Curse of the Potency Page 6

  “I’m a little busy now, Dave,” he said without looking up. “Can it wait?”

  “No it bloody can’t.”

  It was partly the liquid lunch talking, but I was mighty miffed.

  He sighed deeply and gave me a look of repressed annoyance.

  “Well go on then. What is it?”

  I strode to his desk and slammed the statement down.

  “Look at that,” I said. “Notice anything wrong?”

  He calmly took the slip, looked at it, and then placed it back down gently.

  “You got paid already,” he said. “Congratulations.”

  “Congratulations!”

  If he was cruising for a bruising he was definitely sailing with the wind.

  “I only got half what I was expecting. Less than half!”

  “No,” he said. “You got exactly what you should have been expecting.”

  “How’s that? The contract said sixty grand. And back at the hearing you said a high five-figure salary. I specifically remember that!”

  “Yes, but I did not specify when, did I? The contract stated that the total salary is dependent on company performance. I am afraid we are not performing to that level yet. Therefore, you are being paid at the lower end of the spectrum. Again, this was stated on the contract.”

  “What?!”

  I was in shock. I knew I should have looked more closely at that bloody contract.

  “Yes,” he said. “And that is the same for everyone here, more or less. However, I am confident that once the effects of having you on board start to trickle through and our material reaches the product stage, we will more than meet that expectation. You’ll get your sixty grand. Don’t you worry.”

  “This is bollocks,” I said. “I never saw anything like that on the contract.”

  “It was there,” he said. “Would you like to see?”

  He calmly opened his desk drawer and produced the contract. Turning to the third page, he pointed two-thirds of the way down, to the remuneration section. The section began with a bold “£60,000 salary” statement, but there it was, in very small print, the very last bullet point: “Salary shall be dependent on company performance, starting at £20,000 per year and rising to a maximum of £60,000.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Now, now, Dave. I can’t be blamed if you didn’t check through your own contract properly.”

  “But I specifically asked you if there was anything else I should know! Don’t you think I should have known that?”

  “I’m sorry, Dave. I’ve been very busy lately, and it didn’t occur to me at the time. And my hands are tied on this, I am afraid. At this stage, most of our capital comes from the Omega Group, and that does come with some very strict controls.”

  My blood was boiling. I was just about ready to lamp the guy. But there was my signature, right there. I had signed it. He’d made a right fool of me, and it has to be said, I was a fool. I had skimmed it, seen what I wanted to see! Calm down, Dave, I told myself. Let’s be practical.

  “So when can I expect to get the full salary I was promised? I need to make sure I don’t overspend if I’ve only got peanuts to work with.”

  He leaned back into his chair, ignoring my snarky peanut comment in a very casual and, I thought, disrespectful way, a doubtful look on his face like I’d just asked him to predict the next ten years of Grand National results.

  “I don’t know, Dave,” he said. “That’s very hard to say. I’d be guessing at best.”

  “Go on then. Take a bloody guess.”

  He paused.

  “Well, all things being equal,” he said, “based on our current rate of development and the standard time it takes to get a materials product to market, maybe…” He trailed off, squinting his eyes.

  “Yes?”

  My anger was rising again.

  “Maybe two years, give or take.”

  “Two years!”

  This was just too much. Here I was, in London, living in a strange basement, having my innards poured over on a daily basis, and I was on less than the crap salary I’d been on before! For two years! Give or take!

  To make matters worse, whatever he said, there was bugger all I could do about it, short of quitting, going back to prison, or destroying him in a hateful blaze of acid urine. You best believe that did cross my mind, but of course I was not some sort of murdering lunatic.

  Also, with this sudden realisation about the money, I found myself raising another issue that had vaguely concerned me before.

  “Alright, I guess I have no choice on that, eh? So since we’re talking truth now, I’ve been meaning to ask you about my room downstairs too.”

  He gave me a sharp look. “What about it?”

  “Well, how long am I gonna have to live down there in that bloody basement? I mean, until I get my real flat, you know? And my real toilet.”

