That Look

by Neil Brosnan

… but Sunday night, I get a fright, when I think of Monday morning. Although his grandfather’s old rhyme had little resonance during Justin’s school days, his transition from college student to company employee has been his steepest learning curve yet. The job, however, is not the problem; Justin’s Sunday night panic attacks are due totally to his virtual ostracism by the firm’s inner-circle: Marcus, Shane and Darren – the self-styled three amigos. It started on day one, eight months ago, and has been going from bad to worse ever since. Justin has no idea what he has done to deserve their snide remarks, insidious innuendo, and covert bullying. He has tried to be a good colleague: he is competent, conscientious and cooperative, and he believes that he has much more to contribute if allowed to perform to his full potential. To date, he has been limited to the more menial tasks: the shitty stuff no one else wants to do – and there is a lot of stuff which nobody wants to do.

Are the amigos jealous of Justin’s greater academic achievements; do they fear he might leapfrog them in the office pecking order? Justin has dismissed such thoughts: promotion depends on the boss, and his attitude suggests that Justin would be the first thing he would want to scrape from the sole of his shoe. Neither does the deputy manager inspire optimism; while ensuring that the boss’s in-tray is sufficiently up-to-date to keep the Head Office bean counters at bay, Dep – as the amigos refer to him – observes a strict see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil policy. Dep does occasionally raise his eyes from his work, but with the air of someone who suspects that something may have happened, but neither knows nor cares what it might be.

Liz, who joined the staff about six weeks ago, is Justin’s only ally, but her support has come at great personal cost. With stage-whispered references to Justine and Lezzie, the three amigos swap jokes about ladyboys and lesbians whenever either Justin or Liz is within earshot. The amigos then up the ante at the slightest interaction between the outcasts, with a practiced routine of barely audible grunts and groans, interspersed with suggestive slurping sounds and exaggerated high-fives.

This Monday begins as usual, with Justin and Liz arriving at the office almost simultaneously, shortly after the deputy manager, but more than ten minutes ahead of signing-on time. While Justin deals with an early telephone query, Liz sorts and then allots the morning mail to its various departments – except any items bearing the boss’s name, which she ferries to his inner office. The other staff members – the three amigos and five ladies – trickle in over the next fifteen minutes, sipping coffee from take-away cups, or water from plastic bottles. The new arrivals split into two groups: one forms a little gossiping huddle by the office notice board, while the smokers gather in the tiny yard outside the open fire exit door.

At ten o’clock, Liz unlocks the main door. Justin winces as the glow deepens in her cheeks at each encounter with an amigo on her way back to her desk. Seeing Liz suffer is even more distressing than his personal pain. College does not prepare one for situations like these: such modules have yet to be conceived.

The boss appears about an hour later: his eyes are red pinholes in a pallid balloon face; his nose, a purple-blue gobbet above a slash of thin bloodless lips.

“My office – now,” he barks, rapping his knuckles on Justin’s desk before disappearing inside his inner sanctum.

“Yes, Mr…?” Justin begins, knocking politely on the open door.

“Shut it!” Unsure as to which it the boss has referred, Justin silently closes the door. “Well, why are you here?” The boss growls, and then turns his back on Justin to drape the jacket of his suit over the shoulders of his leather swivel chair.

“But you said…”

“You know what I mean; why are you here – here at work – today?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“You are supposed to be on leave; haven’t you seen the notice board? No? Of course you haven’t! You’re due seven days of annual leave, which you must use up before next Monday-week. Because of Easter, you have to take them straight away – today – now… Young Lizzie can finish whatever you’re working on. Go on… go!”

Muttering under his breath, the boss slips his jacket back on and, forcing his bulk past Justin, storms through the main office, and back out to the street.

Justin has been saving those days; he has made plans, but nobody had informed him of the constraints regarding when annual leave must be availed of. A quick calculation tells him that if his holidays were to begin today, he would be due back to work on the Friday after Easter. He checks the office clock and, rather than add to Liz’s workload, decides to remain at his desk until lunchtime. At twelve-forty-five, he delivers his completed projects to Dep’s tray, and then discretely returns the pending files to the desks of those who had foisted them upon him in the first place. Seething within, he enters twelve-fifty next to his signature in the attendance book, and slips quietly from the office.

On the way to his favourite café, Justin is intercepted by a young woman.

“Excuse me, please,” she says, laying a tentative hand on his arm. He recognises her as the barmaid from the adjacent public house. She takes a nervous drag from her cigarette. “Sorry, could you come into the bar for a minute, please? There’s a guy in there; he’s giving me the creeps; I’ll give you free drinks!” Justin has been in the pub only once – months ago, at a charity table quiz.

“I’m not sure what I can do. I’m…”

“I understand; I know it’s your lunch break. Ten minutes; just have a coffee; you can have a few pints some other time – please.” She seems genuinely distraught.

