Read by Paul Clarke
“How does it work?”
I slide the sheet of paper over without looking up from my game of patience. “Like the Palio in Siena? Eight departments, or ‘Contrada’, represented by eight runners. Three circuits of the office, starting and ending at the lifts by Reception.”
“And who are the runners?”
“It’s on the list.”
“But not the odds?”
“There aren’t any.” I sigh, bored of explaining. “Apart from a bottle of fizz for the runner, the winners divide the pot – the more you put in, the bigger slice you get back.”
If you would like to read the rest of this story, please check out London Lies, the Arachne Press anthology in which it, and many other London-based stories from the League archives, appears.
“And it’s really going to happen? How are you going to get away with it?” He asks doubtfully.
“There’s an offsite for the Managers this afternoon.” I reply. “But that just affords the opportunity. I’m not going to get away with it - it’s my last day here. Which is why I ask for the money up-front.” I add pointedly.
“Ah, yes.” He has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable, though I’m not sure whether it’s sympathy for me or embarrassment at being told to flash his cash. Then he reaches for a wallet that could choke a pony and slips out a brightly coloured note. “On Matt Beasley, for the FX Traders. See you in the pub afterwards?”
I nod briefly. Fifty quid? The smug git. Canny though, Beasley was in the TA, and with a few overturned wastepaper baskets, it could turn into an assault course. Not that it really mattered. Not the way I was playing the game.
I wouldn’t have minded redundancy. I was only working until I had enough for my trip round the world, and three months paid leave would have suited me down to the ground. But, because I’d not worked at GQS for a full year, they didn’t need to make me redundant, did they? Instead, I was told I was definitely being let go, but only after I’d worked my full notice period. Nice.
I make my way over to Reception. When the last of the Managers leave, Emmeline had agreed to parade a banner bearing the symbols of the eight Contrada round the course to let everyone know the race was about to begin. Only, she isn’t there.
“Ah... she popped out for a smoke. She’s a bit nervous.” Claire says.
“Emmeline? Nervous?” Every Hedge Fund seems to have at least one singular beauty at Reception, there to smile for the Investors and add a bit of glamour to the disappointing returns. Ours was Emmeline. I wouldn’t have thought she was the sort to get butterflies.
“Yes...” Claire nods. “And to tell you the truth, so am I.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine I’m sure.” I smile warmly. Claire was one of the runners, representing all the little teams, like the receptionists, that weren’t big enough to form a department.
She tilts her head to one side and shrugs. “It’s not the race I’m worried about.”
I lean over the counter. “It’s only a bit of fun.” I say. “This place has been like a morgue since the redundancies. Where’s the harm? We’re not exactly going to annoy the neighbours - the fourth floor has been empty for 3 months. Besides, they can’t get rid of all of us, can they? And they already got rid of me.”
She bites her lower lip and fiddles with the silver heart on her necklace.
“Besides, I’ve got ten quid on ‘The Chimera’.” I lie. “So you can’t pull out now.”
“Really?” she says, delighted. Claire chose a mythical beast as the symbol for her Contrada. It made an odd sort of sense - a creature made up of the parts of many others. She always was far too smart to be a receptionist.
“Really.” I grin. “When Emmeline comes back, let me know, okay?”
“Okay.” She nods. “And Tony, I’m sorry about ... “
I wave my hand dismissively. “Don’t be. I’ll land on my feet. I always do.”
There’s a flurry of last minute bets that keeps me from finishing my game of patience, but I don’t mind. The cash box in my desk drawer is already stuffed with notes, mostly tens and twenties, with a fair few fifties from the traders. I write out each bet on a slip stamped with the Contrada’s mascot, and tot up the amounts on a spreadsheet. All very professional. It’s neck and neck between Beasley for the Fox, and Alex McAvoy for the Bull, though there’s a late surge on Jonson in Legal for the Eagle that makes me wonder if there’s a fix going in.
At long last the phone rings, and I listen attentively. “Gents,” I announce, as I replace the handset. “The race is on. You have until Emmeline comes past to place your bets.”