  Daryl sighed, squeezing his eyeballs as if I was just a massive headache in his life, as if all my perfectly reasonable grievances were totally over the top.

  “Is there something wrong with the flat downstairs? We’ve gone to some effort, you know. A total redecoration. And installed a full set of furniture for you.”

  “Yeah you did…” I said, feeling queasy at the implications of his answer. “But I don’t like basements. You never told me I’d be in a basement. The corridor is… creepy. It’s dark. And chilly. I’m not sure how long I can handle living down there.”

  Daryl laughed in a way I didn’t like, sort of shocked that I could expect to be anywhere else.

  “Look, Dave, I think you’re going to have to be a bit more realistic about everything. You will get paid the sixty thousand, once we can afford it, and I can guarantee your salary will be rising soon. You also need to remember that you’re not exactly normal, are you? We can’t put you up in any old place. We need to keep you very nearby in order to safely collect your urine.”

  “Yeah, but I was expecting a real toilet, a normal life. That’s what you said. Not pissing in a bin in your basement. That’s not normal, is it?”

  Daryl looked at me and stroked his chin, a sort of strained expression, like he was dealing with a child. I held my ground, staring at him evenly, making sure also to keep my trap shut, ignoring the growing feeling that I wanted to just swear in his face and punch him and that things were going to be horribly difficult for me. The ball was in his court.

  Finally, he let out a big breath and broke into a sudden smile. “You’re right, of course, Dave. We couldn’t expect you to live down there permanently.” He said this with a soothing yet pleading tone. “It’s just… We’re still at the early stages of developing our material and it’s just not feasible to have you anywhere else, not for the time being. But of course, with the help of your contributions, we’re working double time on the material. We’re shifting up a few gears, you know. You’ll get your toilet and your normal flat and your salary, just as I said.”

  I got the feeling he was telling me what I wanted to hear. Still, he was being much nicer about it now, and what he was saying did make some sense at least. They must have been juggling a lot of balls. What the hell did I know about materials development and running a business and all of that bollocks?

  “Dave, listen” he said, putting a hand on his chest. “I’m a man of my word. Really. If there is any confusion between us, it is certainly not intentional on my part. I want you to be happy here. Really, I do. Now just a thought, but why don’t you speak to Christine about your flat. She can help you arrange to get more of your stuff shipped over from your old flat or maybe ordering in some more decorations. Spruce the place up a bit, you know? And don’t worry about the money; that can be on the company, okay? You’ll soon feel a bit more at home.”

  Well, he had been nice enough to offer to pay for some stuff for the room, so I grunted, made it clear I was not best pleased with things but would take them as they were for the time being, tolerated his fake smile and reassurances and thanks, and left his
office.

  I was hardly calm though, as you might imagine. Agitation’s what I felt. I knew the best thing would have been to go down to my basement, switch on the TV I’d finally had sent over from my old flat, along with the rest of my stuff, fire up the PS4, and let it rip for a few hours on Grand Theft Auto. But the liquid lunch was still kicking around inside me, and my anger wouldn’t let it drop.

  So I did the best thing I know to do when I just want to forget the shitness all around me. I went to the pub.

  *****

  Ten minutes later, there I was, sat at one end of a long, dark wooden table at one of the locals, a far too trendy sort of a place called the Hole in the Toad, which was just opposite the Solar Ray offices, but they served booze and that’s all that mattered to me. I’d just ordered a pint of Guinness, a large bowl of cheese-covered nachos, and two Jägerbombs. The drinks were spread out on the table in front of me, along with the food diary Molly had given me. I had decided to be clever and write down the stuff I was gonna smash before I smashed it, just in case I forgot or got too smashed on the stuff I was gonna smash to be able to write it all down later on. That way of doing things had the added benefit of allowing me to plan out the forthcoming consumption in detail. I had already listed those items just mentioned, and now I allowed myself to decide what else I would have that afternoon.

  Burger. Check.

  Milkshake. Check.

  Late-night kebab. Check.

  More Jägerbombs. Check.

  More beer. Check.

