The Folded Man by Matt Hill

others are on their own – eyes poking out from the conversations and the executive patter; the deal closers and thoughts on the war. Conversations that change to cruel whispers of a spazz and his minder; the wounded soldier by there – over there, yes him, that’s the one – him and his keeper.
    The lion and the lamb.
    Beyond the staring crowd, between the legs, beyond the backs, Brian can see another pair of church doors now. The auditorium, or so at least the signs say. They move forward. Slowly. Inching between the gaps. The backs always in his face. Thin-stemmed glasses swinging around at eyeball height.
    And through the gaps, Brian sees him.
    Sees the man in the corner.
    The man staring back.
    Another man from the margins. A man with a beard, a beard and a slim suit, staring. A man staring and following their passage through suits, dodging wine glasses and elbows. A man watching and waiting for something.
    Brian feels studied. Brian feels hot.
    The man in the gaps doesn’t blink. His face flickers as Noah weaves Brian through this forest of men. Gone and there. Vanished and waiting as Brian’s view cuts fast ­between arms, over sleeves, the Vs cut by legs.
    Brian looks away. Brian pretends he hasn’t noticed. Looks sidelong. Looks back.
    The gaze doesn’t falter.
    Ten metres now. Less.
    Sweating. Blinking. Adrenaline. Something wrong. Noah isn’t noticing and Brian can’t make a scene.
    Outside, the night tips fully into black.
    Â 
    Into the auditorium. It’s a narrow room but tremendously long. Bigger here than it looks outside and no mistake – all Victorian details and garish curtains. A kind of theatreland. A theatreland beyond the noise and the lights.
    Hidden back here with the red-backed chairs and the sticky floors, it’s quieter. The odd bod sitting in a chair here and there.
    It’s not completely quiet though. There’s some god-awful music on the PA. Big jugs of water down the front. The stage is small – barely a few metres wide – and the lectern is stained wood, handsome.
    An usher sees Brian and Noah. He’s dressed up like a twat. He jogs along the aisle and tells them to head down the central ramp. He makes some uncomfortable joke about disabled parking at the front. He laughs and skips away. Noah chuckles. Noah points two fingers at the usher. Cocks with his thumb.
    Come the revolution, brother, he says to Brian, and wheels Brian down the incline, between the rows.
    Brian tips his head back, looking up at the smooth, smooth ceiling. His heart’s going like the clappers. He says, Something’s wrong, Noah. Everything’s wrong.
    Eh? Give over, goes Noah. What’s this now?
    I saw something. Somebody. I don’t know; I feel –
    Like you’ve had a G of dust’s how you feel, Noah says. Talk a long talk, don’t you our kid. Just sit still and wait this out. Tape’ll be running now – can’t be filling it up with this clap-trap.
    Noah parks Brian just three feet from the stage edge.
    There, he goes. These are the perks. Knew this’d be a good idea.
    But Brian’s thinking too hard to enjoy perks; thinking too fast and too loose. Who was he, why is he here what does he want with me –
    Noah comes round his front and straightens the badges at Brian’s breast. Asks if they’re right yet, him and him. If they’re ready to kiss and make up.
    Brian doesn’t nod. Brian doesn’t shake his head. Noah takes it as encouragement.
    The pair of them sit at the foot of the stage. Brian imagines so many eyes upon his back. Eyes that drill and mine and bore above the whispers, under the hot stage lights.
    Sitting under the foot of a new world taking aim.
    Brian, a thorn among nails.

6.
    Bob on six, the room grows quiet. Filled, still filling; hushed and hushing. And he walks on then, their man. Flash suit, no tie. Sharp shiny shoes, no stubble. A good six feet longways, taller