could be getting a dance. He could have gone home. He could be outside getting a kicking from the bouncers for all Terry cared. Terry had other things on his agenda.
Bobbi glided across and perched herself on Terry's knee. 'Ooh! Is that for me?' She didn’t wait for an answer as she swept up her glass and took a sip. 'So Terry, where do you come from?'
Terry let out a short laugh. 'Don’t you think it’s funny?'
'What's that?' Bobbi's big eyes smouldered into his.
'That the two first questions people ask is "What's your name?" and "Where do you come from?" and really, the answers to those questions are the least important things about someone.'
Bobbi giggled 'Well, ask me something then.'
Terry let his eyes wander over her body before he fixed her eyes again. 'Tell me about your tattoo.'
'This?' Bobbi traced her finger tantalisingly down her tattoo. 'I love to go to Ibiza and I have all the logos of the major clubs mingled into each other. Do you like it?'
'It’s amazing.'
'Do you have any?'
'A couple.' Terry rolled up his right sleeve to reveal an unusual mark on his inside forearm. 'This is the Inca symbol for the sun, I got it while I was in Peru last year.'
Bobbi softly ran her nail across it. 'Wow. What about the other one?'
Terry smiled. 'You'll have to get to know me a bit more intimately before see that one.'
'Well you've seen me naked.'
'When does your shift finish?'
Bobbi smiled through the side of her mouth. 'Very ambitious.'
'I only asked when your shift finished.'
'It finished five minutes ago, why, what do you have in mind?'
'We could polish off this bottle of champagne then go somewhere quieter. Do you like cocaine?'
'Love it!' Bobbi's eyes flashed. 'Where does a good looking young man like you get money for coke and lap dancing on a weekday?'
'Company credit card.'
'You must have a great boss.'
'Not for much longer I don’t.'
'So where's this "somewhere quieter" then?'
'I thought we could go to my hotel, snort lines off each others naked bodies and fuck each other senseless.'
Bobbi ran her hand round the back of Terry’s neck and whispered in his ear. 'I don’t sleep with customers.'
'You've finished your shift, so I'm not a customer anymore, plus, I don’t intend doing much sleeping.'
'In that case, wait here while I get my coat.' Bobbi drained her glass and sauntered off through the curtain to Terry's left.
*****
Terry's phone was ringing. He raised his head, rubbed his eyes and gently rolled a sleeping Bobbi off his chest. He looked at the screen. Office.
Bobbi stretched and let out a sleepy groan. 'Mmm, who was that?'
'No-one important.' Terry tossed his phone back onto the bedside table and propped himself up on one elbow.
'Bobbi?'
'Hmm?'
'You couldn’t write me out a receipt for last night could you?'
(c) Gareth Mews 2010