Chapter 3 - The Man goes to a Meeting

Chapter 3 - it's quite long, I'm really sorry for that!

I walk steadily, glancing at each building as I pass it. The purple bouquet drips water onto my hands, and I shake it off irritably. I then realise that the water is not from the flowers, but from the overcast sky above. As though they had planned this before, the crowd, almost as one, opens their umbrellas to the sky, and create a big, black roof above my head. I negotiate through the crowd, and continue looking at the buildings as I pass them. I pause under a balcony for a moment, and with my free hand withdraw a creased map from my left pocket. I look at the map, studying the roads and alleys in white. I look up at the building in front of me, studying where it fits in on my map. I look at the map again. I look at the building again. I look at the map again. I look at the building again. I almost dance with joy. I’ve found my destination. It’s massive. The walls are mirrored glass, a bit like in a spy film. I love mirrored glass. The people inside the building can look out, but the ordinary public can’t look in. It makes you feel almost as though you’re on an episode of CSI. I aim my gaze at the door, and see a familiar black and red checked shirt. It’s the girl from the train. She is speaking into the intercom, her hair partially covering her face. The door opens, and she disappears into the lobby, where a man in a suit is waiting for her. His turnout is impeccable, his navy suit, white shirt and navy tie ironed and pressed, and his navy loafers polished to perfection. I don’t like the look of him walking away with her, but who am I to argue.

I cross the road to the building, avoiding the treacherous web of black cabs and arrogant cab drivers. After safely reaching the opposite pavement, I walk somewhat slowly to the intercom and push the button. It beeps quite loudly and I jump at the noise. ‘Yes?’ a female voice enquires. I take a deep breath and say, boldly, ‘Overcoat to see Trench.’ I hear a shuffling of papers over the other side, until the voice replies ‘Welcome Overcoat. Burberry here will take you to Trench; he is waiting for you in the conference hall.’ I sigh with relief, and reply ‘Thank you Solar, am I right?’ and hear a gasp of surprise over the other side. I smile to myself and glow inwardly. So I got the name right. The buzz of the door unlocking jolts me out of my thoughts. I push it open and it silently swings on its hinges. I see the man in the navy suit again. ‘You must be Burberry,’ I say, offering my hand to shake. He does not shake my hand, but just nods curtly. He indicates the lavish gold lift, and so I walk over to it. He reaches around my slender frame to push the button for the top floor, simply labelled ‘TOP’ and the lift doors spring open. We walk inside, silently, and he presses his index finger against a fingerprint pad in the lift. Then, a red light appears and scans his left retina. ‘Welcome Mr. Burberry,’ an automated female voice says, ‘Your request to go to the top floor has been granted.’ The lift doors glide shut. The mirrors on each wall of the lift make it seem larger than it is. The standard lift music plays, and Burberry stands like a secret agent, facing the door in the centre of the lift with legs wider than hip width apart and hands clasped together behind him. To be honest, it makes me want to slap him. But, being the gentleman I am, I don’t. Even though I partially lift my hand up. We reach the top floor, and with a gentle ‘ping’ we leave the lift of mirrors. I exhale the breath I’ve been holding, and follow Burberry to a large set of mahogany doors with exquisite gold handles. He raps twice on the doors. Hard. I cringe at each rap, wondering how the wood must be damaged if this happens often, but I hear another two knocks from inside the room. Burberry opens the door outwards, and gestures for me to go inside. So I step in to the room, not knowing what to expect.

 It is a very large room, with an imposing black wood table in the centre of the room. Around it are plush office chairs, the wheely kind. There is a projector and screen on each wall, quite high up, and the vaulted ceiling shows the room is bigger than it appears. There is a balcony full of seats you might see at a football stadium, but covered in black fabric. However, below the section of wall with the projectors, the windows are vast, almost three metres in height. They show a panoramic view of London, with even Wembley Stadium in the distance. On the wall with the door, there is an oil painting of a man seated at a table, with a Spanish ruff. However, there seems to be something missing. His eyes have been burned out with what seems to be a cigarette. The table is specifically modified, and a tablet screen is mounted into the table in front of each seat. Just behind this, a brass nameplate is placed, with letters etched in black. A pad of paper and two pens are to the right of each tablet, and to the left, an empty water glass, a glass bottle of water, some slices of lemon on a white saucer and a flute of exquisite champagne. To the left of each nameplate there is a miniature flag. I stand in front of the door, taking this all in. I startle when Burberry’s voice booms ‘Mr. Overcoat, Sir.’ To be honest, I didn’t even know he had a voice. I then notice all the chairs, save one, are occupied. However, the one at the head of the table is turned away, towards the back of the room, away from everyone else. It is this chair that speaks. ‘Thank you, Mr. Burberry. Maybe you would like to assume your seat in the balcony?’ Burberry nods, behind me, and leaves, the great door creaking shut. I suddenly feel alone without his presence. ‘Mr. Overcoat, welcome. I see you are the last person to arrive, and we are complete. Please do assume your seat. You are the thirteenth member of this party and you will be seated opposite me. Your name is in front of your seat.’ A man in a white suit who has been stood against one of the windows steps forward to the empty seat, and gestures for me to come. He pulls my seat back for me to sit, and I do so, after removing my overcoat and fedora. He takes them from me and puts them on the coat stand just behind my chair. Beneath my overcoat I have a white suit also, but with a black shirt, and black loafers and a white tie. The rest of the men seated around the table are dressed in conventional black suits, and I feel oddly out of place. However, this feeling is not alien to me, as I often am the odd one out. I try to relax in my chair and appear at ease. I suddenly feel the need to put my overcoat on again. However, I don’t. I try to focus on the faces of those around the table, and on my brass nameplate, which simply says ‘Mr. Overcoat’. I then notice the miniature British flag on the left of the nameplate, and glance at the flags of those around me. I understand now, I’m the British representative. I’m sat with the French representative on my left, and the Spanish representative on my right, who seems clearly upset about the painting. ‘Signor! Signor! Please you look! This is unfair, is it not? My countryman abused by your lack of empassion? Signor! The painting! SIGNOR!’ The agitated Spaniard begins to rise from his seat, and move towards the offensive painting. ‘Be quiet you mongrel!’ the seat turned away bellows. We all automatically shrink in our seats. The seat turns around. A tall, string bean like man emerges. He is dressed in a dark blue suit, but not quite navy, with a thin tie and dark blue loafers. He is a literal beanstalk, and I can’t believe we’ve all been answering to this ridiculously puffed up man. However, I hold my peace, as I don’t want to get the same treatment as Signor on my left.

