Corporate Games - Chapter 2

The story of 'ex' conflict photographer CW and CEO Nathan Spellman continues.

I woke myself with a guttural sound, I didn't believe it was me at first because I thought I was screaming. But it was me, and the imprint of that child's face with his wide eyes was burnt into my retinas. The room took shape around me as I stumbled to the tiny pink sink for water, my throat felt like a bundled hessian sack. I could hear the hum of traffic from the street and through a crack in the curtains I could see the first blue light of the day. 

Only then did I realise that I'd slept in my dirty clothes. I peeled them off, noticing the smell of smoke and made to step into the shower. I paused as a shiny titanium blowtorch fell out of a pocket and rattled across the faded blue tiles. I picked it up and examined it closer, knowing of course who it belonged to. The initials NS were engraved on the bottom. I cast my mind back to the strange character and smiled, I had a feeling that the blowtorch had not made its way into my pocket by chance. 

I showered and returned to the sink in the nude, gulping down more water until I felt it rising again in my throat. Back in the bedroom I ran my hands over my stubble and looked at my reflection in the glass cupboard, easier on the eyes than the harsh reality that the bathroom mirror portrayed. I'd been called tall but I considered myself average height. At thirty-one, my hairline had receded further than what was exactly average for someone at that age, so I did my best to make up for it with a superman fringe that often looked more messy than sleek. I raised my eyebrows, just to change the look of placidity that had made its home on my stubbled face. I thought my jaw was too square, making my head look like a block. 

I sat down to bacon and eggs with burnt toast and a black coffee at a cafe I'd located on my late night booze jaunts to the cinema. Sitting completely alone with my thoughts as was my custom, I wondered what I'd done to get to this place completely adrift from anyone and anything.  I became a photographer like I did anything, because it happened to me. My high school sweetheart was into taking photos so so was I, only I stuck with it. I felt like it was the only thing that I seemed good at. I followed it to university so that I didn't miss out on all the fun. 

I was traveling with a girlfriend through Africa when I took my first conflict photo completely by accident. A group of young African men in an open trayed truck holding their AK-47s aloft. The shutter clicked before I could even think about it and the closest man, who was wearing a baseball cap, looked at me strangely like he was wondering why I was there.  He sighted me with his gun and I thought I had gotten us killed. We dived on the ground but he lowered the gun and smiled. They sped off laughing. It should have stopped there but it didn't, I should have felt scared but I wasn't.

I felt different afterwards, like now that I had seen the worst I could be comfortable with it. Some of the unknown had eroded and I felt safer, I felt thrilled. Then the girlfriend left and the habit stayed. So I started to fill my backpack with ghosts, because I hadn't seem the worst and soon my backpack was full. I had so much baggage that it weighed me down, in Africa, the Middle East, Timor it all piled on me and I felt like I was walking down a black hole. I told people who asked me why I did it that it was the type of job that fitted my personality, I alone was special, I could endure. But I couldn't.

I looked at the blowtorch on the table next to the salt and pepper shakers. It wasn't Spellman that bothered me it was my willingness to be led and where that might take me. I was intrigued by Spellman, he was a window into a corporate world that I knew nothing about. I'd seen his type around the fringes but in the flesh and right up close, Spellman was a reminder to me of a word that exists under our noses that we never get to see. 

I contemplated my grandfathers old Rolex. I thought about what he used to say, something like 'you've already decided your path before you even consider the situation'.  It was time to end the drifting and return to London regardless so I packed up my stuff and headed to Arlanda airport. Packing was an easy affair, everything I owned fit in one carry-on suitcase. I noted the absence of my camera, having sold it and its associated equipment in Germany where it bought me another two weeks in a small bar an hours drive from St Petersburg. 

It was a small comfort to me that I could fit my life into an overhead compartment. My hand luggage consisted of a few pairs of cargo pants, some plain tshirts in white or grey, underpants and socks all black, and the blowtorch, which fit snugly in the custom recess I'd made behind the battery of my laptop - a plain IBM Thinkpad that I strangely hadn't sold yet. My only other possession was the book in the front pocket of the nylon suitcase, a battered copy of King Henry the Fifth - my roadside hotel bible. An internet search in the lobby revealed that there were no available tickets back to London until late at night, so I caught one last flick at the cinema where I fell asleep with my feet up on my small suitcase.

