Mr Rinyo-Clacton's Offer

7. Herbert Sledge

Serafina and I usually woke up facing away from each other, and the first thing I always did on coming out of sleep was reach behind me to lay a hand on her hip. Then the day could begin.

But this was the morning after Mr Rinyo-Clacton; when I reached behind me there was no Serafina, the October sunlight was coming through the blinds and the desolation and dread that were always waiting rushed in on me. The events of last night insisted on being real and not a dream and I was no longer sure who or what I was — it was as if I was clinging to a tuft of grass on the face of a cliff and the grass was coming away in my hands. I’d sat on the floor in Piccadilly Circus tube station and now here I was, dangling over empty air.

I rang up Chelsea & Westminster Hospital. ‘Where do I go for an HIV test?’ I asked.

‘The John Hunter Clinic,’ said the man at the switchboard. ‘It’s just next door to us.’ He gave me the number.

‘I think I need an HIV test,’ I said when the John Hunter Clinic came on the line.

‘What sort of risk factor are we talking about?’ said the man at the other end.

For a moment I thought he wanted some kind of number, then the penny dropped. Despite my sore bum, I tried to be as refined as he was. ‘I might have been exposed last night,’ I said. ‘It was the first and only contact of that kind I’ve ever had.’

‘It’s too soon for anything to show up in a test —’ he said, ‘there’s a three-month window.’

‘A three-month window!’ I imagined the ledge of that window; looking down past my feet I saw the street far, far below, where tiny faces looked up expectantly. Some of them shouted, ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Three months! I’ve got to wait three months before I know anything?’

‘That’s right. We’ll be happy to test you at any time before that but it won’t be conclusive. We can test you for other sexually transmitted diseases such as gonorrhoea and herpes simplex and so on and we can give you counselling. Our walk-in clinic is open every day from eight-thirty to four-thirty except Wednesday when we open at eleven-thirty.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and rang off. Counselling! That’s what I should have had before I started shaping my destiny in strange beds. Three months! I had no appetite for breakfast but I forced myself to have my usual grapefruit juice, muesli, and coffee. The sky was grey, the day looked doubtful and unsure of its potential as I set out for the Excelsior office, only a few minutes from where I live in Nevern Place. On the way I stopped at the Vegemania: it wasn’t open yet and nobody was visible through the window. Where was Serafina staying? She’d no place of her own any more. Was there already someone else waking up beside her?

I still wasn’t ready for Excelsior but I didn’t want to be alone so I crossed the road and went on to the tube station. With a sinking feeling in my stomach and a tingling at the back of my neck I moved through the human swarm that poured out into Earl’s Court Road. Where were they going, that they were all in such a hurry? Not just the young with their rucksacks and mineral water but middle-aged and old people as well, all with places to go that they were eager to get to. A young man at the entrance gave me a handbill:

_**** KATERINA _****

MODERN PSYCHIC AND CLAIRVOYANT

No crystal ball, no bullshit. This is the real thing.

You pay nothing if I can’t help you.

**********

There was no address but the telephone number was a local one. Who knows? I thought. Maybe this is part of my destiny too. I stuck the handbill in my pocket, turned back towards Benjy’s, picked up a takeaway coffee and a Danish, walked back to the corner, turned left into Kenway Road, continued past Al-Rawshi Take Away Lebanese Cuisine, Launderama, Hi-Tide Fish & Chips, and other international enterprises, opened the hallway door at Long Trail Travel, slowly climbed the stairs to Excelsior, said good morning to my colleagues Phil and Gary, both of whom observed that I looked terrible. I checked the first name on my list, and dialled the number.

‘Hello,’ said the voice at the other end.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Am I speaking to Herbert Sledge?’

‘Yes. Who is this?’ He sounded young and short on patience.

‘My name is Jonathan Fitch, Mr Sledge, and I’m with the Excelsior Corporation. We’ve got a list of people with potential and you’re on it.’

‘Get to the point. What are you selling?’

‘Our database shows that eighty-three per cent of the people in your age and socio-economic bracket realise only between forty and sixty per cent of their personal potential. Of that eighty-three per cent …’

‘Stop,’ said Sledge. ‘You sound like an educated man, Mr Fitch. How old are you?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘You don’t want to answer the question, do you.’

‘I’m twenty-eight.’

‘I’m twenty-four and I’m Head of Genetic Research at Omni Laboratories. Right now I’m investigating hierarchal language analogues in non-coding DNA. What are you doing besides peddling some bullshit self-improvement course?’

‘We can’t all be investigating non-coding DNA,’ I said, feeling an upsurge of gastric acid. ‘Some of us have to sell bullshit self-improvement courses.’

Sanjay Prasad walked in just as I said that: my boss, owner of Excelsior Corporation, Long Trail Travel, Prasad Printing and Copying Services, and Kashmiri Garden Furnishings. Gold Rolex, blue and white striped shirt with a white collar, and some really awful aftershave. ‘That’s quite an original sales approach,’ he said. ‘I hope you have a lot of luck with it at your next place of employment.’

‘I have to go now,’ I said to Herbert Sledge. ‘It’s been great fun talking to you. Have a nice DNA.’

‘See Yasmin in Accounting downstairs,’ said Sanjay, looking at his watch. ‘She will settle up with you.’

‘Are you telling me this is goodbye? I’ve consistently scored more sign-ups than anyone else in this room.’

‘I know. This isn’t business, it’s personal — I just happen to hate your guts. You read Classics at university and you think what we do here is shit.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No, I do not. Our files are full of letters from clients who tell us that their lives are better in every way because of the Excelsior Self-Realisation Programme. The difference between you and me is that you’re slumming and you think in a slumming way whereas I am an honest man selling an honest service and I take pride in what I’m doing. Maybe you should sign up for the course; I’ll even give you a discount although you’re no longer an employee. I’m serious — I think it would help you.’

‘I’m deeply moved by your concern, Sanjay, but I’m not sure I want to realise any more of myself than I’ve already done. Maybe I’ll try it in my next incarnation.’

‘Ah! Is this a racist remark I’m hearing?’

‘Not at all; if I had any best friends I’m sure some of them would be reincarnations. Bye bye, Sanjay. Have a nice life.’

‘And you.’

We didn’t shake hands.

As of that morning I had £204.28 in my account at Lloyds and £732.74 at the Halifax. The rent for the flat, due in eight days, was £450.