Be Careful What You Wish For - 3. Chapter 3 'Sound Bites'

Kris sat down at his desk, catching sight of himself in one of the many mirrors that adorned his office,

‘In some lights I look rather like Michael Caine’ he mused.

It’s doubtful Michael Caine would have derived any comfort from that. Just then Miss Haggard knocked on the door in timid, genteel fashion.

‘Come in’

She bustled in, the tea tray welded to her stomach, making her look like a cinema usherette of the 1950s.

‘What would you like today, Mr Karton? Chef tells me the sausage rolls are nice’

‘Oh, just get me a coffee and a beagle’

Miss Haggard recoiled from the inappropriateness of the remark, but Kris brayed, sounding like a goat on acid. Picking up the tray, his personal secretary prepared to leave,

‘It’s probably as well you don’t have anything right now, there’ll be coffee and biscuits at ten when we all meet in the conference room’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

‘Haven’t you heard yet? You’ll get a shock when you check your mail’

That’s nothing to the shock she’d have got if she’d checked his mail.

‘The builders are arriving today to start work on our new extension, the state of the art laboratory, over by the kennels’

Kris melted at the mention of the word builders. In the past he’d fantasised often over them, stemming from one incident in his youth. These days it would be fair to say that Kris is a catcher rather than a pitcher. But it wasn’t always so. Many years earlier, when he was yet a student he’d worked on a building site. He was required mainly to clean equipment and make tea, but one day he found other services were required of him. Though he could scarcely believe it, a ripped, hot builder, stripped to the waist, had enticed him over to the workmen’s portacabin. Once inside he’d closed and locked the door behind them. They were alone. Kris took a swig of water, lubricating his mouth for what, he imagined, was shaping up to be a marathon throat job on the god with the hod*. But to his shock and amazement the fit labourer dropped his pants, leaned over the table facing the wall, and said,

‘Go to it, sunshine! But when I call out Jesus F****** Christ, you stop, OK’

Happy days!

‘Mr Karton!’

Kris rejoined planet earth. Miss Haggard put down the tray,

‘And you’ll not know what else has happened?’

‘But you’re going to tell me’

‘Well someone in the media has leaked news our new planned laboratory to the animal rights activists. They’re going to be here early afternoon. They’re having a demonstration’

Kris was depressed. He’d bookmarked the morning to trawl for cock in all the Manchester postcodes and beyond. This news was the last thing he needed, and it was about to get worse.

‘Mr Blumenthal, the CEO in Milwaukee is staying up all night. He’s going to talk to us on the video link; how exciting!’

‘Yes, very’ Kris had buried his head in his hands.

‘And that’s not all, we’ve got some American Peta coming over’

Kris brightened up immediately.

‘American peter? I’m up for some of that’

Yes Kris, we know; American peter, Canadian cock, Dutch dick, Polish prick, French phallus etc, but Miss Haggard persevered,

‘No, Mr Karton. It’s those people who believe in the ethical treatment of animals. And one of the top interviewers from American television is coming too, to interview you’

‘Interview me? Are you mad, woman? Go and get me that coffee right now’

And as she left the office, he reached into his drawer, withdrew the hip flask he kept for emergencies, and drained it to the last drop.

*

Hod: a kind of wooden box on a length of wood for carrying bricks

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Greene Carter lived with his sister Alison - sometimes. He lived with his mother sometimes too, and had lived with a series of partners, roommates, and boyfriends at one time or other. In fact, so used had Greene become to his itinerant life that he’d managed to slim down his worldly possessions to precious little, and to store it in boxes, bags, and carriers, ready for the inevitable next move.

It was sad, because Greene was a nice guy; everybody said so. He’d reached thirty eight, but little else. His tall, willowy stature, and fine, dark, floppy hair suggested he might be younger; and his predilection for A & F fashion might have confirmed it. But the game was given away when he stared at you with those restless, tired eyes that spoke more eloquently than could he of the many disappointments he’d endured.

Greene had no job; in the past he’d flirted with degrees in fashion, diplomas in design and much else, but nothing lasted. Time and again his sister Alison bailed him, Greene readily drawing on any resource she offered him, save the very one he needed most – her advice!

Recently she’d suggested he might consider the care profession. Days later he’d come home and told her he’d signed up for some media course. She’d been incandescent and had found it hard to speak to him.

But this morning curiosity had got the better of her. It was mid morning, and it appeared that Greene did have somewhere to go. Alison broke the silence,

‘You look very smart. Going somewhere special?’

‘I don’t expect you’d approve, but Roberto has singled me out from the group and today, he and I, just us two, are going to the pill factory. It seems there’s going to be a major row today, demonstrators, police, television, and he wants me to see how the media are involved in these things’

Alison was dubious, but, anxious to repair things with her brother, she decided to keep her thoughts to herself and sit this one out.

The media had leaked news to animal rights campaigners about Canis Carcinoma’s new laboratory, but the police too had got hold of the same information, and when Greene and Roberto arrived on site they found a massive security presence, and were able to get within only a hundred yards of the main gate. Steadily, the news teams from around the UK and from further afield began to gather. The latest to arrive was from the US.

‘Oh, this should be interesting. It’ll be a chance for you to see how an American news team operates’ enthused Roberto.

