1. Gerald Pickett #3
I flick the blinds shut behind him, then cross the room and wrench the door open. Ted stumbles backwards, still halfway through snapping, “I told you there’s no one in there!” His back whacks into my chest, and we both stumble against Gerald’s rickety desk.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he rounds on me, eyes scanning the room, wide and panicked, as he shouts.
“I’ve been waiting for my uniform this whole time,” I yell back at him. “An hour, and Gerald’s still not back! I thought he was supposed to be here by two?”
“You…” he stumbles. “I…” he mumbles.
“Could you please just get it for me? I’m due on a job tomorrow, and I can’t wait all day.”
A silence takes the room. Ted stares deep into my eyes for a good five seconds. Then, all at once, he claps his hands together and leaps into action. “Well, I told you he wasn’t here. You’re the one who insisted on waiting. What did you think was going to happen?”
With that, he glares at one of the cops, then stomps out of the room.
I try to follow, but, “You’re also waiting to see Mr Pickett?” one of them asks.
“Yeah. But…” I wish someone could explain why I’m putting myself out on a limb for this guy. I could easily turn him in, keep his money and go.
But for all his weirdness, there’s something about him that’s kind of… Not trustworthy. Not especially welcoming. Not particularly likeable.
And yet… I don’t know. I do like him. So… “He hasn’t come in. Not once.” I glance towards Ted, who’s occupied sticking a small key into a small cupboard out in the waiting area. “And I’m not convinced that guy has any idea what’s going on around here either.”
“I can hear you,” Ted singsongs caustically, smashing the door open. A sea of plastic falls to the floor in front of him, so I dash out there to pretend I’m helping him.
“Size?” he asks me, rifling through the mess.
“Um… I don’t know. Men’s… medium?”
He looks over me, spending a little extra time on my arms. “You’re large.”
“That’s just…’ I glance down at the arms I have been working on at home. They’re bulking up nicely, along with my chest. “My waist’s slim though. And… And I’m not that tall. What’s the uniform like?”
“We’ve only got large,” he drawls, standing up, shoving a plastic package against my chest. “And we’ve only got the summer uniform. So, you’ll have to stick a shirt under it or something.”
“You really have no idea when Mr Pickett will be back?” one of the officers interrupts.
Which surely is my cue to leave. So I take a few steps backwards.
“Wait!” comes the harshly uttered instruction from Ted.
I freeze, feeling like I’m the one in trouble with the cops, which I guess I will be if Ted lets on he knows I’m covering for Gerald. But he doesn’t at all. He strides back into Gerald’s room, snatches the case folder from the desk and holds it up. “Is this you?”
“Y-yep. It was. I thought.”
“Then you’ll need the address.” He brings it out, grabbing a chunky spiral-bound booklet off his desk on the way, then he presses them against my chest too.
“Don’t be late, no, we don’t cover travel costs, no, we’re not liable for any damages to people or belongings, and don’t even think about calling me before I’ve had my eleven a.m. coffee.
” He gives me one final push out the door and to the top of the stairs, then adds, “Oh, and try not to die.”
“Thank—” The door slams in my face.
I’m not slow to leg it out of there. Whatever the fuck’s going on, it’s nothing to do with me, and I don’t need the cops having my name in association with any of it.
I’m down the shadowy staircase and out on the street in about thirty seconds, the light spit-spit of autumn rain tingling my cheeks as I make my way towards the Tube station.
I’ve still got the folder, the booklet, and the uniform with me.
Still got Gerald’s one hundred pounds burning a hole in my pocket.
It’s actually kind of odd he trusts me with it. Maybe he has more money than that office makes it seem like? Maybe there’s something vaguely legit about all this after all? Maybe…
Maybe things are finally starting to look up for me.
I’ve got a job. I’ve already made money from it. And tomorrow, I’m taking a nice trip to the Cotswolds to help some elderly gentleman feel a bit more comfortable in his home.
That’s meaningful. That’s important.
I’ve got a meaningful and important job that pays me real money.
And this is the proudest I’ve felt in a long time.
Just as I’m about to take the stairs down into the station, a smile and a nice warm feeling take me, and I can’t help but send one last, fond look up the street and back at ExorSquad HQ.
And there, lit by a bright shaft of sunshine cutting through storm clouds, stands Gerald Pickett.
His brown suit is soaked through, his back leans against the crumbling stone of the first-floor exterior above a pizza shop.
He looks over at me, smiles so wide the light reflects sharply off his golden tooth, and gives me a big double thumbs up.
My stomach does a weird flip-flop.
I return his thumbs up, then let the escalator carry me down and away, to whatever fate is coming for me.