Bonding, page 28
‘So, that’s it,’ Tom said. ‘I’m out.’
‘Are you still sure about this?’
‘Of course.’
His contract ended on 31 December, but he’d told me that Grace had asked for an extension. She’d sent him the paperwork but he wasn’t going to sign it. ‘You’ve told her?’
‘Not yet, but I’ve made my mind up.’
‘How’s she going to take it?’
‘Probably badly but it doesn’t matter any more, I’ve had enough.’
He sat on the sofa and I lay beside him, leaning my head against his shoulder.
‘I’ve never felt this happy before,’ I said.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘You know, all of this might easily not have happened.’
‘I know. That first time I saw you, I knew we’d probably sleep together. It sounds arrogant but that’s what I was thinking. Then, when I started to realize there was more, it threw me at first. I wasn’t sure what to do.’
‘I don’t want to think about it,’ I said.
‘Then you and your friend nearly gave me a fucking heart attack.’
I smiled, although it wasn’t really funny. He put his arm around me and I kissed him, holding onto him as tightly as I could.
•
I got the call early the next morning. The lawyer representing Dunstan’s daughter had subpoenaed me as a witness. I had to give them something in writing. They were going for negligence as well as fraud.
There were journalists in the street when I arrived at the law firm. I was in there for what felt like hours. By the time I finally made it out, my name had already been leaked online. One of the posts I’d written for Lara had been resurrected from the dead, attracting more clicks than it ever had the first time around. I cringed as I watched myself in the video ‘sharing’ my take on the Luton ruckus. It was supposed to show my raw reaction but the whole thing was overdone. It was only now, as the footage began to spread, that I realized what the caption said. I’d become hardened to Lara’s taste in headlines – and it wasn’t even one of her harshest takes – but she’d really outdone herself in context:
Isn’t it time we all stopped putting Basic White Girls on a Pedestal?
I couldn’t sleep that night, I felt as if I was being watched. I went through all the usual motions – I scrolled, I orgasmed – but I couldn’t relax. The screen no longer seemed to numb me. It was as if I’d passed through the lens, no longer the watcher but the watched. I checked my mentions for the hundredth time. They’d crept up since I’d gone to bed.
46
Tom lay on the carpet of Floyd’s office.
‘The trick with unwanted thoughts,’ Floyd said, ‘is to embrace them. Just accept them, like little children. See how they clamour for your attention? Just receive them, then let them go.’
Tom exhaled at the ceiling. He wondered how long this was going to take.
‘The mind is like a river,’ Floyd continued. ‘Get out of the water and stand on the bank. There’s no need to remain submerged in the violence of the passing moment.’
‘I don’t think I can do this any more,’ Tom said.
He kept his eyes on the ceiling. It was covered in smooth plaster with some kind of carved lampshade in the centre. Where was Grace? She was supposed to be here. He was starving, he’d arrived too late for lunch and now that he’d broached the subject of leaving, Floyd was holding him hostage on the carpet. Surreptitiously, he tried to check his phone.
‘No.’ Floyd kicked it across the rug. ‘Stop dwelling on your feelings!’ he demanded. ‘Simply let them float away and free yourself from all this negativity.’
•
‘If it’s what you want, then you should go,’ Grace said reluctantly.
She didn’t look happy. It was the following day, 15 December. The three of us were sitting by the window in a slightly clinical-smelling restaurant. I’d gone stir-crazy in the flat and had taken the train up to meet them at their hotel. They’d both arrived in Luton that morning for a sales event at the Pharmacon office. It was already dark outside and the motorway lights had started blinking on. Beyond them, a last flush of daylight bathed the ancient ruins of Someries Castle, its jagged walls casting a long, dark shadow over the airport. Hilton Garden Inn Hotel it said on the paper napkin under my glass.
