Chapter Eleven
Pauline loaded paper files into her wheelie document case—she preferred to view and amend physical documents when flying rather than try to work from her laptop—and, citing her need to get home and pack for her evening flight to London, hurried out of the door, leaving Mitchell to clear up the mess and switch everything off.
Once she had gone, he took a moment to breathe and centre himself before switching his phone from silent mode and firing off a quick message to Zane. Another half an hour, and he should be ready to leave. Maybe his nephew had been right. His job did suck far too often of late. Having gone through spreadsheet after depressing spreadsheet containing the personnel history and financial remuneration of almost every staff member—people he had worked alongside for years and knew personally—coldly ensuring their redundancy figures added up, he felt emotionally drained.
Worst of all, Pauline would return to the office on Thursday morning and her number two, Helen Cheong, would be the first casualty. Pauline had reminded Mitchell that he would be sitting in the meeting as an observer, something he dreaded. Naturally, Pauline alone collated redundancy packages for the senior managers, the information sensitive and confidential, entailing more considerable sums she would need to negotiate and get approved by the directors in London. Not that anybody would challenge her. She had a reputation for being unerringly parsimonious in financial matters.
Somewhat out of character, she had talked him through Helen’s remuneration package and asked his opinion. Considering Helen’s long service for the bank’s operation back in Australia, he had suggested she push for the maximum. Pauline had agreed, and Helen’s payout would be fairly generous. Maybe the lump sum would not compensate for losing her livelihood, but would hopefully be enough to give her options. Mitchell wondered if his boss had agreed to the sum to ensure Helen left without creating too many waves.
During the afternoon, Pauline had installed him at the small table in the corner of her office, collating reports as she printed them off her computer. Unneeded pages lay scattered around the room, confidential data that he would need to shred. Before anything, he stood and stretched, then walked around the space, collecting papers from surfaces or the carpet and turning off devices like the standalone computer she had been provided to print confidential data, her desktop scanner, her aroma air purifier and the snazzy black and chrome coffee machine.
When he reached her desk, he realised she had left her desktop computer signed on. He plonked down in her leather seat and tapped a key to stop the screen from timing out. Then he grabbed the mouse, ready to shut everything down, when one of the folders on the bank’s customised desktop caught his eye.
HR Senior Mgt Decisions.
During the afternoon, she had asked him to update and print out details of staff members in all departments. Apart from Helen—and she had only read the proposed package to him—they had not looked at any of their own departmental staff. He’d assumed she’d already dealt with senior employees, maybe done the work from home. Then again, one of Pauline’s admittedly few flaws was that she was hopeless with technology and would probably have struggled to access confidential documents on the bank’s secure network from her home.
But then he remembered. Midway through the afternoon, Pauline had given him money and asked him to go out and get drinks and cookies from the artisan coffee shop a couple of streets away. Told him to treat himself to his favourite choice of coffee in the biggest cardboard cup they had, even though she had a swanky coffee machine in her office. Had she used that opportunity to print the senior management files while he was out of the building? That would undoubtedly be her style.
Maybe the file housed something innocuous, an updated departmental organisational chart. Although bearing in mind the current state of affairs, that seemed unlikely. One click would reveal the truth.
Would anyone know? Would Pauline? And did Mitchell give a damn if she did?
He clicked into the folder, which brought up a short list of spreadsheets, each with the names of senior staff. Both Kate and Helen were there, but listed in alphabetical order by family name, Baxter sat at the top. Without hesitating, he clicked to open the file.
Name: Baxter, Mitchell Angus.
Title: Senior Human Resources Manager, Asia
Other: DOB: 31-08-1985 | Status: Single | Base: Hong Kong
Largely operational experience. Joined Charteris straight from university. Fifteen years with the bank, thirteen worked in Hong Kong supporting the Asia region. Four minor promotions during those years. Loyal staff member, if unremarkable. Risk potential to bank: low.
Options:
1. Remain and rehire: Local head of HK ops position? Knowledgeable and well-respected by staff. Good connections with local recruiters. Extensive international labour law knowledge. Lack of broader management and finance skills. English only, no local or Asian languages. Unlikely to be suitable.
2. Relocation: London office, Canary Wharf. Upcoming junior HR management position. Twelve month maternity leave cover.
3. Redundancy: Statutory severance package. Standard local terms.
Proposal: Second option, due to knowledge and experience. But only once transition to reduced office completed in six months.