I collect another 50 quid before Emmeline sashays by, a crowd in tow. I write out the last slip – a tenner on the Stag, and call out “To the starting line!”, while I wait for the printer to churn out the final spreadsheet. By the time I reach Reception there’s barely room to squeeze through. I hand the cashbox to Emmeline, and then there’s a roar as I hold the bottle of champagne aloft, which only slowly quietens as I continue to hold my stance.
“Ladies and gentleman!” I announce. “Welcome to the first – and last – GQS Office Palio!” I ride the applause and then lift the printout in my hand. “The bets are in, the runners are ready, and there’s absolutely no Management anywhere to be seen!”
This time the roar is accompanied by the stamping of feet, and again I wait for hush.
“The Palio is an ancient race, distinguished by its sheer simplicity. The race starts when the tape across the passageway is lowered by the lovely Emmeline.” Wolf whistles cut piercingly across the cheers, and Emmeline gives a mock curtsey. “Three laps around the perimeter of the office,” I continue, “Winner takes all, and as for the rules – well, there ARE no rules!” The roar returns with a vengeance.
“But that’s for the runners. For the spectators...” I wag my finger, “Strictly NO interference! Keep off the race course – there’s plenty of room between the desks for everyone to get a good view. And we’ll need to clear a route back to Reception before the race can begin. Before you go though, let’s introduce the Contradas!”
As I introduce them in order of descending support, each name is met by cheers and jeers in equal measure. “And last – but by no means least, Claire Fielding for “The Chimera!”” Claire steps forward, to rapturous applause – more I suspect because I’ve kept them waiting far too long, rather than last minute support for the official underdog. “Keep an eye on the tape.” I whisper, and then while I’m still trying to move people aside, I give a quick nod to Emmeline and she drops the red ribbon she’s been holding across the corridor. Claire’s halfway to the wedged-open door to the trading floor before the other runners notice and as the spectators cheer and holler I turn and slip quietly into the stairwell.
Although I was only at GQS for a little less than a year, there were quite a few leaving do’s in that time. I guess the smarter ones had gotten wind of what was coming. And for each of them there was the traditional whip-round. It’s funny, the differences in the amounts collected. When a trader left, there would be enough for a flash watch, or a leather briefcase, or an expensive electronic toy. When someone from IT left, they’d barely scrape together enough for a bottle of M&S own brand champagne.
Of course, when a quarter of the staff is made redundant, there’s no time for a whip-round. They were gone the day the announcements were made, drowning their sorrows in the local, wondering what they did wrong, hardly comprehending that the only reason they had been let go was to make the company’s bottom line – the ratio between cost and income – look a lot healthier than it really was.
But what about me? As I descend the stairs I wonder if there’s a slim envelope somewhere, with a paltry collection of coins that wouldn’t even cover the first round I was expected to buy, and an oversized card partially covered in scrawled “Good Luck!” messages. I wonder if any of the Managers would condescend to sign it – the Managers whose “offsite” wasn’t very offsite at all – the Managers who were in the one functional meeting room on the otherwise unoccupied fourth floor, discussing terms with the prospective new owners, grey accountants from one of the City’s more traditional and straight-laced Investment Banks. The Managers who had done everything they could to keep the meeting hush-hush, but had still needed help from what remained of IT to set up the projector. The Managers who were presumably stood with stormy faces staring up across the central atrium past the glass elevators to the chaos erupting on the fifth floor.
I doubt it. Which is why the cashbox sitting on the Reception desk is full of blank betting slips, and enough coppers to make it rattle; whereas the bulging envelope in my jacket pocket is too full to be sealed shut.
I reach the ground floor and collect my rucksack from building security just as a noise like slow thunder rolls through the building. The guard nods in the direction of the lifts. “What’s happening up there?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Good news, perhaps.” I’m about to do one last check for my passport and my airline ticket, when I realise I’m still holding the bottle of champagne. I’d have liked to leave it for Claire, the one decent person in the company, but that would just get her into trouble. I hesitate, and then turn back to the guard. “Alf, it’s my last day here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that sir.” He says, his voice neutral. I guess he’s seen a lot of people come and go. I doubt more than a handful ever bothered to learn his name.
I hand him my security pass, and the bottle. “For you.” I say with a smile.
--
Palio by Liam Hogan was read by Paul Clarke at the Liars' League Fun & Games event on Tuesday 12th April 2011 at the Phoenix, Cavendish Square, London.
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