The HR Manager

The tea was still hot enough to burn her lips when she steeled herself to gather her bits and head to the station. Another day with those needy, intrusive people. Getting in the way of her being seen by The Bosses. The only people that mattered. The half full cup was lowered into the hole of the sink, next to the recently washed nail file. No need for waste - it could be microwaved to give her the burning pain she needed when she got back tonight. A crude way to keep her lips pinched.

Sprinkled along the platform were several people she'd tried to befriend at various times, some grown tired of her spiteful indiscreet gossiping on the train journeys, or once tricked into a drink with her on the way home where they quickly ran away from her lonely penny pinching and stream of vitriol. Others had just been a victim of discrete jabs in the bustle to get on the train. All now hid, though she made no attempt to catch their eye. She'd show them one day. Just like that husband who had divorced her and used the courts to make sure she stayed away. Or that son and his rotten wife who never phoned since the incident with her granddaughter, the child they didn't deserve or want disciplined. Just wait.

How dare she stand so close to me as the train approaches. I deserve a seat more than that trollop. I'm more senior than her.
'Do you have to push? We'll all get on'.
Stupid bitch. Here have this.
'Ouch. Would you mind not nudging me with your elbow?'
It's my seat. It's my seat. I wish I could sharpen more parts of me.

Some had seen it all before and exchanged 'here we go again' raised eyebrows. It was these regular travellers who had, in short exasperated conversations after witnessing a particularly nasty incident on the way into the City, given her the name HRT Manager. Someone somewhere had known she was a HR Manager, though she would always claim HR Director out of the boss's earshot. They'd put her behaviour down to her age, suspecting the menopause. The name fitted like a gestapo glove eventually finding its way to being used at The Company. Though as she never listened, she never heard it.

Over the free paper, whose introduction had pleased her immensely despite the litter, she'd peeped at the other travellers who had better things to do than catch her. Any that displeased her through look, slump, sneeze or simply closeness to her, were allowed into her head where the ongoing game show of 'You're Fired' constantly played. She'd nearly wet herself, which was some achievement before the patches, when she first heard her hero say those words. Now, in both her own game show and, as often as possible in real life, she engineered situations that resulted in people losing their job. It was her only pleasure. Redundancies were the ultimate, but so bothersome these days. Stupid laws and Unions and rights. Dismissal's were still good for a thrill, especially trumping up the charges. She even managed to get some satisfaction from exit interviews, when she hadn't even had the chance to engineer anything, by dropping in some choice phrases when left alone with the person who was leaving. 'Don't shit where you eat' was one such disorientating phrase thrown about before she pretended to take on-board any suggestions for improvements at the company where she worked.

The company where she worked. It was a bit more than that really. It had become her reason to exist, the only interaction she had with anyone beyond her hero on the telly. And here she was - at that very company, praying as she went through the door that she could do no good.

But first to stick on that patch the stupid Doctor makes her use, so into the toilets we head. No one else about this early so she took her time looking in the mirror, thinking her new lipstick showed off her, what some people rightly called, fangs. She loved them and had enquired about having them made more pointed while at the dentist across the road. Unfortunately, the company dental scheme didn't cover it. The nail file used while she watched her hero on TV was painful, but would have to do. She'd noticed just now in the mirror that it was starting to make a pointed difference. Her pleasure was spoilt when some inconsiderate early starter entered the toilet. She made sure that the look she reflected from the mirror made them feel unwelcome, before leaving to see what the day would bring.

As she looked through the troublesome paper and electronic messages and requests that had arrived overnight she saw a shadow creep over her working - and very private - space. It was that stupid Press Officer, the one with short hair, which meant lesbian, come to ask some inane question about her pregnancy. The one plus point - no one else was about. So no one could hear her victim scream.

'Hi, I just wondered if you could help me with a few questions I have about my maternity leave? When it starts and if I have to use up holidays before that date.'

'It's not for 2 months yet so I really don't think you need to be told now. If I wasn't in the middle of something much more important, I'd get your file. But as you can see I'm busy. One of The Bosses wants something. So I think you'll agree that's more important'.

The soon-to-be mother knew it was pointless explaining she maybe wanted a day off later this week. Or a long weekend that stretched into the next week. She just did what too many others did and said OK, before leaving silently.

Half an hour later when the HRT Manager still hasn't done anything beyond plot who she could harm, the patch starts to kick in and she opens up the soon-to-be mothers file, who despite her condition still has the short hair of a lesbian, and finds the answers to all her questions. The good cop/bad cop routine being another of her favourite tactics. After sending the unexpected informative email, she starts to daydream about The Bosses wanting her to do something important. This soon drifts along to her being the boss and sacking everybody. Until The Big Boss arrives and ignores her. Which she hurries to remedy by offering tea, breakfast, enquiries about his journey, help invading Poland, her bent over a desk, anything else his heart desires.

'No' he squeaks in a high pitched reply, making a point of looking away from her at anything he considers more important. His eyes settled on the bin, then a plug socket. This simply arouses the HRT Manager and sends her off determined to find new victims. In the corridor she finds a box that if someone blind was to come in to the building, they may trip over if their guide dog was not with them. Noting the name on the address label, she returns to her desk to send a nasty email to the box owner, mentioning health and safety requirements and company policy which she makes up on the spot. Starting to get into the swing of things now.

An hour later one of The Bosses asks her if she has a minute. Her hopes rise at the thought of some sort of disciplinary or, God be praised, a dismissal. Probably a termination as it's immediate. On the way down the stairs she brushes aside stray employees hoping to ask a quick question. I'm busy with The Bosses can't you see. Outside the room she expects to spot the victim, before stepping in with her head held at a ridiculous angle that she considers more professional looking. Taking a seat opposite one of The Bosses, she realises as the door closes, this time it's her turn to plead.