Grace reached for a packet of Nicorette and popped a gum in her mouth. Despite everything, she looked well. Her face was slightly flushed from the jacuzzi and she was obviously trying to stop smoking. She’d managed to get her divorce going and Niall was living with his parents. There was a definite air of finality to it all.
‘So what are you going to do?’ she asked Tom.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You know my door’s always open?’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘There’s no other offer on the table?’
‘No.’
She looked at him, a little concerned.
‘And what about you?’ she asked me.
I wondered if she held me responsible.
‘I’m leaving too.’
‘So that’s it then? The pair of you are running off into the sunset?’
‘Trying to.’
‘Well, I hope that works.’
I think she meant it kindly but it came out a little cold. I wondered if she thought I was being reckless, allowing myself to become dependent on a man. But what was the alternative? Another job? Each seemed as precarious as the other. I tried to brush off my irritation but it was difficult not to feel a little ruffled. What did Grace know about me? We were all just trying to make our way in the world.
‘I hope we’ll stay in touch,’ I said.
‘Of course. You won’t get rid of me that easily.’
She flashed her crooked smile at me, then she pressed her Amex over the bill.
47
20 December fell on a Thursday. It was Tom’s penultimate day at work. He wasn’t in the London office that afternoon but still in Luton at the Eudaxa lab with Sunny.
Tom watched as an assistant pulled up outside, unpacked a bag of Heineken and carried it into the kitchen.
The lab was huge, its steel doors locking off the sealed glass chamber at its centre. Inside were rows of machinery performing high-precision movements. Capsules of Eudaxa shifted down the line, mutating into retail-ready stock. It was hypnotic if you watched for long enough, the low buzz of the equipment overlaid with the sound of plastic-covered shoes.
They stopped around five and gathered in the kitchen where Sunny had broken out the beers. He stood up to raise a toast.
‘This is the second time I’ve been dumped by Tom,’ he said, ‘and I think I’m safe in speaking for all of us when I say: You lucky bastard. It’s alright for some.’
There was a postcard stuck to the fridge behind him, a spaniel in goggles and a lab coat, a thought bubble over its head that said: I have no idea what I’m doing.
They must have stood around for about an hour, then the group began to disperse.
‘Have you seen this?’ Tom asked Sunny as they waited for the last of the team to leave. He showed him the email he’d just received from Grace. ‘IMPORTANT,’ it said. Tom scrolled down to the body of the article:
Man Wins Case Against Pharmaceuticals Giant
A mobile phone tycoon has successfully sued the pharmaceuticals company Neura Therapeutics over their controversial new release Eudaxa. Neura Therapeutics is partnered with Pharmacon, one of the world’s leading multinationals. The drug, Eudaxa, is a novel antidepressant that has been subject to rumours of misuse. In an interview, the Secretary of State for Health and Social Care has stated that he will be reviewing guidance around this substance. He added, ‘It’s too soon for further comment.’
‘What now?’ Sunny said.
He was a bit drunk.
‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s up to Floyd.’
As they made their way downstairs, Tom noticed what looked like a journalist in the car park.
‘I’m looking for Tom Walsh,’ the man said. ‘Are you Tom Walsh?’
•
The following morning, Tom was late for his last day at work. By the time he arrived, Floyd was already in Grace’s office, he could see them through the glass divider. Grace looked impassive as ever but Floyd was visibly upset. It was almost noon by the time he emerged. He grabbed his coat and left without a word, barely registering Tom’s presence. He’d probably forgotten Tom was leaving but either way, it didn’t matter. Tom spent some time clearing his desk. He wrote some notes for his replacement, Padita, who turned up later that morning. She was talkative and very young. He switched off almost immediately when she started chatting about Web 3.0, whether or not it was actually dead, whether blockchain would experience a renaissance.
Grace appeared and relieved him of her after lunch, but it was only later that afternoon that the two of them had a chance to speak. They took sanctuary in her office.
‘Do you really have to deal with this?’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, it’s being taken care of.’
