The Candidate

 

‘It’s just a straightforward procedure, a mere formality. You simply have to tick a few boxes, answer a few questions and the job’s as good as yours.’

 

That’s what Gisela had said, William Howard’s personal assistant, a glamorous fifty something who was fond of Laird, she’d been gunning for him. It was Gisela who wielded most of the power in that company.  She gave him a tip, ‘Answer the questions normally Laird, in a straightforward, honest manner. You’ll be fine, just don’t go throwing us any curve balls’

 

Laird had been the Assistant Purchaser at Howard’s Metal Bits for over twenty years, he knew the business inside out. He’d covered for Gordon, the Chief Purchaser many times before, and for extended periods too; during Gordon’s various illnesses and later his divorce. Now Gordon was moving to Abu Dhabi and the position had finally opened up. It was as good as his.

 

‘Well, there’s only one real candidate Laird, and that’s you, my love,’ said Sally, Laird’s wife as she stroked the small roll of flesh at the back of her husband’s neck. ‘The extra money will come in handy, especially now that Stewart is going off to university.’

 

‘Mmmm,’ Laird wiped excess gravy from the corners of his mouth with a burnt tea towel. ‘I think they had to open up the role on the company website, you know, for equal opportunities purposes but only a couple of other people applied. They’re not in purchasing anyway, they’re just youngsters, there’s no real competition.’

 

Stewart looked up and grinned. ‘Now that, that loser, Gordon Pomeroy’s moving away, they can’t take the piss out of you anymore. It’s basically in the bag, dad.’

 

‘I thought he was moving to Abu Dhabi?’ said Sally, frowning hard.

 

‘He is, you stupid woman!’ Laird snapped as he got up from the table. ‘I’m going to do my breathing exercises and then I’m off to bed.’

 

‘Oh okay, I’ll bring you your special drink.’

 

Despite being told it was simply a formality, Laird was feeling anxious about his interview in the morning. It seemed to him that somehow, he always missed out on promotions, he was never singled out, picked for captain or prefect and his hard work was rarely recognised. He’d occasionally wondered whether there was something wrong with him, something so gross and off putting that nobody, not even his own family would disclose what it was. A scratchy red demon lived inside his head and regularly corroded away any layer of confidence he managed to accrue.

 

This time it’ll be different, he told himself. Gisela had assured him that the job was basically his and now there was nothing he could really do to prepare because he already knew everything. He lay back on the bed and went through the handful of questions that William might ask him; the peaks and troughs of demand, the key suppliers and the secondary ones they fall back on, the effect of metal prices on the markets and the resulting effect on his budget. He shrugged, it’ll be quite straightforward, he told himself and went off to floss his teeth.

 

As a consequence of Laird’s sleep talking, teeth grinding and occasional night terrors, he slept in a separate room to Sally. He liked to have the window wide open and a fresh breeze wafted across his face as he lay there gently and mindfully breathing in and out, imagining spring meadows, chanting monks and resonant whale song.

 

‘I think it’s ready to drink,’ Sally thumped the tray down on the bedside table. ‘I made it ten minutes ago.’

 

Laird sighed, ‘Thanks,’ he said meanly, through barely open lips.

 

‘I brought you a piece of cheese for your teeth.’ Sally kissed his forehead and left.

 

Weird, thought Laird but he enjoyed the cheese nevertheless. It stuck to his teeth and he didn’t engage his tongue in its removal, he left it there, like a milky plug in the fissure gaps of his molars. There wasn’t really much to think about. He pictured Gisela in electric blue underwear, crossing and uncrossing her legs in William’s office; he imagined her taking off her shoes, then putting them on, then taking them off, putting them on, taking them off, all the while maintaining eye contact. 

 

Now he felt quite sleepy. He tried to imagine looking into William’s bulbous, grey eyes while answering questions, to prepare himself mentally. There was a chance he might stand in his own way by behaving strangely, he’d done this before. He wondered if that’s what Gisela had meant by, ‘don’t throw us any curve balls’. It didn’t matter, he wasn’t planning to because he would simply answer the questions in a straightforward manner with a neutral face and neutral body language. 

 

There was nothing else to think about so he meditated a while to clear his head. But a gap opened up, a gap large enough to accommodate a red demon or an unruly dream from the cheese channel.

 

In minutes, Laird was fast asleep. Now he was dressed in his lucky tie and his smartest shirt, Pierre Cardin, expertly ironed by Sally. He was seated in the reception at Howard’s Metal Bits with his hands on his knees, observing his thick, ugly wedding ring and beyond it, his shoes, polished by his own hands, buffed up with a shine that made him feel - like a very important man.

 

The door flung up and Gisela peeped her head round. ‘You can come in now Laird,’ she said quietly, gently, reassuringly to the point where Laird had to wonder if he looked scared, he didn’t feel it. He glanced at himself in the large mirror on the wall and was impressed by what he saw; he looked good, relaxed and strangely younger than his real age.

