obviously taken him by surprise and he was scrabbling to close down whatever he had been viewing on his monitor.
'Evening, George. Keeping busy?' Tom asked, not stepping any closer to his colleague's work area.
'Mmm, yes. I...' Slowly Creepy George rose to his feet, the bushy hair connecting with an equally dense pair of sideburns. Framed in it all was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with particularly thick lenses. His eyes flashed darkly. 'Just tidying up some old files on the main server.' He reached for the front pocket of his thick khaki shirt and pulled out a Phillips screwdriver. Pointing it at the semi-disembowelled hard drive on his desk, wires and circuit boards exposed for everyone to see, he added, 'I need to fix Tris's
machine before Monday, too.'
He still hadn't looked at Jon.
'Oh right,' said Tom. 'Well, we're only popping in so my friend here can have a look round. Jon, this is George.'
'Hi,' said Jon, stepping forwards and holding a hand out over the monitors separating George from the rest of the room. A pair of magnified eyes blinked once, almost black irises giving him the stare of a corpse. Then a clammy palm was pressed briefly against Jon's hand, fingers barely flexing before contact was broken.
To Jon's surprise, a feeling that bordered on revulsion suddenly reared up inside him, instinctive and instantaneous.
Ten minutes later they were settling into two leather chairs in the snug surroundings of the Bull's Head. An early Van Morrison track was playing quietly from invisible speakers as Jon gulped a mouthful of beer and said, 'What's the score with that bloke in your office?'
'Creepy George?' said Tom, shrugging his shoulders. 'He was at the company long before I joined. One of those people who melt into the background whenever the occasional job has to be cut. I'm not really sure what his exact role is – I've heard him described as office manager; he's responsible for the computer system and in charge of getting the photocopiers and colour printers up and running again when they get jammed or run out of toner. Aside from that, he backs up all the files at the end of the day, orders new pieces of kit and upgrades equipment when it's needed. He chooses to work really strange hours – comes in late morning then works through far into the evenings, totally alone. If he's ever at his desk first thing in the morning, he's been there all night. Doing exactly what, I've no idea. No one has ever seen him eat anything other than family-size bags of Minstrels and he only drinks some type of purple squash from a bottle he brings in with him each day.'
'Well,' said Jon. 'He wasn't tidying up old computer files when we walked in on him. He couldn't get rid of whatever was on his computer screen fast enough.'
'That's the copper in you,' said Tom. 'I hadn't noticed. He was probably about to beat off to some teenage sex site.'
Or worse, Jon almost replied. Another pint later and Jon felt he could ask Tom about Charlotte again. 'So come on, mate. Cards on the table. How are you really finding married life?'
'What do you mean?' Tom answered, a tiny note of defensiveness in his voice.
Jon decided to lay out an admission of his own and see what it prompted. 'To be honest, the whole marriage thing makes me shit my pants.'
'What? But you're as good as married already! You've been with Alice for donkey's years.'
'Yeah, I know.' He looked at Tom's wedding band. 'But it's the formality of it all. I don't know, it makes me feel claustrophobic.'
'It doesn't change a thing, mate. I tell you what should make you feel really trapped – your shared mortgage with her. That's harder to get out of than any marriage.'
Jon smiled wryly in agreement. 'Until you have kids. Then you're really tied down.'
Again Tom sounded surprised. 'You're not a hundred per cent, then?'
Jon looked up at the ceiling and kicked his legs straight under the table. 'I don't know. It's the biggest step you can take. I just reckon I'll be
'Evening, George. Keeping busy?' Tom asked, not stepping any closer to his colleague's work area.
'Mmm, yes. I...' Slowly Creepy George rose to his feet, the bushy hair connecting with an equally dense pair of sideburns. Framed in it all was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with particularly thick lenses. His eyes flashed darkly. 'Just tidying up some old files on the main server.' He reached for the front pocket of his thick khaki shirt and pulled out a Phillips screwdriver. Pointing it at the semi-disembowelled hard drive on his desk, wires and circuit boards exposed for everyone to see, he added, 'I need to fix Tris's
machine before Monday, too.'
He still hadn't looked at Jon.
'Oh right,' said Tom. 'Well, we're only popping in so my friend here can have a look round. Jon, this is George.'
'Hi,' said Jon, stepping forwards and holding a hand out over the monitors separating George from the rest of the room. A pair of magnified eyes blinked once, almost black irises giving him the stare of a corpse. Then a clammy palm was pressed briefly against Jon's hand, fingers barely flexing before contact was broken.
To Jon's surprise, a feeling that bordered on revulsion suddenly reared up inside him, instinctive and instantaneous.
Ten minutes later they were settling into two leather chairs in the snug surroundings of the Bull's Head. An early Van Morrison track was playing quietly from invisible speakers as Jon gulped a mouthful of beer and said, 'What's the score with that bloke in your office?'
'Creepy George?' said Tom, shrugging his shoulders. 'He was at the company long before I joined. One of those people who melt into the background whenever the occasional job has to be cut. I'm not really sure what his exact role is – I've heard him described as office manager; he's responsible for the computer system and in charge of getting the photocopiers and colour printers up and running again when they get jammed or run out of toner. Aside from that, he backs up all the files at the end of the day, orders new pieces of kit and upgrades equipment when it's needed. He chooses to work really strange hours – comes in late morning then works through far into the evenings, totally alone. If he's ever at his desk first thing in the morning, he's been there all night. Doing exactly what, I've no idea. No one has ever seen him eat anything other than family-size bags of Minstrels and he only drinks some type of purple squash from a bottle he brings in with him each day.'
'Well,' said Jon. 'He wasn't tidying up old computer files when we walked in on him. He couldn't get rid of whatever was on his computer screen fast enough.'
'That's the copper in you,' said Tom. 'I hadn't noticed. He was probably about to beat off to some teenage sex site.'
Or worse, Jon almost replied. Another pint later and Jon felt he could ask Tom about Charlotte again. 'So come on, mate. Cards on the table. How are you really finding married life?'
'What do you mean?' Tom answered, a tiny note of defensiveness in his voice.
Jon decided to lay out an admission of his own and see what it prompted. 'To be honest, the whole marriage thing makes me shit my pants.'
'What? But you're as good as married already! You've been with Alice for donkey's years.'
'Yeah, I know.' He looked at Tom's wedding band. 'But it's the formality of it all. I don't know, it makes me feel claustrophobic.'
'It doesn't change a thing, mate. I tell you what should make you feel really trapped – your shared mortgage with her. That's harder to get out of than any marriage.'
Jon smiled wryly in agreement. 'Until you have kids. Then you're really tied down.'
Again Tom sounded surprised. 'You're not a hundred per cent, then?'
Jon looked up at the ceiling and kicked his legs straight under the table. 'I don't know. It's the biggest step you can take. I just reckon I'll be
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