The Corridors Of Power


                       Clare Glennon
We like this story because:
Natural justice would tell you that this
is the way the world should work, but in
these paranoid, hard times, dogs are
hungry...

Michael Stirling was heading back to his office, sucking a mint to disguise the smell of his
mid morning cigarette.  He veered to the right of the corridor, superstitiously keeping as far
away as possible from the conference room.  As he passed by the door opened and two men
came out in mid conversation.  The older man wore a crisp shirt, his identity badge tucked
into his top pocket. The other was more casual, short sleeves and jeans.  They looked vaguely
familiar – I.T. guys, perhaps.

‘I’m not blaming you, cos you’re just a menial.’

‘I’m lower than a snake’s belly, me.’

Michael wondered at the cheerful satisfaction in the men’s voices.  Guess they don’t have a
new mortgage and a wife who’s eight weeks pregnant, he thought bitterly.

At his desk, Michael contemplated the photo stuck with blutack to the edge of his computer.  
Him and Angie, on the beach last year, making silly faces at the camera.  He hadn’t told her.  
Not yet.  Nothing was definite yet, anyway.

Michael looked up at the large clock on the wall, even though the time showed clearly on the
screen of his PC and on his watch.  Chris  followed his gaze.

‘Almost high noon.’

Michael couldn’t reply.  He had recruited Chris personally, six months before.  He ought to
appreciate the attempt at gallows humour, he knew, but no words came into his head.  He
wondered if he had time for a visit to the toilet, then remembered.  He had just come back
from there, ten minutes before.  With a quick decision he spun his chair round, got up and
walked out of his office.

The conference room was dominated by a wall-mounted screen.  Acting Chief of Operations
(U.K.) John Raymond stood to one side, casually tapping a laser pointer into the palm of his
hand.  No meeting of  Raymond’s was complete without a power point presentation.  He did
not acknowledge Michael.  On the screen the company logo tumbled up and down and across,
like a lifeless body in the sea.      

Ten minutes later and the room was full.  As the other managers filed in, not one of them
caught Michael’s eye.

Raymond moved to the centre.  He introduced the trio from Head Office with a flourish,
earning a nod from one of them at the flawless pronunciation of their German names.

In solemn tones, Raymond outlined the current situation.  Falling revenues, poor economic
climate, underperformance from certain key departments.  After the last comment he turned
quickly back to the screen, as if from a sense of delicacy.

‘Bastard.’  Michael thought.

The sales team had ‘again’ failed to secure a vital contract, losing out to Millenium, their main
competitor.  Raymond was facing the room once more.  He gave a little shrug.

‘Perhaps we should ask Millenium, “What’s your secret?”’

Two of the men from Stuttgart frowned.  This was not a time for levity.  Michael felt an absurd
rush of gratitude.

It still didn’t make sense.  The sales team had worked for months.  Late nights, early mornings
and endless bitter coffee from the staff canteen.  Their research was insanely detailed.  
Michael would swear that his team knew the layout of Hopkins plc better than their own
homes.  Millenium could not possibly have done better. The rival company hadn’t spent the
money and they hadn’t put in the work.  Arriving at the last minute and undercutting their bid
made no sense at all.

Raymond quickly brought up a new screen.  Three yellow words on a blue background.  ‘The
Way Forward.’

Everyone in the room already knew the proposal.  Shut down the British operation as a going
concern.  Leave a staff of a dozen or so to service existing clients and liaise with Germany.  
Axe everyone else.  Retain one of the department heads to oversee it all.  Not too many
indians, but one big new chief.  Raymond sighed, as if pained.  Michael saw Johnson from R &
D and Danny Khan from Finance exchange a bitter glance.  No guessing who the new top man
would be.  Raymond straightened, as if saddened but resolute, and clicked to change the
screen.

Michael didn’t know what he was seeing, at first.  A photograph, a little dark, a little grainy, but
clear enough.  Two men at a restaurant table.  A table crowded with the remains of a meal:
crockery, glasses and a white A4 envelope, bulging.  On the left Michael recognised Simon
Wright, the Head of Sales at Millenium.  To the right, leaning back, gesturing with a large cigar,
sat John Raymond.

A bright red dot trembled at the edge of a brandy glass, then slid down the screen.  Raymond
held his fist to his stomach, the laser pointer drooping.  His face was white.  His mouth
opened once, then closed.

Absolute silence.  One of the men from Stuttgart stood up.  He addressed the room, his accent
giving a strange sense of formality to his words.

‘Ladies, gentlemen, this meeting is adjourned.’

No one looked at anyone else as they filed out of the conference room, as if in unspoken
agreement they were waiting to be outside before exploding into talk.  As Michael
approached the door his eye caught a tucked in I.D. card, a crisp white shirt and he looked
up.  The man was smiling past him.  As Michael turned, he heard the low voice of a younger
man just to his right.

‘Yup.  Lower than a snake’s belly.’


© Clare Glennon

All Rights Reserved millionstories.net
www.millionstories.net
The One Million Stories
Creative Writing Project

One Million Stories...
One Million Dreams...
Read a new story
every day!
Join In!
ONE MILLION
STORIES