  Irish coffee. For some reason I had a hankering for one. Did they do those at the Toad anyway? I decided I would find one somewhere, however long it took.

  Irish Coffee. Check.

  I downed one the of Jägerbombs I’d already ordered. Reeling from its effects, I hurriedly crossed out the whole stupid list I had written. I wasn’t really going to buy all that, was I? Course not. I couldn’t bloody afford it now, not after tricksy, wiley, bastard-faced Daryl had swindled me!

  I suddenly remembered my phone, stuffed away in that drawer. Perhaps I should call someone today. Martin? Tell him the whole stupid story of where I was, what I was doing, sod Daryl’s bloody contract. Did I really need Daryl, his company? Couldn’t I just be done with it?

  Well, no, Dave. That sensible voice popped up in my mind. You can’t. I do have a sensible side, see, though I try my best to keep it buried as much as I can as it generally makes a total bore out of me. But sometimes it couldn’t be silenced.

  No, Dave, it said. Remember about the material? You need Solar Ray to develop that if you are to have any hope at normality, yeah? You may have the magic pee, but they’re the ones with all the technical know-how. Once that material is ready, you can live where you want, do what you want, move out of that sodding basement, and perhaps live with a semblance of normality again. But you need to sit tight and wait. Otherwise, you could find yourself back in a police cell—or worse. Also, don’t drink so hard. You might do something you regret. And you’ll need to go tinkle soon. And brush your teeth more often, won’t you?! You and I both know you’ve been missing a few evenings lately…

  Bloody sensible voice. It always has to be right, doesn’t it?

  *****

  The nachos came, and then, shortly after, a trio of trendy-looking bearded punters in lumberjack-style striped shirts decided to sit close by to me on that long table. I was hoping they’d just ignore me, as most people did, but of course, knowing my luck, they were friendly, and with friendliness comes questions, and with questions and my situation, pretty much every little thing was an utter ball-ache.

  I handled it, sort of, and I only mention it just so you can get a real feel for how I had to deal with “normal people” in the “real world” whenever I went out. Perhaps you’ll also understand why I did that less and less frequently.

  It started with questions about where I lived.

  “Oh, you live in Shoreditch. Jesus, you must be minted. You renting or what?”

  Yes, I was renting. But it was only a basement.

  No, it wasn’t expensive because I didn’t pay rent.

  No, I wasn’t living with my parents.

  Not sharing either.

  I lived alone. Yes.

  The silly sods were actually impressed by that. And by now I was just plain fed up with them.

  “Look, it’s not that amazing, okay? It’s just a shitty basement studio, and to be honest, I’d rather not be here at all, alright.”

  That confused them no end.

  “I’d kill to be able to afford a place around here,” said one of them.

  “We’re commuting all the way from Peckham,” said another.

  “A three-bed flat, but it’s over a chippie.”

  “Place smells like a fishmonger. Ha ha.”

  “At least you can get a nice cod and chips whenever you want.” That was me. I had to point it out.

  Then they started going on about how cool Shoreditch was, how it had all the best jobs and nightlife and blah blah blah. All I could do was nod, but sort of in a way that said I couldn’t give a shit, if you know what I mean.

  “So what do you do then?”

  Someone always asked that. The inevitable question. The dreaded question. And on this occasion, I was in a bad mood, not a clever one. At first, I pretended not to hear. It was easy enough since I’d just launched a big scooping of lovely nachos into my gob. I munched away, praying they’d leave me alone.

  They did, for a bit, but as soon as I finished the mouthful and washed it down with a nice splash of Guinness, they were back at it.

  “Do you work around here then?”

  Yes, I worked around here. Now leave it alone.

  “Where?”

  Up the road. No further details offered. Are you not getting the message?

  “So do we. Are you a coder then?”

  No, I was not a bloody coder! Honestly, I would have loved to have been able to say I was a programmer, since I knew that’s what loads of people did around Shoreditch. Yet I knew nothing about it myself, beyond the fact that it involved lots of complicated “coding” stuff which to most people was just gobledygook but to the practitioners of the art was generally the best and coolest thing since knitting machines and, what’s more, would soon bring all the problems of the world to an end. So no, I didn’t think I’d be able to wing the resulting chit-chat.