 

Gisela led him to William Howard’s desk and gestured towards one of several empty seats positioned some distance from it. For several seconds, William didn’t look up but instead, scribbled frantically into a notebook in front of him. There was an awkward silence. It occurred to Laird that something was very odd, very different, he didn’t feel nervous because none of it seemed real. He noticed on the chair next to him was a silver cat, or what’s often referred to as a blue cat. It was curled up but its eyes were wide open, orange and calm, the creature blinked at him.

 

Now I know I’m dreaming, Laird thought to himself since there had never been a cat at Howard’s Metal Bits. A smug wave came over him,suddenly he knew that as a lucid dreamer, he could use this opportunity to rehearse for tomorrow morning, for the real thing. Gisela smiled at him and clutched her clipboard. ‘We’ve just got a few questions to ask,’ she said.

 

William put his biro down and glared at Laird like a well-fed bullfrog that’s just fertilised a gallon of spawn. ‘You’ve been with us a good while now Laird, since even before I took the reins of running this company from my father. To be honest, I see hard work, good practice, integrity, reliability but I don’t yet see flair. I want to find out more about you Laird. What do you think are the main challenges we face in the current climate?’

 

‘Oh,’ Laird sat forward in his chair, the technical spiel flowed out of him like a fountain. ‘Fluctuating metal prices, increased demand from rising markets in developing countries, environmental pressures, competition from China, ever increasing legislation, waste reduction, recycling…’

 

‘Whooah there my friend,’ said William, ‘this is a gentle hack around the countryside of your brain, not a full on gallop cross country. Crikey, I’m not even wearing my chaps!’ He glanced at Gisela and they both laughed slowly and mockingly.

 

Now Laird was feeling a sense of shame for trying too hard and looking stupid but he was still acutely aware of his dream state. It dawned on him that there was no need to be polite and play the role of corporate ass licker. He decided that for the next question he was going to be very direct, honest, to the point and non subservient. 

 

William was back to scribbling in his notepad. What on earth is he writing? thought Laird. That man is from another planet, a posh one, a boarding school education resulting in a contemptuous attitude towards anyone who happened to be an inhabitant of suburbia. It occurred to Laird that William Howard was so posh it was practically a disease, an illness for which there was no treatment.

 

‘Can I ask,’ said William, looking up but not fully opening his eyes, ‘why do you think I have always favoured Gordon Pomeroy for promotion, over yourself?’

 

I don’t have to put up with this, I’m dreaming, thought Laird, I can say whatever the heck I like. ‘Because Gordon Pomeroy is a pretentious prick with a booming voice, a protective slime layer but very little else.’ William and Gisela exchanged a look. She wrote something on her clipboard and William dropped his pen, folded his thick arms and sighed. Laird smiled and whispered, ‘A bit like you.’

 

The cat looked at Laird and held him in a hard stare. William coughed, looked out of the window and said, ‘My father’s father started this business with a horse and cart, he educated my father to do nothing but continue the progression to where we are today...’

 

‘And he educated you to be nothing but a freeloader, sitting there with your soft hands, smug voice and your big stupid face……’

 

Now the silver cat sat up suddenly and poked Laird with its paw. ‘This is supposed to be a rehearsal of the real thing,’ it said, ‘now you’re throwing curve balls all over the shop. One more and you lose the right to lucidity.’

 

Laird looked at the cat in disbelief. That cat is the gatekeeper of my dream, he thought. ‘Ahem,’ he coughed, ‘I suppose, what I mean is that you’re a very powerful managing director Mr Howard.’

 

‘But…’ said William, ‘it is she who holds all the power.’ He pointed at Gisela.

 

Gisela smiled softly at Laird and he became thoroughly distracted. He lowered his eyes slowly down, observing her legs right down to her feet. She was wearing navy blue, patent high heels. ‘Take your shoes off Gisela,’ he said. She kicked one off, using the other to push it with her toe then slowly lifted her foot out of the other, shaking her leg slightly until it dropped from her heel. ‘Now put them back on,’ he said.

 

William sighed and shook his head, ‘No no no no,’ he said.

 

‘Now take them off again,’ Laird continued.

 

‘I’m warning you!’ hissed the silver cat.

 

‘Now on again,’ 

 

It was too late. Laird had forfeited his right to lucidity. William Howard lifted up his notepad to display the word, ‘Loser’ scribbled in large, illustrated letters and Laird slipped immediately into another dream, a familiar nightmare, one in which he had no control. He was back at school in the toilet cubicle, there was a crowd of other boys outside and a few girls too. The cubicle door had shrunk to the size of a saloon door and it kept swinging open and shut. Each time it opened, the other children stared at him, pointed and laughed but he was halfway through his business and unable to just get up and run away.

 

He awoke with the taste of sour cheese in his mouth and the curtains flying open in the wind. His luminous alarm clock displayed the time as 3.37am. Oh no, thought Laird, now I’ll never get back to sleep. Nevermind, he reassured himself, it will just be a straightforward interview, I’ll get the job and everything will be fine.