‘Signor Santos. Please hold your peace. This painting is a decorative element, but also a warning. If you ever betray me, or annoy me to breaking point, you will end up like your predecessor, Signor Silves. Your eyes will be burnt out with cigarettes, before you get hanged. I’m not afraid to use techniques from before my time. Now, to business. I have a rather pressing matter to address. We have recently heard of a murder, just happened before the arrival of the final member, Mr. Overcoat. It is a woman, and actually across the road from us.’ At this, I lean forward in my seat. Could it be one of the people I ‘commuted’ with this morning? A picture comes up on the projectors, of a woman’s face. The panoramic view is covered, as blackout blinds slide down to cover the windows, and save the tablets in front of us, and the projection, we are plunged into complete darkness. I can now see the woman’s face more clearly. She has shoulder length brown hair that had clearly been put into rollers the night before. Her lips are the newest Chanel red, and her face powdered to hide her real age. Her mascara is applied artfully to gently grey lined watery blue eyes. I recognise the face, and gasp. No one notices.

‘This is Denise Atkins. She was 45 years old and a part of a large corporation, BTM Banking, situated across the road from us. She was killed twenty minutes ago exactly, whilst entering her office. She was sniped with a clear bullet to the temple, which killed her instantly. Her office is almost the same as this room, except with a lower ceiling, and a smaller surface area as it is divided into three.’ A plan of the office comes up on the projection, in orange, on a black background. Trench pulls a laser pointer from his pocket, and aims it at a window on the plan. ‘This window was open. Her secretary had left it open before her arrival, as there was a scent of musk throughout the office. It was through this window that the fateful sniper shot.’ The projection changes to an aerial view of the road, and with our building, CXM Enterprises, and BTM Banking’s headquarters clearly marked. Trench continues: ‘I realise that the sniper would have either had to be shooting from this building or the building next door for the bullet to enter at the angle it did. Yes, we already had forensic analysis of the body, as soon as we heard of the murder; we decided to make it a pressing matter. The building next door is a building full of rented offices. The top three floors were rented by a company named Obsidian Ring Trading Ltd. It is no surprise that the fatal shot must have been fired from one of those three floors. Thus the whole of the company is under observation; however it seems to be a fake name. I have decided to assign two of you to the task. Monsieur Chanel?’ The Frenchman next to me clears his throat. ‘Oui, Monsieur Trench? Have you deemed it appropriate to include me finally?’ I can see Trench stiffen in the half light. ‘Yes, Monsieur. You must work together with Mr. Overcoat.’ I jump in my seat, and then see all eyes in the room on me. Someone must’ve hit the lights whilst I was in a world of my own. Trench addresses me loudly. ‘Mr. Overcoat, you are our British representative, and though it may seem strange that I have assigned a Frenchman to a mission with a British corporation, there have been flight records of many Obsidian Ring representatives flying to France, and I believe you may be headed there as well during your investigations. Chanel, Overcoat, all the data you will need has been streamed to these tablets. Please take them with you. All of you may leave now.’ The blinds lift, and all the men stand to leave. The room is silent until the door bursts open, and in come Burberry and another man. They carry between them a kicking, yelling girl in a black and red checked shirt. ‘I said, put me down! You’re not allowed to tough guy a minor!’ The girl writhes in their grip. Trench looks at the girl, and in a weary voice says, ‘Burberry, Athos, put her down.’ They release the girl, and she drops to her feet, and brushes herself off. ‘Finally!’ She yells, giving Trench the death glare. She then notices me. ‘Hey, you! You’re the guy from the train, aren’t you?’ she points, and I nod silently. ‘Well, stranger, this tough guy here, Trench as you call him, is my dad. And he still thinks I should be dragged in by security, for effect. I know everything. I’ve been sat in the balcony all this time. And I think you need my help.’

Author's Note

If the copy paste kills some bits or makes no sense I'm sorry xD