‘You didn’t hear any of that did you?’ said James.
‘Believe me, I was desperately trying. What did he say?’
James shook his head. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘No, I can imagine. But I’m guessing you fucked up even more than I thought you did.’
It was such a shame, what had happened. It wasn’t a tragedy, it probably wasn’t even an injustice – it was simply a shame. Every life gets the disaster it deserves and his was a small one, for he had lived his life without any great scale. But, and this was the point, his capacity to withstand it was also small. The character and defences to protect him from what had happened were even less than his misfortune.
‘People know about it. That’s the real problem. Never mind Lionel – senior management must have already read about it. You know the Comms Team monitor stuff like this all the time.’
‘The gallery was full of journalists, bloggers, Internet twats. What have they said?’
‘Here, listen to this one. It’s probably the most problematic, because it actually mentions your job title. Well – Lionel’s job title. You can imagine what he made of that.’
Rachel read aloud from her mobile phone. ‘There was unexpected drama last night at the opening of a new exhibition at the Shaw Gallery in Whitechapel. James Crawley, Director of Planning at Southwark Council, was detained by police after attempting to vandalise several of the works on show with an unidentified young woman. It is not clear what the motives for the attack were. Many of the attendees were under the impression that they were witnessing a piece of performance art, and it was only when the police—’
‘Fuck, okay, stop reading. I don’t want to hear any more. For one thing, I can’t bear all the exaggerations and factual inaccuracies. Where did they get the idea that I’m the director here? None of that will actually go in the newspapers, will it?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘Search me. Personally, I wouldn’t have thought it was much of a story, but I guess that’s what the Internet is for. I don’t think your parents are going to read it in the Daily Mail if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘I bet what you’ve just read was written by a poisonous witch called Felicity. I hardly know her, but she would have loved the chance to do me over – she’s that sort.’
‘No,’ said Rachel, peering into her phone. ‘That was written by someone called Alice Baum.’
James nodded silently. He probably should have guessed that. It would have had nothing to do with him being peculiar and hostile with her boyfriend. It wasn’t vengeance or high drama, that had never been her thing – and anyway, he wasn’t important enough to her for that. It was just a good little story.
‘Well, I guess you better get your things. Much better to do it quickly, before everyone turns up. I’ll walk out with you.’
She was right – the office was almost empty, and that had to be a good thing. For the last time, he looked up at the bright overhead lighting that you couldn’t moderate, the square windows you weren’t allowed to open, the grey computers and black telephones. He looked at the kitchenette, with its sink full of unwashed mugs. It had been a depressing place to work but it had at least been restful, it had been safe. There were, he suspected, many worse jobs than being a planner in a local authority.
Ian Benson was sitting at James’s desk, typing things into his computer.
‘Just deactivating your hard drive and switching your accounts off. It’s council policy. No hard feelings. Have you got any personal files you want me to back up for you?’
‘No, don’t worry. I never used it for anything other than work. And I never saved anything on the desktop either – all my files are on the server.’
‘That’s very commendable,’ said Ian. ‘Not like the others. It’s a shame you’re leaving.’
James started to clear his desk with a black bin liner. It didn’t take long – he had also been one of the very few to adhere to the office clean-desk policy. Nor did he have many possessions. There were no framed photos of loved ones or pictures of baby elephants. Almost everything on the desk was the property of Southwark Council – apart from the electric stapler, which he had bought for himself, and his own little planners’ toolkit – dividers, compass, triangle and coloured pencils, which his parents had given him as a present when he got his first job, but he’d never actually used. As he could have told them, it was all done on computers.
‘I googled you just now,’ said Ian. ‘Got an absolute shit storm. You’re famous, basically.’