And there it was, in her own words. Not only was Mitchell not being considered for a role in the reduced Hong Kong operation, but he was expendable. And unlike Helen, he would only have been offered a minimal payout, which would have amounted to no more than a few months’ salary. No special treatment because he was considered low-risk and unlikely to cause problems. Even the position in London would be temporary. And he knew only too well from calls with repatriating colleagues that London might sing the praises of overseas experience, but treated returning colleagues at best like prodigal children, at worst like pariahs. His fate had been sealed. Another six months and he would be shipped back home. Jasmin Hong Kong, he had once carved in a stone on the peak, the word Jasmin code for just another six months. Ironic that the memory of that dark time should come back to haunt him today. Worst of all, seventeen years working for the bank and she had summed him up in that one word.
Unremarkable .
Anger, hurt and a sense of betrayal seethed in his chest. The years of dedicated service, working long hours, often being called during his vacation about work matters and sacrificing weekends had meant nothing. Tirelessly recruiting only the best for prime positions. Never a single day’s sick leave, even working from home while he battled through a nasty dose of the coronavirus. Everything he could do to shine a positive light on the bank. And for what? He wanted to call someone and share the hurt bubbling inside him. Kate might have been the perfect listener, but she had problems of her own. If he called his sister, she might be sympathetic but would always try to find a positive spin, most likely that he would finally be returning home. And he did not want to hear that right now.
Then he remembered somebody who would not only give him sound advice but would probably have forgotten all about the call by morning.
Harold Choi.
The call picked up after two rings, but the voice was not Harold’s.
“William?”
“Yes.”
“Is Harold there?”
“We’re at Queen Mary’s Hospital. Harold's talking to a specialist surgeon about having spinal surgery.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“Nobody did. It’s all last minute. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No, no. I just wanted to chat.”
“Well, I’m afraid he’s better at that than I.”
“Of course. And you both have more important things. Give him my best when you see him.”
“I’ll let him know you called.”
“Thank you. And take care.”
After ending the call, he took a few breaths, squeezed his eyes shut and leant back into Helen’s plush chair. People close to him had worse problems than his own. Even though he felt no better, he decided to finish and leave the office. Closing the spreadsheet file and folder, he shut down the computer and left Pauline’s keyboard, mousemat and calendar squared off how she liked things.
As an observer in meetings with her, he had learnt that there was no point arguing a critical decision she had made. In some elemental way, he felt a sense of closure, and was no longer tethered by the inertia of living under the illusion or hope that he might be asked to remain. At least now he knew the truth and could finally plan his future.
His phone buzzed with a message.
Zane: Super dope group. Two hours to go. Finish by six-ish. Taking us for drinks and snacks after. Wanna come join ?
Mitchell felt sure he would not be good company. And he did not want to spoil Zane’s fun.
Mitchell: Best decline. Feeling a little tired. But you go. Can you find your own way home ?
Zane: Of course. Sure you won’t come? Tommy’s here .
Mitchell: Not today. Takeout food okay tonight? Pizza, maybe? My treat .
Zane: Cool .
After running through permutations of the tone of Zane’s last word in his head, he began feeding sheets of confidential papers into the industrial-sized shredder. The final thing Pauline had asked him to do was to unplug and hide away her coffee machine in a cupboard. She preached clear desks to her staff, and having the machine on display sent the wrong message. Most likely she didn’t want anyone else being tempted to use the device while she was away. The unit wasn’t hefty, but he first knelt on the floor and opened the cupboard doors beneath the device to check for space.
Apart from the perfect area to store the machine, all manner of colourful bottles of spirits, wines, beers and mixers filled the cupboard. Peppered in a light coating of dust, many looked like they had never seen the light of day. On the rare occasion when the department had done something exceptional or the bank had performed above expectation, she would invite staff to her office for an hour of after-work drinks and stilted conversations. He could count those occasions on one hand, which was why he had forgotten about her stockpile. After fitting the coffee machine into place, he began to close the doors.
And stopped.
Sensible Mitchell would have left things alone, locked up and headed home. But reasonable Mitchell had gone to a quiet corner of his head for a well-earned sulk.
Didn’t he deserve a consoling drink after sacrificing his afternoon and learning about his worth to the company? Nobody would be any the wiser, would they? And who would even know, especially if he took something from the back of the cupboard?
Crouching down, he reached in and brought out an opened bottle of something called Baxter Whisky—surely a sign. The label announced a twenty-five-year-old malt, whatever that meant. He was not a whisky drinker. But his brother-in-law drank the stuff and swore that anyone who added ice or any kind of mixer to a malt whisky should immediately have their drink confiscated—along with a list of other punishments too painful to mention.
After staring at the amber contents for a few seconds, he leant over, grabbed the empty shop-bought cardboard coffee cup from the waste bin, popped off the lid and poured in the remains of the whisky almost to the top.
What harm could one drink do?