Chapter 6: HR manager in a park

Green Park on a fine summer’s evening was simply glorious, thought Peter. Of course the small can of gin and tonic he’d been covertly slurping played a role in his good mood, but it was more than that alone. He was stretched out on a tatty tartan blanket that one of the girls from accounts had brought along, half listening the to buzz of office gossip flowing around him, but also people watching. Partly he was watching out for the over zealous park wardens with their dim view of public drinking or ball games, but mainly he was just enjoying being nosey. He  mused to himself what the couple across the path were animatedly discussing, a lovers quarrel? Or maybe the latest results from the TV baking show everyone was obsessed with? Then there was the group of workmen by a couple of tall oak trees a little further off, unashamedly drinking cans of lager after a day’s labour, almost daring a park keeper to tell them otherwise; Peter had assumed they’d be arguing about football, but then chided himself for jumping to a stereotype. Ok, so those workmen were discussing the latest opera they’d seen at the Royal Albert hall. Peter giggled to himself.

“What’s so funny?” asked Brian, the bolshy legal admin looking down over Peter

“Oh, nothing, just musing on people” Peter replied

“That’s the problem with you Human Resources folk, can’t stop thinking about ways to sack people” Brian had been on a written warning for underperformance for a while and was obviously still resentful about it, even if it wasn’t Peter’s decision to make.

Still, better to change the subject then ruin the office summer picnic trying to explain the issue to Brian “I hear Jan is coming back from maternity next week, that’ll be an extra pair of hands in your department?” Peter rose to his feet as he said this, quickly glancing if there were any other colleagues near by he could gravitate to and leave Brian.

“Nah, she’ll probably just go back to bustin’ my balls, proper harpy that one” Brian took a swig from the bottle of red wine he’d been holding.

Peter squinted a little, how does Brian still manage to behave like this after all the warnings? But he didn’t voice this, instead remarking “Ohhh, Sven is over there, I’ve been meaning to talk to him about the, er, oak tree, er, project. Do excuse me Brian” and with that he was away, around Liz and Patrick before approaching Sven. “Please, save me from Brian” a little nod behind him back to where the angry admin was still standing, bottle of red dangling from nicotine stained fingers.

Sven laughed “Charming as ever I’m sure?”

“Yeah-huh” Peter drained the end of his can “You not drinking?”

“Got a medical check-up tomorrow, thought I better not risk heading in with my liver as tortured as it normally ends up after these events”

“Fair enough, shame though, a glass or two or three makes the evening so much more bearable” said Peter. He and Sven had been colleagues for three years now, sharing a grim sense of humour over office life.

“Patrick can have my two or three glasses” said Sven “makes him more likely to dance, an excellent distraction for a hasty getaway by yours truly”  

But it wasn’t Patrick dancing that was going to provide the distraction, rather it was Brian passive aggressively urging everyone to have a intra-office game of football. And it wasn’t until Peter had been parcelled out into the so-called “management sods” team that he realised Sven was long gone.

Peter hated football, from a boy stood cold and mud spattered on the school playing field right up until now as a middle manager stood warm and tipsy on a park in central London. Ten minutes into the game he’d succeeded in spending as much time at the opposite end of the patch of dry grass they were playing on to the ball as possible. Lisa had scoffed at him, having kicked off her heels and busied herself getting right into the opposition’s faces. “It’s just a bit of fun, you great big wuss” she’d yelled at him.

Try telling Brian that it was only a bit of fun, his burly figure charging across the ground like it was a cup final at Wembley. Kicking, barging, pulling and shoving. And here he was now heading over towards Peter at full pelt. Peter frowned, why was he heading this way? Then he felt the cheap plastic ball bounce into his shins. He attempted to turn to get away from the ball and away from the charging legal admin. But the ball insisted on getting tangled between his feet and legs, before shooting out in the direction he was attempting to escape in.

Brian lunged in for the tackle, but it wasn’t the ball he wanted, it was Peter’s legs. A chance to release some of the aggression that had long been building, a chance to exert some ill-conceived need for revenge on the HR department as embodied by Peter.

Legs tangled, Peter fell, unable to quite get his hands up in time to absorb the fall his head hit the sunbaked ground.

Darkness licked at the edge of his vision.

*****

Concussion AND a hangover, the morning after from hell. Peter dragged himself out of bed and across the hallway to his bathroom, groping for the pull cord of the light switch and not finding it. He stood contemplatively in the gloom for a little while, eyes finally focussing enough to inform his brain of the fact that he had actually walked into his spare bedroom. The bathroom was one door down. It was a new flat he told himself, easy to get confused and definitely not permanent brain damage, honest.

Finally in the bathroom  Peter pulled open the mirror-fronted medicine cabinet on the hunt for painkillers. Small cardboard packet in hand he shuffled back to the doorway. “I need a cup of tea with this” he told no one in particular. Back down the hallway, past the cold steel reinforced front door with the note taped to it and into the kitchen-living area. Over to the small electric kettle, then the effort to get the tap water down the spout rather than taking the kettle lid off and splashing his pajama top through. Muffled curse, but kettle at least now sat back on its cradle, first fizz of the heating element coming on. Teabag placed in mug then back to the front door to see what that note was about.  

‘Do Not Leave’ the note was written in elegant cursive.

“Ok” Peter said to himself before traipsing off back into the kitchen.

Steaming mug of tea in hand Peter sat down in front of the television. He ferreted around in his pajama bottom’s pocket for the packet of pills, then quickly stuck one in his mouth.

Then spat it back out, bouncing off his lap and into the carpet by the coffee table.

“Licorice?” he said with a puzzled tone “Wonder if they’re off?” Down on his hands and knees by the table Peter located the errant pill, now adorned in some hair and a bit of fluff, and put it in the bin. More tentatively this time he removed another pill from the packet and touched the tip of his tongue against it. “Eugh”. Same taste as the first.

“Odd” he thought on his way back to the bathroom cupboard, "I didn’t think pills did that when they went bad". After five minutes of fruitless searching he still had no pills (but had found half a packet of Peppa Pig plasters and some tooth picks). He weighed up the effort of heading to the shops against the size of his unrelenting headache then, figuring there was a pharmacist just across the road, went to put on some clothes.

Fully dress Peter grabbed his wallet and keys then headed to the front door, before seeing the note and going to sit on the sofa.

The Saturday morning television (cooking shows and overly made up people arguing about antiques) made way for the lunchtime news. Headache waning but feeling a bit peckish, Peter headed out to grab a sandwich from that new deli on the corner. Door. Note. Kitchen for a sandwich. Sofa.

Come the evening and the headache was starting to submit to the monotony of shows full of people dancing, singing and pretending to like each other.

“A beer wouldn’t go amiss” Peter declared to the empty flat. “I wonder if Sven is gonna be at the White Lion like he mentioned last Thursday?” Door. Note. Beer from the fridge. Sofa.

After a couple of films Peter yawned and headed to bed. He brushed his teeth, used one of the tooth picks he’d found at the back of the medicine cabinet, put his pajamas on and itched his bum. He sat on the edge of the bed, then realised he’d left the hall light on. Back on his slippered feet Peter shuffled out of the bedroom. In the hall he reached for the light switch then paused, something catching his eye.

Door.

Note.

Peter striding down the corridor to open the door and step out.