She gave him a long hug.
‘I’m going to miss seeing you every day.’
‘You too.’
‘Take care of yourself,’ she said affectionately.
She said it as if she really meant it. She had a slightly wistful look in her eye.
The lift wasn’t working so he took the stairs. On the third-floor landing, something caught his eye. He went over to the window. There was a thin group of people on the pavement, some of them spilling out into the road. From what he could tell, some of them were press. There was also a scattering of women holding brightly coloured placards emblazoned with slogans like Time’s Up and Why Don’t You Get It? Among the placards was a group of men who looked as if they’d arrived from a different planet. One of them was holding a loudspeaker:
‘The Left believe they have a monopoly over young people,’ the man said. ‘It’s about time they woke up.’
A wave of applause rose up around him.
‘There are more and more of us who’ve had enough.’
‘Hear! Hear!’ someone yelled.
‘It’s time we put an end to this insanity. Women in this country are not fair game.’
One of the women began to cheer while others looked away in disgust.
As Tom leaned closer to the window, he realized there was now quite a crowd. A small scrum had gathered around the door. One of the men looked up and saw him watching. He pulled back to hide his face. Something wet smacked against the glass.
48
Leaving drinks had been arranged at the King’s Head. By the time I arrived, the pub was closed. The area had already been cordoned off. There were police parked along the street, a line of officers circling the crowd. A reporter was broadcasting live, the lighting bouncing off her rain-flecked hair. I tried to push my way towards the cordon.
‘This is not consent!’ a woman shouted.
Tom was a few feet away from the office trying to make his way through the crowd towards the pub. A small pack had swarmed towards him, making it difficult for him to move. He was covering his head with his jacket.
‘Is it true,’ someone yelled, ‘that this company takes no responsibility for the sexual assault of women?’
Neura Bosses Are You Listening? read one of the placards swinging in front of me. You Are Literally Fucking Women Over. It lurched violently around my head as I tried to force my way towards the barrier.
I came within touching distance, then I froze.
‘Tom Walsh.’
It was a man’s voice, piercing through the loudspeaker.
‘Where is your rape apologist girlfriend?’
Tom kept moving, his head bowed down. He was shoving harder now, more bullishly. He seemed to be making headway, then he stopped. A sudden lull fell over the crowd. A space opened up around him. I strained harder to see. There was a man standing beside him, leaning against him as if they were embracing. The man’s head was on Tom’s shoulder, his face turned towards his neck. Someone stepped aside to let me through and I saw the expression on Tom’s face. He was looking around, confused. I called his name but it was as if he couldn’t hear me. There was blood pooling in his shirt, dripping heavily, soaking his shoes. His legs moved slightly as the man released him, his eyes wide open as he fell. The silence remained as he hit the ground. It was only then that a woman screamed.
•
I must have left the hospital for a while because I remember calling Lara from the car park. The rest of the night I spent awake under the strip lights on the fourth floor. The Royal London had a glass facade that looked like any other workplace, its grey windows co-ordinated with the plastic signs in intensive care.
The doctor looked youngish, tired, a little hunched, his hair gelled roughly to his head as if he hadn’t had time to wash it. He said that Tom had been sedated, that they were still trying to stabilize him. He’d lost a lot of blood. They’d almost lost him during the night.
‘We think there could be bleeding on the brain,’ he said quietly.
I was sitting on a plastic chair in the waiting room. There was a brightly coloured mural on the wall, a flat, cartoonish tableau of London. It reminded me of the artwork on Floyd’s website. There was a name for the style, what was it? I felt myself dissociating as the doctor spoke.
‘We’d like to do an MRI.’
He looked closely at my face.
‘Are you OK?’ he said. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
He asked one of the nurses to bring me a coffee. Corporate Memphis, that was it, I thought.