“Okay. Ten minutes, but no more, and don’t expect me to get involved in anything physical – or even talk to him…”

It’s a drinkers’ pub. Everything is brown, but the little round tables and stools are a few shades deeper than that of the floor, ceiling and walls. There are beermats instead of pepper mills and salt cellars, and there isn’t a napkin, or a sachet of mayo, mustard or ketchup in sight. There is only one customer: a shrunken, balding, middle-aged man, seated on a patched leatherette bench at the far end of the room; he is nursing a half-drunk pint of stout and studying a tabloid newspaper. Justin takes a seat at the counter, close to the front door, where he has an unhindered view of his subject.

“Thanks,” the girl says, with a tight smile. “Would you prefer tea or coffee? Sorry I can’t offer you any proper food; how about a Clubmilk, or peanuts or crisps? Look!” She lowers her tone to a hissed whisper, her fingernails biting into his wrist. “See, he’s staring at me again. Look at his eyes; look!”

Justin looks, but the man seems focussed on his newspaper.

“I think I’ll have a pint of lager, please.” Justin says, drawing the girl’s gaze from the man. Self-consciously, she releases his wrist.

The girl’s phone rings as she serves Justin’s drink. Mouthing an apology, she fishes the device from her jeans and, teasing it between shoulder-length waves of blonde hair, presses it to her left ear. Absently, she slips through the door of the keg store. Justin takes a sip from his glass and suddenly understands what had so upset the barmaid. The man is now staring at him, but it’s more than just a stare; it’s a glare – a black, murderous glare. Justin has a sudden urge to pee, but the man is situated close to toilet door. The man is now writing in his newspaper; he has a short green biro, the sort that usually bears a bookie’s name. Deciding to take a gamble of his own, Justin risks a visit to the toilet, returning the man’s nodded greeting along the way. The man doesn’t react as Justin returns, relieved and unscathed, to resume his vigil.

Intermittent tinkles of laughter sound from the keg store; the barmaid’s spirits have been restored. Taking a good swig from his pint, Justin allows his gaze to return to the man. Biro poised above his newspaper, the man begins to count the fingers of his left hand against its thumb. He takes a sip from his almost empty glass, sighs deeply, and again freezes into that look. This time, however, his eyes are not searing through Justin, or the muted TV screen, or the keg room door but, if looks could kill, the EXIT sign above the front door would have already shone its last. As quickly as it had contorted, the man’s face relaxes into something akin to a smirk of satisfaction. He makes a couple of swift biro strokes on his newspaper, and then folds it and stuffs it inside his nondescript jacket. Rising to his feet, he downs the dregs of his pint, swaps the biro for a hand-rolled cigarette from his top pocket and, with a good natured wave in Justin’s direction, exits the building.

Robbed of a focal point, Justin’s thoughts drift to his enforced sabbatical. He had planned on spending his leave with his parents – but in early May; not late March. He has been looking forward to helping Mam prepare her flower beds, to sharpening Dad’s tools, to servicing the lawnmower. Little things he had done through his teens, before his move to the city college had deprived his parents of his help, just when they were beginning to need it most. Brenda, Justin’s sister, always comes home for Easter, along with her sons, Trevor and Colin, now aged twelve and ten. It seems to Justin that the boys have recently mutated from trusting toddlers to preteen terrorists.

“Is – is he gone?” The girl asks as, glancing cautiously around, she makes a timely return from the keg store.

“Yes, a few minutes ago; he finished his drink and just left.” Justin drains his glass and gets to his feet.

“Have another, please; if you have the time. I’d love to hear how you did it. By the way, I’m Sandra,” she offers her hand.

“Thanks, Sandra; I’m Justin,” he returns her grip with interest. “I’m actually on a few days’ holidays; I have all the time in the world.” He yanks off his tie, stuffs it in his jacket pocket, and opens the top three buttons of his shirt.

“You remind me of Depp,” she smiles, serving his drink.

“You mean our deputy manager?” Justin’s burgeoning hopes instantly plunge.

“No, silly: Johnny Depp; you’ve got his eyes…”

There is horseracing on the TV. The pub is suddenly alive with punters; jostling for counter space, calling for drinks, rushing next door to the bookies, encouraging their selections on the screen, questioning the parentage of jockeys, trainers and tipsters, before studying form for the next race. Justin has never placed a bet on a horse – or anything else – even in college. He wonders why he is surprised to see some faces familiar from across the office counter among the pub’s clientele.

A fresh drink appears. Justin tries to catch Sandra’s eye, to thank her, to explain about the staring man. But Sandra is at full tilt: pulling pints, washing glasses, changing kegs, and her spare moments are spent listening to customers’ jokes or exchanging banter with the smokers in the front doorway. Where were they when she needed them? He scowls at the thought. Where were they when she had no one to turn to for help? Yet, they now command her constant attention; it’s as if neither Justin nor the staring man had ever been.

Justin is taken aback by his anger. It must be the drink, he decides, weaving his way to the toilet. He wonders how many pints he has had: at least three; could he have had more than four? He has certainly had more than is advisable on an empty stomach. Drying his hands, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the washstand mirror. For one riveting instant, he could have been the staring man. He tries to regain the chilling expression: baring his teeth in a wolfish grin, he tilts his forehead slightly forward, half-closes his eyes and squints through his eyelashes. He can’t hold the look for long; a foolish, lopsided grin keeps getting in the way. The grin becomes a leer as Justin veers through the rear exit and weaves towards the nearest take-away.