But as the SUV pulled up, and all personnel climbed out, Roberto drew back, staring in disbelief. Out of the back of the vehicle stepped a slightly built woman in her early forties. She had Carole King hair, but the eyes, nose and mouth of a bird of prey. This was Jezebel Roth. If you had only one place left at your dinner table, you’d invite Rasputin before this woman.

Greene now sensed that his companion would rather be elsewhere. But Roberto was in no way a low key person. Looking like a refugee from Fantasy Island he was utterly out of place in the all pervading gloom of England. The bird of prey looked about her, then spotted the Latino,

‘My God, it’s Javier Sanchez, or whatever you’re calling yourself these days’

She made a beeline for him,

‘So you finally managed to get a green card, did you, guapo? Pity it’s the UK, I thought you were in the market for an upgrade’

Roberto’s eyes were flashing, but with perfect composure he replied,

‘I’m afraid I have no idea who you are. We’ve clearly never met before’

‘My, my, that IS good. I’m loving the Hugh-Grant-accent. You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?’

They eyed each other for the longest five seconds Greene had ever experienced, until she broke the spell and turned away.

‘Who’s that?’ rasped Greene in a suppressed whisper,

‘I have no idea, some stupid bitch who’s clearly mistaken me for someone else’

But try as he might Greene couldn’t shake the notion that these two had meant something to one another in the past.

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Kris’s morning had been chaotic. First there was the ten o’ clock meeting of all staff, followed by a special emergency get together of the managerial grades. This led directly into an executive lunch during which the wine flowed. That over, Kris retired to his office for a much needed rest. But it was not to be. Miss Haggard thumped the door,

‘Mr Karton’

‘Yes, for God’s sake, what is it now?’

‘The chief says he wants you in the car park in five minutes, ready for your first interview’

Kris gulped, straightened his tie, left his room, and walked down the hall, out of the building and into the media scrum. The journalists and camera crews were ready, and slavering. Jezebel Roth’s crew surveyed the scene with deadpan expressions. They’d noted in particular the pasty faces of the assembled factory staff, a crew member commenting,

‘Good thing we’re not indoors. I don’t think we’ve enough make up. These Brits are so white they look like they’ve just stepped out of The Mikado’

Just then Kris appeared, Rod, the cameraman giggled,

‘Uh oh, it looks like he’s already in makeup!’

But Kris had heard him.

‘Excuse me! It’s gentlemen’s foundation and a touch of guyliner, essential for coping with unexpected, damp conditions’

‘Bit like his boxers, I expect’ added the other, turning away.

But if anything was going to cause an accident in Kris’s underwear it was the appearance of Jezebel Roth herself. With a voice like a buzz saw through a chalk board, she opened her presentation,

‘This is Jezebel Roth, from Vapid News – Keep it rapid, keep it Vapid, reporting from a very wet and unpleasant Manchester, England. I’m here at the site of Canis Carcinoma’s main European production. The workmen have just arrived to start work on a new laboratory. I have with me Mr Kris Karton,

She advanced threateningly towards Kris,

‘You the guy that chops up the animals?’

She thrust the mike into his face.

‘I think you’ll find I’m the senior pathologist’

‘So what do you make of all these demonstrators, do they have a point?

Kris cleared his throat, looking nervously about him,

‘Of course, this is a complex issue, and too involved for sound bites, I think I can best..

‘Sound bites? This is a serious interview’ she retorted,

Chris smirked, looking fouler than ever,

‘Oh come off it love. Everybody knows that the average viewer of Vapid News has the attention span of the Venezuelan dung beetle’

‘CUT!’

Jezebel Roth aimed her laser eyes at Kris, fixing the puny creature to the spot.

‘Are you for real? They told me you’d been briefed. Do you know how any of this works?’

Kris recovered. Fifty years, as a gay man on the streets of Manchester had given him the most acid of tongues, and he wasn’t taking this lying down, as he did most other things. Jezebel turned to her cameraman simultaneously consulting her Blackberry. She spat out,

‘Rod, make sure we’re on a flight out of here by six at the latest. I don’t care if we have to go via Atlanta, just get me out’

Kris stepped forward,

‘And not a moment too soon, ‘chop up animals’ How dare you? I’m a scientist, a qualified pathologist’

‘Yeah, whatever’ Jezebel had already decided this interview wasn’t going to fly, but Kris persisted,

‘Why didn’t you visit the plant in Milwaukee? They ‘chop up’ animals too?’

‘Yeah, but they’re not about to be burned down by a group of activists’

Kris’s head had begun to spin. He’d been up since five thirty, it was raining, cold, and he’d spent the day mixing coffee with whisky, steak with red wine, and bagels with rum. His vision was blurring.

‘Oh no, the buzzard’s attacking me’........

‘Bloooooaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh!

And the entire contents of his stomach found a new home over Jezebel’s Armani slacks and Gucci loafers.

‘You little asshole’ she screeched.

Oh boy, she got it sooooo wrong there! That’s not the Kris we know!

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Kris cleaned up, packed up and shipped out. He took a sleeping pill when he got home and crashed for an hour or so. Gordon was as solicitous as usual but his kindness was curtly declined. Then just before eleven, with Gordon retired for the night, Kris got up, went downstairs to the kitchen and made a cup of tea. In the silence he sat down and opened his laptop.

He checked; there’d been no messages. Maybe it was for the best, he’d had enough drama for one day, but just as he was about to log off contact was made,

‘Hola, I’m Roberto. I just have to meet you’