At the airport I checked my bank balance, I had two thousand pounds which at my current rate of spending would last me about two weeks. On the other side after clearing security I wondered the streets with my suitcase trailing behind me looking for a backpackers in the rain. It was four AM. The suitcase trailed through the puddles, occasionally catching me on my heels and tipping to the side in the blue light of the morning.

After a short nap at the backpackers, in a blue prison cell of a hotel room with a bunk bed, I woke up to an aching hunger. The lobby café was closed so I located some bacon and eggs with burnt toast and a black coffee at a corner cafe a short walk down the street. I digested breakfast together with the classifieds in The Guardian while the early morning truckers and tradesmen rolled in and out with their stale egg and bacon sandwiches and take away coffees.

Shortly after breakfast was over I headed out with fresh resolve for a haircut and bought some new clothes, a necessity if I was to find some sort of respectable job. All of a sudden the extreme boredom of my situation hit me and I decided to find Spellman's office. I decided to return his lighter contrary to my previous ideas of a productive new start.

I took the tube and got off at Baker Street, taking the number 6 Alphington buss back up town towards Downing St. I walked past the gigantic sky scraper several times, before realising that the futuristic building I'd been seeing in the London sky for the past ten years was in fact owned by Spellman. 

I walked through the revolving glass doors into a large white marbled foyer. Men and women in flawless suits of varying grays and blacks scurried from doorway to doorway and in and out of the elevators.  I thought of the character with the purple bow tie, how was that man responsible for so many people's welfare? I made my way over to a marble fortress that I thought looked the most like a reception, among the glass walled cafes and drinking fountains that lined the indoor courtyard.

"Can I help you," said the receptionist. A deadpan lady of around sixty, her grey hair pulled back in a tight bun, her glasses resting on the very tip of her nose. 

"I'd like to speak to Nathanial Spellman," I said. Her smile vanished. 

"Who?"

"Nathanial Spellman"

"You mean the Nathanial Spellman, of Spellman Industries? I'm not sure, I mean I imagine he's probably not here -- could you wait one moment?" She looked as if she were concerned about me like I'd turned up at Disney HQ and asked to speak with Walt.

"Sure." I waited while she spoke to someone in hushed tones, evidently her manager. 

"Is Mr. Spellman expecting you? What did you say your name was?"

"Tell him it's CW, and that I have the device necessary for his opportune moments," I said. 

After a few more moments of intense discussion her eyes widened. "Floor 114," she said, looking like a stunned magpie. 

I crossed the marble expanse to the silver elevators and rode in carpeted silence to the top floor. The elevator opened up into a small waiting room with teak floorboards and modern uncomfortable looking furniture. Off to the left there was a hall with a number of glass doors blocking the way every three meters, at the end of the hall was an ornate wooden door. To the right of the hallway entrance was what looked like a cloak room or a ticket booth behind which sat a bored looking pale young man with frame-less glasses. 

"CW?"

"Yeah"

"Mr Spellman is waiting for you, you can go in right away. Do you mind if I see some ID first?"

"I don't have a drivers licence will a credit card do?"

"Of course sir," he said. I felt like I was checking in to a hotel. "Straight through the glass doors on your left sir."

As I approached the first glass door it swung inwards with a click, the other doors followed suit until I got to the end. I had to pause to appreciate the wooden door, the intricate carvings of griffins and unicorns were beautiful yet there was something about the weight of the door that radiated power. I could hear slow strains of music and a lady's laughter behind the door. As I opened the door wider they became clearer. It was Virginia Avenue off Closing Time by Tom Waits, Spellman was rocking slowly with a stunning woman in a rose red dress.

I'll just get on back into my short, 

make it back to the fort, 

sleep off all the crazy lizards inside of my brain,

there's gotta be someplace better than this,

this life I'm leading is driving me insane, 

and let me tell you that I'm dreaming.

They had not yet seen me because I was above them. A set of dark grey marble steps descended onto the cream tiles that made up Spellman's office come dance floor. The office was designed in a semi circle, the curve of which was made up of the floor to ceiling windows that reached so high I had to bend my neck to see the top. Her laughter echoed all the way up to where my gaze had just lingered. Center stage was given to an ornately carved oak desk along the same lines as the door, sitting in the matching brown leather chair one could have seen most of London. 

