Needless to say, I was in no fit state to do any work. I furiously flicked between my emails, the internet and Excel, my mind ablaze with confusion and fear. My brow was damp and the complexion of my skin had turned a dour grey. My head throbbed with every squeal Raquel made. The only thing I could do was take as many cigarette breaks as was humanly feasible.
On the fifth or sixth visit to the yard behind the office, I leant, nervously, against the brick wall. I jumped as the back door creaked open, and watched as Sarah’s face appeared from inside. She smiled at my reaction before asking: ‘What the fuck is going on with you?!’ It was an entirely pertinent question given my behaviour since yesterday lunchtime.
‘Sarah, I think something weird is happening to me’, I stammered.
I had a good relationship with Sarah. She was more of a friend than my boss. She had hired me when I was fresh out of university, and had looked out for me in the early months of my career, as I took some time to adapt to the rigours of full time employment. By rigours, I mean the strain of being up for more than twelve hours a day. As I woke up and improved, I adopted the role of her right hand man, taking on responsibility which others shied away from. She rewarded me with progression and pay rises; it was a working relationship that we both wanted to bloom. As a consequence, we trusted each other implicitly.
‘Tell me what is going on. Maybe I can help’, she said quietly.
I inhaled deeply. I didn’t really know where to start with this story. Do I go with the fact that Michael Caine had called the office yesterday? Or do I go with the familiar? I must have told Sarah a thousand times how hot I thought that pinky, winky brunette was.
‘You know the Italian sandwich shop down on Manette Street? You know the hot brunette behind the bar?’
Sarah nodded.
‘Yeah? She was on the tube this morning and she winked. At me. She winked at me!’
Sarah nodded again. Silence. ‘Stop fucking around, Frank’.
My eyes bulged with incredulity; I was oblivious to how preposterous my story sounded. I had assumed it was as easy as just saying the words, and help would be on its way. No. I would have to work for this one.
‘Sarah, I promise! I swear on my mother’s life. It’s true. I even ran over to the shop after I got off the tube because I had to check. It was her! She was wearing the same pink dress as well. She was on the platform as I got off, I recognised her as she passed me, I turned to look at her on the train, and she winked at me!’
Words tumbled out of my mouth. My brain tried to piece together the events of this morning in a coherent manner, but judging by the look on Sarah’s face, they weren’t being received as they were intended. In the end, my words ran out and silence fell between us once more.
‘Ok’, she began. ‘So let’s assume that it was the same girl, and you did actually meet her this morning. Why were you acting weird after lunch yesterday? You were more than just hungover. Have you been doing drugs again?’ Her voice flooded with accusation.
I shook my head, understanding the question and the fact that I had yet to explain the part about Michael Caine. Thank god this is fiction, because otherwise it would sound ridiculous.
‘Michael Caine rang the office at lunch yesterday’. Sarah’s impending ridicule was palpable. ‘He told me I needed to watch out, but that I wasn’t in any danger. He called me by my name. I know it sounds like bullshit, but you have to believe me!’
‘Frank, are you taking the piss out of me?’ Sarah hissed.
‘No! I am being deadly serious, hand on heart. Please believe me’.
There was another silence. Sarah seemed to be weighing up what I had told her. ‘So, you think that Michael Caine telling you to watch out and the appearance of the girl from the sandwich shop are linked?’ I nod. ‘You know, if they are, they’ve been watching you for over a year and a half. That picture has been in that shop for as long as you’ve been working at Found!. Have you thought about that?’
I hadn’t. Once again, the weight of fear and confusion started crashing around my mind. Sarah was right. They would have had to have planned this well in advance. How long had they been watching me? Why me? Why were they watching me?!
I tried to think back over the last year and a half, of all the times when they could, and probably would have been watching me. The faceless characters that passed me on the street; the man in the pin striped suit, holding a leather bound brief case; the lady in the long black overcoat, her pink heels clicker-clacking along the pavement; the countless homeless men and women begging for change. I thought of the Big Issue seller on the corner of Greek Street who I’d become accustomed to greeting every lunchtime. Even he, who I see roughly five times a week, had an invisible face. The harder I tried to recall his features, the more they faded into nothing.
My complexion must have paled even further, as Sarah interrupted my thoughts: ‘Shit, Frank. You don’t look well at all. Go inside and sit down; I’ll get you some water. We can discuss it some more after work, yeah?’
I smiled weakly, nodded, and moved for the back door. Several more hours of flicking between my emails, the internet and Excel lay in wait.
The Warm Up 