  “Do you work in tech then?”

  Jeez, would you leave me alone? Yes, I worked in tech. Sort of. No further details offered.

  In truth, I wanted to scream. They were digging closer and closer to the evil secret. I couldn’t tell them I was an acid-peeing monster, obviously, yet I had to give them something, a half-truth or a total lie. As long as I could back it up. Just enough for them to drop it.

  Yet I was so fed up that nothing came to mind. I downed my remaining Guinness and the last Jägerbomb, thinking to just excuse myself as quickly as I could on any pretext.

  Frowns in my direction.

  “Wow. Not sure I could get through an afternoon in the office with that much alcohol in me.”

  “Yeah well, I’m special, I guess.”

  I said it in as snarly a way as I could. That did the trick. I watched their friendliness evaporate.

  To be clear, I didn’t enjoy putting people off me like that, but what choice did I have?

  Their food arrived and I was saved. I needed a piss anyway, so I simply nipped away, back to my place, where I could safely pee. And sit in the dark, alone, away from people and obvious questions, where I could avoid spending money that I now knew I didn’t and probably wouldn’t have for a long while—if ever.

  I don’t think I’d ever felt more in need of the lads. My lads, the real lads. But they didn’t exist anymore, did they? Not for me.

  So in the end, as it increasingly did, the good old boring old sensible voice won the day. I spent the next few hours sitting alone in the basement, blasting away on Grand Theft Auto. I robbed two banks, using o
nly automatic weapons and my wits. No toxic building-burning pee required. And I went for a joy ride in a Lamborghini. A nice enough ending to a bastard day.

  Chapter 7

  It may sound great, lounging around, not paying rent, weeing and getting paid for it, even if it wasn’t the full sixty grand. But it really wasn’t. In fact, I think I began to go slightly insane. It just didn’t feel right. The place, the people, the whole set up. None of it did.

  At least I didn’t come into contact with Daryl all that much, especially after our little “moment.” Lucky for him, I was limited to snarls and general rudeness, such as blanking him, not holding the lift door if I saw him approaching, and similar such small victories. My main points of contact at Solar Ray were Molly, who continued on like a marathon runner with her daily examinations and updates on my dietary ingestions and general state of well-being, and of course grumpy Bill down in the basement, always on hand to dispose of my toxic discharges, whatever the hour. Marcus and Byron I would see only in corridors now and again, arriving or leaving the building. They were always deep in technical conversations, and while they would say hello, they clearly considered me beneath them on an intellectual level, which, I had to agree, was quite correct. There were others, of course: lab technicians, various people up on Daryl’s floor. I could see the recognition in their eyes, revulsion in some cases and fascination in others. But I didn’t speak to any of them.

  So what with the hazards of social interaction in the outside world, the need to weave secrets and lies, I became ever more reclusive. Through the little windows in my basement, I watched the busy footsteps of the general public as it passed on the pavement above while I held a lonely court in my basement abode, binge-watching all kinds of stuff, good and shit, sucking on that great nipple of content known as Netflix. A constant stream of cheap takeaways and Tesco deliveries sustained my body while PS4 and Netflix occupied my mind. I existed in a bubble, which is always dangerous unless you’re some kind of a bubble fairy or one of those people who has to for serious medical reasons—the plastic variety of bubble, that is.

  Yet though my instincts said I would be much happier elsewhere, anywhere else, really, I was nowhere near thinking I could quit Solar Ray. What with my freakish mutation, I was reliant on that company for so many things. Paying me a salary when it was doubtful I could hold down a job anywhere else. Finding out what was wrong with me, which would take time and effort on dear Molly’s part. Providing me functioning accommodation, even if it was dreary as hell and I had to piss into a green metal bin-bog. At least it didn’t fizz and melt away as soon as my wee touched it. And of course, all the lab stuff they were doing, developing the material used to craft those bin-bogs and later, I sincerely hoped, that normal flat with the proper functioning toilet.