As the workmen got off at the following level, Skinner seized the opportunity, announcing, — That is minging, looking towards the departing workies. He knew that when it came to farting everybody turned into Old Etonian High Court judges. Men would always be suspected before women and men in working clothes would always be blamed before men in suits. Those were the rules.
Danny Skinner and Shannon McDowall were making their way to the office, when the thin guy in the suit stopped them and asked for directions. He really was an emaciated youth, Skinner thought: all skin and bone. From the front he looked as though he’d been run over by a steamroller, while at the side elevation he displayed a matchstick-thin body with a slightly oversized head. But he was open-faced enough, with freckled skin and fairish brown hair.
— Follow us, Skinner smiled again, making the introductions.
They took the new lad, Brian Kibby his name was, into the open-plan office. Foy was late, so they made him a coffee and introduced him to everyone. — We won’t take you roundtill Bob comes, Brian, Shannon explained, because he’ll have his own induction programme planned. So, how was your weekend?
Brian Kibby started to enthusiastically recount his weekend. After a bit Skinner felt himself switching off, as the hangover kicked in. He noted the copy of
Game Informer
the new guy had taken from his bag, and picked it up. He wasn’t a big video-game player, but his friend Gary Traynor had loads, and often press-ganged him into playing. He saw a review of one that Traynor had mentioned,
Midnight Club 3: Dub Edition
.— Ever played this one? he asked Kibby.
— It’s brilliant! Kibby said, his voice going high. — I don’t think I’ve ever played a game where you got as much a sense of speed as this one. And it’s not just racing; so much of the emphasis is on customising your wheels so you spend a lot of the time in the garage pimping rides.
— Phoar, Skinner exclaimed, — that sounds right up my street, pimping rides!
Kibby blushed red. — It’s no . . . it isnae . . .
Shannon cut in: — Danny was only joking, Brian. He’s the office comedian, she smiled.
Brian Kibby got back in his flow about the game. Skinner’s growing lack of interest turned into mild contempt when Kibby embarrassingly had to open his box containing a model train, after being pressed by Shannon to explain its contents. He also had, in his bag, McGhee had noticed, a Manchester United hat. — So you’re a Man U fan, Brian? he’d asked Kibby.
— No, I dinnae like football, but I like Manchester United because they’re the biggest team in the world, so you’ve got to follow them, Kibby squeaked eagerly, remembering a family holiday in Skegness, where he and his father had watched the 1999 European Cup Final in the hotel. It was there that he’d bought the hat, which, since Keith’s illness, had taken on a sentimental attachment.
Oh my God, Skinner thought, Shannon will talk to him. Heexcused himself and slumped into the chair of his desk by the window.
This place is full of annoying, straight pricks who just dae your fuckin heid in with their home, garden and golf bullshit. That churchy old cunt Aitken’ll be in soon . . .
. . . and now the new boy, he’s as straight as fuck n aw . . .
Skinner acknowledged his disappointment, realising that he’d secretly wanted another drinking partner-in-crime. He glanced across at Kibby.
Fucking incorruptibly straight. The whiny fucking voice . . .
Those big, camel eyes radiated enthusiasm, but Skinner also thought he could witness, on fleeting occasion, a sneaky calculation in them, which maybe afforded a clue to a less wholesome side of this Kibby guy’s nature.
As Aitken, then Des Moir, a perpetually cheerful middle-aged guy, trooped in wet and damp and made their coffees and shook hands with Kibby, it seemed to Skinner that only he could see this dupli-citous streak in the new
Danny Skinner and Shannon McDowall were making their way to the office, when the thin guy in the suit stopped them and asked for directions. He really was an emaciated youth, Skinner thought: all skin and bone. From the front he looked as though he’d been run over by a steamroller, while at the side elevation he displayed a matchstick-thin body with a slightly oversized head. But he was open-faced enough, with freckled skin and fairish brown hair.
— Follow us, Skinner smiled again, making the introductions.
They took the new lad, Brian Kibby his name was, into the open-plan office. Foy was late, so they made him a coffee and introduced him to everyone. — We won’t take you roundtill Bob comes, Brian, Shannon explained, because he’ll have his own induction programme planned. So, how was your weekend?
Brian Kibby started to enthusiastically recount his weekend. After a bit Skinner felt himself switching off, as the hangover kicked in. He noted the copy of
Game Informer
the new guy had taken from his bag, and picked it up. He wasn’t a big video-game player, but his friend Gary Traynor had loads, and often press-ganged him into playing. He saw a review of one that Traynor had mentioned,
Midnight Club 3: Dub Edition
.— Ever played this one? he asked Kibby.
— It’s brilliant! Kibby said, his voice going high. — I don’t think I’ve ever played a game where you got as much a sense of speed as this one. And it’s not just racing; so much of the emphasis is on customising your wheels so you spend a lot of the time in the garage pimping rides.
— Phoar, Skinner exclaimed, — that sounds right up my street, pimping rides!
Kibby blushed red. — It’s no . . . it isnae . . .
Shannon cut in: — Danny was only joking, Brian. He’s the office comedian, she smiled.
Brian Kibby got back in his flow about the game. Skinner’s growing lack of interest turned into mild contempt when Kibby embarrassingly had to open his box containing a model train, after being pressed by Shannon to explain its contents. He also had, in his bag, McGhee had noticed, a Manchester United hat. — So you’re a Man U fan, Brian? he’d asked Kibby.
— No, I dinnae like football, but I like Manchester United because they’re the biggest team in the world, so you’ve got to follow them, Kibby squeaked eagerly, remembering a family holiday in Skegness, where he and his father had watched the 1999 European Cup Final in the hotel. It was there that he’d bought the hat, which, since Keith’s illness, had taken on a sentimental attachment.
Oh my God, Skinner thought, Shannon will talk to him. Heexcused himself and slumped into the chair of his desk by the window.
This place is full of annoying, straight pricks who just dae your fuckin heid in with their home, garden and golf bullshit. That churchy old cunt Aitken’ll be in soon . . .
. . . and now the new boy, he’s as straight as fuck n aw . . .
Skinner acknowledged his disappointment, realising that he’d secretly wanted another drinking partner-in-crime. He glanced across at Kibby.
Fucking incorruptibly straight. The whiny fucking voice . . .
Those big, camel eyes radiated enthusiasm, but Skinner also thought he could witness, on fleeting occasion, a sneaky calculation in them, which maybe afforded a clue to a less wholesome side of this Kibby guy’s nature.
As Aitken, then Des Moir, a perpetually cheerful middle-aged guy, trooped in wet and damp and made their coffees and shook hands with Kibby, it seemed to Skinner that only he could see this dupli-citous streak in the new
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