'Password, please'

With a buzz, the computer screens flickered into life. Arthur looked around at the Monday morning faces. Everyone wearing the same bloody expression. Everyone doing the same bloody thing. Switching the machines on. Logging in at 7.57, the earliest time you could do it. Not a second earlier. But after 8.00? Any time you like, pal, tho’ your money’ll be docked. Fifteen minutes’ pay for being one minute late. 

Bastards.

 

He waited for the screen to load, noticing that the stack of paper in his tray was half as thick as when he’d left on Friday. Some bastard had nicked stuff from his slush pile, work he’d stashed so he had something to do while the post was being opened. If your tray was empty, Bin Laden would give you rubbish to do that would take you all morning and you’d never get started so you couldn’t make your quota. The miserable bleeder, with his Simpsons tie and his ‘Thank you, Arthur, I would like you to count the printer cartridges in the cupboard,’ or some other bloody pointless job which the work experience kid could do. You had to look out for yourself with gets like him in charge.

 

The logo dropped like a bird out of the blue computer sky and onto the desktop. A pink box slid out of nowhere and flashed, ‘Log in, please.’ Arthur tapped in his name and code. ‘Password, please,’ flashed a blue box. ‘DedraAA1’ – eight characters, including one or more numbers. It used to be ‘Tanya4ev’, but he changed it last Thursday. Now every morning he was reminded of Dedra. The screen bounced and flashed, the lights on the keyboard flickered. 

 

Arthur looked up, waiting for the work-screen to open. Bin Laden was watching him from his rat-hole in the corner. Funny, Arthur thought, how he was shagging his missus and Bin Laden didn’t have a clue. Last weekend he’d almost persuaded Dedra to come back to his mate’s flat. He was that close, and she would have done, only the dozy mare was pissed and someone put her into a taxi. But he knew his luck was in on Wednesday when she shoved her cleavage at him in the club and put her hand in his back pocket. As a rule, she wasn’t his type. A bit of a princess was Dedra. Classy, until she’d had a few. Then she was just a slag like the rest of them. When he found out she was Bin Laden’s missus it made him laugh. She must be 10 years younger than him. That’s when Arthur changed his password.

 

But Bin Laden, aka Ben Latham, K1 Supervisor, couldn’t have a clue. Though he was a soft apology for a poor sod, even he wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut if he knew what was going off. Not like his missus. Dedra was a mouthy slag, worse when she was pissed up. If she opened her mouth all The Square would know. And it was only a matter of time, so enjoy it while it lasts, cos she was a bloody sweet shag, the sort you could get soft on if you weren’t careful. Arthur tried not to think about her as he sorted through the remains of his slush pile. He knew he was quick. And clever too. Well above average. Always on plus time. Which the bosses don’t like, but it makes your wage slip happy reading.  

 

Don’t expect bloody thanks from them as pays you, his dad said when he first got the job. They’ll rip you off. Cut your rate when you get too good at it. Like they did me when I was at Raleigh. 

You’re a chip off the old block, you are, young Arthur. 

He typed the first column of numbers in, running his finger down the page, concentrating. Then the next. Steady at first, getting into the swing, and picking up pace until his fingers skimmed over the keys as if they were attached and he didn’t have to think. He looked at the input counter and checked the time – 62 in four minutes. Slow for him, but it was Monday morning and he was pacing himself. Soon he would go and have a slash and a fag in the downstairs gents and talk to Fez on security. It wouldn’t take that long. He still needed to make the pile of work last till at least ten. Then, after Bin Laden came round with the morning’s allocation, he’d crack on with the proper shit. Break his neck till lunch, get his quota done, and have an easy afternoon. Bin Laden couldn’t say anything. No one could say anything.

 

But he was irritated that someone had pinched his work. You didn’t do that, not to your mates. Even if they weren’t your proper mates, only people you worked with.

– Ey up, Haj. Do you know who pinched my stuff? 

– What stuff, Arthur? Haj sat across from him, but he didn’t stop and look up. 

– The pile I was saving for this morning, to keep Bin Laden off my back.

– I haven’t seen nothing, Arthur.

– You’ve not seen anyone poking about my stuff, though?

– No one.

– You’re piss-poor, Haj. And your girlfriend says so. She told me when we were down Reflex on Friday. She was all over me. Like a rash, mate. Even though you’re a heathen, she said to me, I’d rather have you any day, Arthur. Women, eh? I’d keep an eye on her if I were you, pal.

 

Haj smiled. Arthur was about to add that she had a nice arse, but Bin Laden was at his shoulder.

– Alright, Arthur?

– Alright, Ben.

– Got enough to do?

– Plenty, thanks.

– Don’t distract Haj, then.

Bloody hell, it was like being back at school.

– Just talking about the match on Saturday.

– Keep it till your break. You know the rules, Arthur.

 

Yes, I bloody do. Every one of them is written on the inside of my bloody eyelids so I can read them when I’m asleep. He wanted to say, oh and is there a rule about screwing your missus, Ben? Only don’t bother telling us, ‘cos I don’t do rules, me. I’m Arthur Seaton. I do what I want, and if you don’t like it, stuff you.

 

Lathan extracted a thin sheaf of papers from the pile in his hand and carefully laid it in Arthur’s tray without looking at him.

– Can I have a word Arthur? In my office?

He moved on. Arthur could see that every pile was bigger than his. 

He thought, Bloody hell, the bastard knows.

 

He logged out and went down four flights to the ground floor gents. You could smoke a fag in here if you stood on the seat and leaned out of the window away from the alarm. There was a blank wall opposite and a stack of empty Buxton water bottles. He thought about Dedra. He supposed she was alright. Nothing special really. Not worth getting into a scrap about. 

 

Deny everything. That’s what dad used to say. Make out it was some other bogger’s fault.

Friday seemed a long way off.

 

Ann Featherstone is the author of the Victorian novels The Newgate Jig and Walking in Pimlico. You can read an interview with her here.

 

See our special Saturday Night and Sunday Morning issue 24 and the last interview with Alan Sillitoe

 

For more information on the Alan Sillitoe Statue Fund or come down and support the next fundraiser 'Who's Alan Stiletto?' at the Maze on 1 December  9 till 2am with music from Wholesome Fish, Old Basford, Howlin' Black and DJ Mista Shotta