•
The atmosphere in the ICU was calm. Staff moved smoothly through their shifts to the rhythmic bleeps of the heart monitors. The ambient sounds of the ventilators fed into more complex patterns: nurses oscillating between beds, hushed discussions on protocols. I barely recognized Tom. There was a tube taped around his mouth. I touched his hand but he didn’t move, although his skin was warm. I watched him for what must have been hours.
At one point, an alarm went off. There was a problem with a woman in the opposite bed. Her heart wasn’t responding. Her eyes had already been taped shut. Her body was slumped face down. I watched as a nurse arrived, then a doctor. They handled her efficiently, trying to revive her then moving her swiftly through the system. Patients like her, it turned out, were removed fast, presumably because the bed had to go to someone else, someone who still had a chance. There was no time for ceremony. They just took her away.
I’d never thought of myself as being scared of death but I felt uneasy watching them. It was obscene, for reasons I couldn’t explain. I’d always envisioned the end as something more momentous, something that involved at least a few moments of reckoning. I felt this instinctively, although I knew most patients at this stage of their lives would have come in disoriented, if not already unconscious. If they were lucky, they might have a few moments of small talk with some anaesthetist, a friendly chat as the tube went down. That was it. They left the place as senseless mounds of organic mass. I squeezed Tom’s hand, then I went downstairs. There was a Costa Coffee in the lobby. I bought a cereal bar and a cup of tea. I watched people eat their Christmas sandwiches.
Grace turned up that afternoon. She brought a basket of fruit. Once she’d left, I realized I’d barely said a word to her. I hadn’t known what to say. We both knew what had happened but the truth was difficult to articulate.
At some point in the night I must have fallen asleep because it was dawn when I was awoken by a different doctor. He’d brought Tom’s MRI results. ‘We don’t think there’s any point in continuing,’ he said. ‘There’s been diffuse damage to his brain. We can’t find any activity at all.’ Then that old stock phrase: ‘There was nothing we could do.’
•
The next few days passed inconsequentially. There was no paperwork, no formalities. I wasn’t Tom’s next of kin so all of that was taken care of by his father. I was just someone he’d once known. I felt as if I’d entered a different universe, one in which everything looked the same but to which it was obvious I didn’t belong.
Sunny visited at the weekend. There had been reporters at his flat. Some journalist had found his number and he’d had to change his phone. We watched the news together. He showed me the report that had been published in The Times.
The perpetrator has been identified as John Friedman, a 28-year-old former security guard from the Caddington area of Luton. He lived with his mother, who described him as ‘a quiet soul’. She said the incident had come as ‘a shock’ and was ‘out of character for John’.
Friedman, who had live-streamed the 13-minute attack from a body camera, described himself as ‘a freedom fighter’, ‘a Christian foot soldier’ and ‘a realist’. Meta said it had removed the suspect’s accounts and was working to remove any copies of the footage.
A security source leaked that the attacker had a prolific online history, much of it contrarian and contradictory. He was a long-time supporter of Luton FC although he’d posted several comments denouncing football as ‘a tool of the elite’. He’d made a series of videos called ‘Why Are Normal Men Being Silenced?’, while operating multiple social media accounts, some of which generated a small income. Despite his mother’s Jewish heritage, he believed that English society was being decimated by multicultural elites. His browsing history on the morning of the attack revealed searches for God of War, sizzurp, transgenderism, fungible human resources, Lil Wayne, Anders Breivik and Mind Pump: Raw Fitness. He targeted Walsh, a marketing manager, because he viewed him as ‘one of the collaborators’ and ‘a traitor to his own people’. He’d followed Walsh online after seeing his name embroiled in the controversy surrounding Eudaxa, an antidepressant released earlier this year by the pharmaceuticals company Pharmacon. He’d become fixated on Walsh after recognizing him from the Caddington area of Luton where Walsh had lived briefly as a postgraduate. After attacking Walsh with a hunting knife, he died by suicide on camera, slashing his wrists in front an audience of several thousand followers.
