out of the blueââ He snapped his fingers. âAnd thatâs all there is to it,â he added sadly. âMy life down the toilet, basically.â
âAh well.â Luke shrugged again. âSpilled milk, plenty more fish, all that crap. I donât really see, though, what any of thatâs got to do with you quitting your job and coming in with us.â
âYou raised the subject,â Duncan snapped back.
âYes,â Luke said. âAnd obviously itâs relevant. Itâs left you with a raw, bleeding hole where your self-esteem used to be, and that explains why you canât be bothered to try doing something about your wretched, pointless existence. Fair enough; I can see exactly where youâre coming from. What Iâm having trouble with is your reluctance to leave the barren desert island and let yourself get rescued by the passing ship. Canât see the problem myself. Perhaps youâd care to explain.â
It had never been what Luke Ferris said; always the way he said it. How else could anyone explain why instructions like you take this bowl of cold custard and balance it on top of the Headâs office door while I nip back and set off the fire alarm had, at the time, seemed not only wise and sensible but the only possible course of action in the circumstances? Later on, in the still calm of triple detention, it was possible to unpick the strands of his logic and trace the fatal flaws. But when Luke was giving you your orders, it was as though the Oxford University Press had recalled all the earlier editions of the Dictionary and replaced them with one containing only the single word Yes .
âI need time to think about it,â Duncan repeated.
And Luke shrugged again. âSure,â he said. âYouâd be an idiot to take a big decision like this without weighing up all the pros and cons, considering the implications, really thinking hard about what you want to do with your life.â He smiled. âYou can have as long as it takes me to get in another round. Then you can toddle back to Craven Ettins and clear your desk.â
In spite of his mental turmoil, Duncan couldnât let that pass. âDoes alcohol have any effect on you at all?â he asked.
Luke smiled. âLong story. Be back soon.â
There was, Duncan decided, only one thing he could sensibly do. He waited until Luke reached the bar and turned his back on him; then he jumped up and scuttled out of the pub as fast as he could go.
Reception glared at him as he loped through the front office, looking nervously over his shoulder. âThere you are,â she said. âYouâve had ever so many calls in the last ten minutes. Ferris and Loopââ
He leaned on the desk, both hands planted, fingers spread, so that Reception leaned back nervously. âIf Mr Ferris rings,â he said loudly and clearly, âtell him I died. Got run over by a bus at the corner of Barditch Alley. Private funeral, no flowers. You got that?â
âYes, butââ
âBus. Brakes squealing. Squelch. Flat as a pool table. Come on, picture it in your mind, itâll help you sound convincing.â
Duncan couldnât stop himself sprinting up the stairs, hardly stopping to draw breath until he was back in his office with the door shut. He was tempted to drag the filing cabinet over to block the doorway with, but he guessed the partners might not approve. To hell with Luke Ferris and his rotten gang, he said to himself. Iâve been there once, Iâm not going back. Ever.
All that afternoon he felt as though his chair was stuffed with six-inch nails, and every time the phone rang he cringed. But apparently heâd shaken them off, at least for now. As four oâclock dragged by (it was one of those days when the Chariot of the Sun gets a flat tyre, and its fiery Charioteer has to get out and push it all the way to the portals of the sunset) he felt
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