As I started toward the two security guards emerged from the shadows and started to pad me down. 

"That won't be necessary gentlemen," said a sharp voice from across the room. The hands ceased immediately.

 "You have a visitor Nathan," laughed the women in red. She spoke with a strong French accent. 

I looked at Spellman. He was dressed in a jet black suit and appeared different somehow. There were a few more lines under the eyes than I remembered and perhaps it was the absence of the bow tie that had been replaced by a simple black tie that made him project a more serious air. He looked almost imposing here in his empire, but the corner of his mouth twitched and he smiled. 

"Madeline this is CW my - partner in crime?"

"Actually I just came to drop that off," I said. I pointed to one of the security guards who was now examining it, apparently impressed. 

"Good of you to come, and now that you have, surely I can't send you away without a drink?" The same, corner of the mouth smile.

"I guess not"

"You're a man of the world. You're looking at a gentleman and a scholar Ms Delilah. Christ, have a look at him! 

At that moment Gerard briskly entered and shuffled down the steps carrying a sleek black handset. "Call for you sir," he said.

"Just a moment CW, Ms Delilah will you entertain our guest for five minutes?" said Spellman. Before I could object he disappeared through a doorway at the end of the open office with the phone, neglecting my drink.

"You'll get used to that," said Madeline, catching my raised eyebrows. "Whiskey?"

She traipsed over to a smooth granate bar that projected from the floor, which I had earlier mistaken for a statue. She returned with two glasses full of amber liquid. 

"Look, I really just came to drop off Mr. Spellman's lighter" I said, accepting the glass. 

"Yet you just received your first twelve year old blue label very warmly for someone about to leave. Tell me CW, you're obviously intrigued by Nathan, why?"

"You don't waste any time on small-talk do you?"

"I detest small-talk," she said.

"Well, he's an intriguing sort of guy I guess"

"Of course, that was a silly question. Nathan tells me you're a conflict photographer"

"Ex," I said. I felt like I was being interviewed and I didn't like it. "Listen, do you know how long Mr. Spellman is likely to be?"

"I'm sure he'll be along in the shake of a bunny's tail," she said, taking a swallow of her whiskey. 

I was beginning to regret having come, thinking that again my impulsive desire for dark corners was leading me astray. 'Get out of here,' I thought. 'Go take photos of rich people getting married, see a smile or to.' Madeline appeared to catch the look on my face. 

"I'm sorry," she said.

"About what?"

"I can see that you don't like to talk about it"

"It's fine. There's just not really that much to say about it, if you're interested I can point you in the direction of some of my pictures."

"I'd like that," she said. She smiled briefly and lingered a moment. "So, how did you get started?"

"Not so sorry after all?"

"Not a bit, more towards burning with curiosity," she said. She took a step closer with one foot and playfully rolled her feet around in her flat red shoes.

"I started like every other photography student after school, I tried to make a name for myself and failed. I worked for an oil company for a while, taking marketing photos of pipelines and things. I left it all behind when I went to Africa though, Africa is where I really started taking photos for a living."

"Ms Delilah I hope you haven't sunk your tentacles too deep into my sidekick? I'm sorry CW she's like an octopus, a pretty blonde octopus," said a voice. I turned to see Spellman standing right next to me.

"You're too much Nathan," she said. "We were having a little chat your friend and I, what a charming man you've found? Where on earth did you say you found him?"

"In a puddle outside the Purple Elephant in Stockholm," said Spellman.

"What are the odds?"

"Astronomical darling. But now, please, CW I have a very fine single malt from a small distillery in Bulgaria that you need to try. It's just in my office, right this way."

We walked back through the same door he had previously disappeared through.

"Office?" I said.

"Ah. I see how that could be confusing. We we're just in what I call the waiting room, this is my office."

It was much smaller than the atrium and there were no windows. With its red carpet and solid wooden bookshelves it looked like the sort of place you might see the crown jewels being displayed, perhaps because of the gold trimming on the ornate wooden chairs.  He sauntered over to the small corner bar and took a purple porcelain bottle which he up ended roughly into two glasses. The liquid was pale gold. From a small freezer below the bar he took an ice cube tray and clunked three large icecubes into each glass.

