The Boss
Monday morning. Always the hardest. Peter looked across at Sarah, still asleep with her mouth slightly slack and her eyes ringed with dark circles. He looked at the windows – he could see it was raining through a crack in the curtains. Damn. How was he going to sit on that park bench without getting wet? Maybe he’d have to go into a café. But that would mean spending an extra 15 quid.
He looked back at the clock. 7.15. He had to get up and leave on time, though it didn’t really matter anymore whether he was late or not. He stumbled around the bedroom, forgetting to be quiet. Sarah stirred and he quickly went over and gave her a goodbye kiss. It was better he left before she was fully awake. He didn’t want her to ask any uncomfortable questions about work. Downstairs the house was quiet, and he couldn’t hear the boys. He put on his waterproofs and slipped out before they come down. It was hard enough lying to your wife, but lying to your children was soul destroying.
Outside Surbiton hummed with the activity of commuters. He’d change at Victoria, getting the tube to Vauxhall. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered going into London at all. He could just sit in a café in Surbiton? But that was risky - what if Sarah or the neighbours saw? He looked back at the house, sitting almost smugly amongst the trees, bordered by flower beds – Sarah was proud of her gardening skills. How long before it was repossessed? Peter reckoned he had a few months before the savings ran out.
At Victoria he got into the carriage and headed to his usual spot near the doors. He leant against the ledge with the bit of blue patterned upholstery so thoughtfully positioned at buttock level - for most people anyway. The newspaper was so dull that he only pretended to read it, hiding behind its slightly damp pages. He held it high, shielding himself from the other passengers, always slightly apprehensive that he would run into someone from the office. What would he tell them? That he hadn’t found anything suitable? That he’d given up? That he was just waiting to hear back? Which of these was true? He didn’t know anymore.
At Vauxhall the platform was crammed tight full of people - like the supermarket queues at Christmas, only much worse. Halfway down the platform the queues dissolved into knots of people, which grew larger and larger till there was a huge crowd struggling to get up the stairs to the barriers. Peter knew he was lucky he didn’t have to go in to work. His (now ex) boss Simon Webb did not take tardiness lightly. In fact, he didn’t take anything lightly. When people referred to him as a ‘nightmare’ to work with they were being charitable. It was a sad testament to the times that people stayed on - Peter himself had been there for 8 years. He looked up at the stairs. What was holding things up? A fat man? A woman with a pram? He realized he was being unkind. It was probably just someone who had forgotten their Oyster.
His eyes wandered past the adverts and scanned the crowd lazily. He looked, but didn’t really see. His mind was full of thoughts – unpleasant, worrying, dreadful thoughts that he didn’t want to confront either. He wished the crowd would move, so he would be able to rush up the stairs, out of the barriers, out onto the street. The busyness of those movements might calm the havoc inside his head.
Then suddenly just a few steps ahead of him, he saw it. Simon’s head. Unmistakably his. Peter looked once, then looked again. Surely he was mistaken. It was 9:05 and Simon should have been at work, presiding over yet another early morning meeting, while everyone else hid their yawns behind their coffee cups. Simon always started his day at 7 a.m. And he expected everyone else to start by 8.30 a.m. at the latest. What was he doing at Vauxhall station at 9:05?
Peter knew he should stop staring. It was far too dangerous. Of all the people he wanted to see, Simon was the very last one. He’d always had an uneasy relationship with him, and the final nail in the coffin was the callousness with which he had handed him his redundancy letter. Yet, like a moth to the flame, his eyes kept wandering back to that head, with its flat top and closely cropped grey hair.
Luckily, the crowd suddenly started moving. Like Skittles pouring out from a bottle, people scattered through the barriers out onto the street, some scuttling, some rolling and some running. Peter staggered out, relieved to have lost Simon in the crowd, and wrestling with the wind for his umbrella. He turned round a corner, narrowly escaping being blown into the face of oncoming traffic. As he was adjusting the bent and broken brolly over his head, he suddenly saw Simon, sitting alone and almost forlorn on a bar stool in a café across the road. As Peter finally got the umbrella under control, his eyes met Simon’s straight on, like an unfortunate collision between two cars. As usual Simon’s gaze was angry and challenging – but there was also something much more unnerving, something like a complicity, like he was conniving with Peter. Like a reflex action, Peter’s umbrella came back down in front of his face, shielding him from Simon. His legs also began to move rapidly - and just as involuntarily.
It was only after he had run for about 5 minutes that Peter stopped. With trembling hands he reached inside his pocket and pulled out his phone. Gasping for breath, he dialed the office number. Esther, Simon’s secretary answered. “Mr. Webb is no longer with us. May I know who’s calling pl…”
But Peter had already hung up.