Early on Tuesday afternoon, after an unpleasant eighty-minute journey, the bus drops Justin a few minutes’ walk from his parents’ home. Despite still feeling slightly ropey, he allows himself a little silent chortle at each disjointed flashback from his afternoon in the pub: the arousing amalgam of scents when Sandra had clung to his wrist, the many faces of the staring man, and the volatility of the punters’ moods. In a side street café, he washes down a toasted sandwich with a mug of tea, and relives the almost erotic thrill of returning the files to the amigos’ desks.

His parents’ Ford Focus is alone in the driveway. Justin bypasses the hall door and calls out as he enters the back kitchen.

“Hello; it’s me.” There is no response; the only sound is the gentle hum of the extractor fan above the electric cooker. There is a faint aroma of roasting lamb. He goes into the hall, turning towards the stairs in response to a creaking from above.

“Stay there, I’m coming down!” Mam calls, somewhat breathlessly. There is another sound… a sort of stifled snort… Looking oddly dishevelled, and barefoot beneath her dressing gown, Mam pads into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” she scowls, and then remembers to present her cheek for her son’s customary greeting.

“Nothing’s wrong; I thought I’d surprise you, I had…”

“You’ve certainly done that. We… I was upstairs… getting the place ready for Brenda and the boys. You know they always come for the Easter holidays. I was going to put Trevor in your room… ”

Justin makes a pot of tea while Mam returns upstairs to get dressed, but it’s Dad who thumps down the stairs a few minutes later.

“What are you doing here,” Dad sounds just like Justin’s boss.

“I had some leave coming; I thought it would be a nice surprise, but…”

“Oh, it is. We love having you visit, Justin, but it would be better if we’d known in advance. You know, with Brenda and the boys here for a whole week…” His eyes dart towards the ceiling.

The lawnmower is purring sweetly by the time Brenda and the boys arrive. Mam has already assured Justin that Trevor and Colin will share the bunk room, so he need not fret for the safety of his childhood treasures. Justin is still struggling with the image of Trevor dismembering his veteran Action Man when a football whizzes past his ear and crashes into the gardening tools he has just arranged on the garage wall.

“Come on; we’ll give you a game.” Trevor shouts from the driveway.

“And we’ll hammer you,” Colin chimes in; “you’re useless!”

Recalling the damage to his shins following his more recent kick-abouts with his nephews, Justin retrieves an empty plastic bottle from the recycling bin, picks up the newly-sharpened spade, and walks to the fallow patch between the garage and the boundary wall.

“Listen, you two,” he growls, struggling to master that look. “The next time I play anything with you, I’ll make the rules.” He swings the spade, slicing the bottle in half. “Okay?” His glare follows the retreating boys all the way to the kitchen door.

At about four o’clock the brothers begin rowing over their Xbox game.

“Boys, go play outside; please!” Brenda screams.

“Justin will have a game of football with you.” Mam offers.

“I’m going upstairs to read my book,” Trevor mutters.

“Grandda, can I borrow a book, please?” Colin splutters.

On the Friday after Easter, Justin enters the office at lunchtime. As he is deciding how to deal with the pile of unwanted files that have found their way back to his desk, he hears the boss’s summons from the inner office.

“And what time do you call this? Where were you all morning; well?” He growls, and then blinks in surprise as Justin’s face transforms into a grotesque mask.

“Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday: three days,” Justin says, sotto voce, raising a finger to represent each day as one might when explaining to a confused child, “multiplied by two, makes six days. Plus a half-day Monday and a half-day Friday, come to a total of seven days…” Silently, Justin continues to glare. The boss has gone deathly pale; his hands shake as he gulps from a glass of colourless liquid.

“Of course… whatever you say, Justin.” Swallowing noisily, the boss gets to his feet and hitches his trousers a notch further up his ample girth. Carefully detouring around Justin, he opens his office door. “Thanks, Justin; thanks, again,” he repeats, as Justin stalks back to his desk. After sorting the offending files into three bundles, he then plonks one on each amigo’s desk. There isn’t a sound in the office as Justin pauses at Liz’s desk. His face expressionless, he leans towards her and, whatever he whispers, she responds with a bright smile; her ginger curls bobbing with each animated nod. Looking neither right nor left, Justin returns to his desk.

His concentration shattered by the surreal silence, Dep raises his head and scans the office, blinking repeatedly at the sight of all three amigos apparently totally immersed in their returned files.

 

From Listowel, Ireland, Neil Brosnan was first published in 2004. Since then, his short stories have appeared 100+ times in print and digital anthologies and magazines in Ireland, Britain, Europe, Australia, India, USA, South America, and Canada.

A Pushcart nominee, he has won The Bryan MacMahon, The Maurice Walsh, (six times) and The Ireland’s Own, (twice) short story awards. He has published two short story collections: ‘Fresh Water & other stories’ (Original Writing, 2010) and ‘Neap Tide & other stories’ (New Binary Press, 2013)