Michael Bowson watched the steam of the kettle rustle the flaking kitchen wallpaper. He waited until it whistled and flipped the switch, then poured it into a mug whilst stirring in a thick black caffeinated syrup. The viscous product clung to the spoon as he stirred until the heat dissolved it. Veins of crimson amber swirled until it was a deep, unified mauve.
‘Still drinking that crap?’
Michael turned, somewhat startled. Few people came to the office on Sundays. It was Ashard Brindle, the firm’s accountant. While he muttered a simple ‘Uh, yeah,’ he recalled Ashard telling someone he’d be in over the weekend to settle some things.
‘My wife tells me there are a thousand different chemicals in this, what's it called?’ He picked the tin up and inspected the label, ‘Arabica Blend, and five hundred of them give cancer to rats.’
‘If that were true and we could prove it,’ Michael raised a brow, ‘then this Solicitors would be made.’
‘That’s true. I don't know what she thinks she knows about it anyway, she’s a mechanic over at the Co-Operative. Probably read it in a pamphlet.’
Ashard replaced the tin and retrieved another, before spooning a red gel into another cup.
‘Can’t believe I have to come in today. You know how much Richards spent this month?’ He asked, pouring water over his cup and dousing the work-surface. ‘God knows what he’s been up to but I’ve got to cook the books so much I'll...’
‘You’ll what?’ Michael laughed. ‘Come on, what's the analogy?’
‘I was going to say ‘I'll have to take the batteries out of the fire alarms’.’
‘That is weak, Ash. Even by your standards.’
They both grinned while Ashard dabbed at the work-surface with a dish cloth. ‘You got much on today?’ He asked eventually.
‘Just keeping on top of things. And I've no heating or water at home.’
‘One of the perks of having a job, huh? Get to enjoy luxuries such as drinking water.’
A dull trill sounded from outside the kitchen and Michael instinctively scooped up his drink and moved toward it.
‘Drink later?’ Ashard called as Michael hastened his pace down a grey corridor to his office.
‘Come find me around five.’ He shouted back, kicking his door closed and spilling his drink as he snatched the phone from the hook and jabbed the ‘talk’ stub with the earpiece.
‘Bowson.’
‘Michael?’ Toubec sounded distant, as though she were fighting to be heard over an avalanche.
‘Sally! Christ, it’s been ages. I was worrying about you.’
‘I wrote you, didn't you get it?’
He laughed, she couldn't have seen the news reports of the Union Mail Service strikes. ‘No, and you’re not likely to get anything here soon. The strikes are worse than ever.’
‘I thought it might happen, but... Well, we don't have much coverage of news here.’
‘Can you talk about what you're doing?’
‘Michael? What did you say? The line is terrible.’
‘I asked whether you can talk about what you're doing.’ He lifted his steaming drink and sipped, recoiling from the heat.
‘I'm not doing anything. I'm stuck here with a complete dolt...’ She sighed. ‘That’s not fair. He’s not a complete dolt, but I just don't... Did I tell you why he was demoted?’
‘Constantly. I think you told me again instead of saying ‘goodbye’.’
She laughed. ‘No I didn't. ‘But Michael, it’s just so frustrating. We're not getting any help this end. They’re playing the card that they don't have the resources to get us across the border. We sit in conference after conference, TeleLinking other garrisons to see what they can do, and guess what? They can't help either. And yet... And this is the joke, it's rumoured here that its Stone HPill funding this new Rhinox manufacture initiative. They can pay for two hundred bloody helicopters to be made, and generate seven-thousand new jobs, but can't afford a sodding sweep of a village fifty miles away.’
‘They’re not just helicopters, are they.’
‘That's not the point though, is it?’
‘I guess. Anyway, how are you coping?’
‘Depends who you ask. I'm ok. Look, Michael, I've got something to ask.’
‘Go on,’ he sat down and grabbed a pen, ‘I'm listening.’
‘No one here will speak to us. The higher ranks are stonewalling us behind a facade of assistance, and the privates have obviously been told to keep their distance. I need you to find someone who's served here, someone whose...’ Her voice was overwhelmed by an echoing crackle.
‘Sally? The lines gone again. Are you still there?’
He waited for a few moments until the crackling was replaced by a pulsing dial-tone, and then set the receiver slowly into the headset.
‘Find someone who’s served at Stone Hill.’ He said to himself.
He knew exactly where to start. The one place outside of a garrison you were always likely to find a former squaddie or two.