Spellman took a seat behind a solid block of a desk and slid a glass towards me. It was eerily quiet in Spellman's office, he contemplated the bottom of his glass and I could hear the ice cubes in mine crackle as they constricted in the room temperature whiskey. I swapped the fresh glass on the table for my empty one. I took a sip. It tasted pure, like fresh river water running down an oak tree.

"I have a small confession to make CW," said Spellman.

"About the lighter or Ms Delilah?"

He raised both eyebrows, looking genuinely surprised. "You made her?"

"Come on, she practically has psychoanylist written on her forehead." I stood up. "But seriously, the only reason I'm still here is that I'm curious as to what you're playing at. You have from now until I reach that door to start explaining, I don't like being buggered around, or what do you American's call it - being bird dogged?" I made for the door. The cold irritation was rising in my chest.

"Ms Madeline is an industrial psychologist, not a psychoanylist. I asked her to meet you as a favour," said Spellman. He looked at me calmly from his seat.

"Why?"

"Because I in turn have a favour to ask of you. A short job that I think you would find both interesting and rewarding."

"So you had her psychoanalyse me? To what purpose? To test my aptitude for some little errand and make sure I hadn't lost my mind in Africa?"

Spellman stood up, his eyes shinning brightly. "She's a friend and a consummate professional. There is absolutely no need to worry. My work can be incredibly demanding and it's important that you're ready. The nature of the specific tasks tend to be inflammatory so I try not to hand them out to just anybody."

"I'm feeling really special"

"Don't joke about it CW," he said, looking serious all of a sudden. "I like you, and not just because of some dust up either. I project a soft face but I'm not easily won over. You've got something different about you, it's hard to pin down and describe because it's a mix of things, but you're the guy we want. I have a nose for these things."

"And what is it you want me to do?"

"Ah," he said. He ruffled through the top drawer and emerged with a cigarette that he lit on an old fashioned desk lighter with apparent ease and sat down. "It appears we've reached a bit of a fork in the road my friend. It's like this, I can't tell you until you've singed a non-disclosure agreement"

"Sure. I won't tell anyone," I said.

"It's not that simple. We can't allow you to sign the non-disclosure unless you are going to take on the job. I can't elaborate unfortunately, so you'll have to accept my word that it is for your own benefit should you choose not to proceed"

"But I have no idea what it is. It could be anything!"

"And here is our fork. This job requires you to be available in twenty four hours and you have that long to decide. If you decide against it, it goes without saying that our association will end."

With that, Nathanial Spellman walked right past me with a small smile and left me alone in his office. I looked down again at my icecubes, now small slithers in the bottom of the glass tumbler.

Author's Note

Meant as light serial fiction. All feedback is greatly appreciated.

Reviews

[AJJordan]

In the third paragraph CW seems to slip into present tense narrative, which stands out as the rest is in past tense.
"Completely alone with my thoughts as was my custom" seems a strange comment, as technically everyone is alone with their own thoughts.
I thought CW was in Stockholm, but suddenly he is in St Petersburg?
"The lobby café was closed so I located some bacon and eggs with burnt toast and a black coffee on the corner a short walk down the street" As the first cafe was closed, perhaps he located another cafe 'on the corner' for breakfast? The way this reads, he found breakfast on the corner...
In Spellman's waiting room, Spellman suggests they have a drink, then goes off for a phone call, then comes back and takes CW to his office and pours him a drink. The thing is, while Spellman is gone and CW is with Madeline, she suggests he had just accepted his first 12 year old blue label...which i assume is a drink. So yeah, a little confusing there.
Spellman has a few more lines in his face, which gives the impression some time has passed since their last meeting...yet I was sure it was only a few days, maybe a week, since that incident with the club in Stockholm?
Spellman's character seems very different, much more serious and far less flamboyant, but I guess that's because he's back in his office, back at work.
Lastly, I found it strange that CW threatens to turn around and walk out unless Spellman explains what he wants from CW...yet it was CW that sought out Spellman this time! Nobody forced him to go back to London and seek out Spellman...so that part seems a little strange.

Can't wait to read more:)

[Sam Marsella]

All insightful and constructive! I can see that some stuff needs to be more clearly worded. As far as CW, I think I need to show his mindset a little more - he is unsatisfied with life, he looks for things at the edge of society to brake the monotony. That is why he finds himself up there, he doesn't want to but he's intrigued. He's also a proud guy, quick to take being snubbed or being kept in the dark as an insult. I'm going to try make that clearer.