Accidental Crime - 23

Dawn

Deborah had put her in an impossible position. As she made herself an unusually-early mug of coffee, Dawn found herself pleading with her eyes not to glance across the room, not to scan, to analyse every little movement of Deborah’s faultless body, desperate to determine whether she were relieved or devastated that her timely moment of self-sacrifice had been thwarted by Dawn’s insistence on denying her the final word. It was 9.30 and they hadn’t spoken since the ‘car park incident of 8.52’, as it was becoming known around the office.

Dawn had yet to learn the appropriate etiquette for such moments in life. Was she supposed to thank Deborah for joining her in her moment of struggle against Clarkson, in some sort of throw-back to the ‘girl power’ nonsense of the 90s? Or, perhaps, there was now some sort of unspoken agreement between them, that in the future she too must lay down her life – or her shoes, at least – and lie to save her in her time of need? Yet, if such a situation ever were to arise, how was she to know that Deborah wouldn’t just let her take the fall, happy to watch a competitor, however weak, fall by the wayside while she continued to stride confidently to victory? Had she, in preventing Deborah from sacrificing herself, inadvertently condemned herself to paying a much higher price one day?

She continued to stir the spoon, the chink of metal on clay raising a few eyes in her direction. Yet, Deborah’s remained on the screen before her, her fingers tapping away with merciless venom, surely emailing Clarkson with a third or fourth – she had lost count by this stage – version of events, setting in motion an unstoppable train that would soon see him march into the office with fervent thunder, perhaps with a rapidly written letter from his lawyer ready to slam onto the desk in front of her: she was to be sued for insubordination and for having a pathetic car. Deborah’s eyes would twinkle as the office stood in stunned silence, all turned towards Dawn’s crumbling figure, hunched over the paper that spelt out the end of her time at Clarkson & Co, and all before she’d ever had the pleasure of meeting Co himself. Deborah would rise from her seat, place a consolatory hand on her shoulder – perhaps rubbing her back with slow, circular movements – and let Dawn know that there were ‘plenty more jobs in the sea’, that a woman like her could ‘achieve anything’, as she smiled innocently, tears forming in her eyes, apparently heartbroken that ‘the colleague I had always felt closest to’ had been so unfairly dismissed. ‘We’ll do it for you, Dawn,’ she would say, and all around her would nod, agreeing that, yes, she would be the corner stone of canteen conversation for perhaps a day or so before the world moved on and she became Dawn Who?, the forgotten Corsa-driver, whilst Deborah, eyeing-up Dawn’s discarded plans for the meeting with Nigel, would claim Munch for her own and appear alongside Mr T in the advert Dawn would be watching as she sat alone, mid-morning, still in her pyjamas, preparing to watch her third home renovation programme of the day so far.

It was surely implausible that Deborah could still be working on her idea for Nigel that morning. She would, undoubtedly, have been putting the finishing touches to her unbeatable idea whilst devouring a Thai take-away at 9 the previous evening, listening to Henry read her sales-pitch back to her, as she stared lustfully at the nape of his neck. A good night’s sleep – preceded by sex – and a hearty breakfast later, and Deborah would be floating into work with two hours of preparation time to spare, as all around her frantically typed away, trying various combinations of letters to respell sandwich and downing mug after mug of coffee to create that buzz that had failed to come from any spark of inspiration. 

To her right, Robyn unnecessarily leant over her desk, most likely practising the delivery of her sandwich reinvention speech by ensuring maximum awkwardness for Nigel’s observant eye. A sharp intake of breath to her left indicated that Darren had just slammed his shin into the side of his desk, his wandering eyes distracted by Robyn’s enticing pose. As her own eyes dwelt longer than usual, Dawn noticed a low-lying necklace was dangling from her neck, hypnotic in its gentle swing as she rocked back and forth on her wrists, loosely pressing down on the desk before her. How could Munch compete with this?

She raised her mug to her lips, redirecting her eyes to the photocopier that had just become available. If she had typed, proofread and printed something worthy of copying then this would be her chance but, as she began to walk towards the only machine available to six competing trainees, her feet took the necessary diversion back to her desk, reminding her over-eager eye that she was yet to actually put anything down on paper or screen. Munch, however award-winning an idea, was still just that and she now had barely 80 minutes – factoring in a lengthier-than-usual-panic-induced-toilet-break – to write the words and paint the pictures that would, she hoped, promote her to the heady heights of fifth favourite, nudging slightly ahead of Harry, whose idea of renaming water ‘Ocean’s Goodness’ had left Dawn trailing in sixth as she watched ‘the wet stuff’ torn to shreds for a torturous twenty minutes last Tuesday.

As she took a seat, she failed to resist the urge to check her emails before beginning work, just in case the last 5 minutes had brought some vital message into her world that would affect everything she did from then on. One day, she reasoned, ‘Co’ might email her, inviting her into his office, ready to declare that she had been the winner of some sort of secret contest, perhaps involving photocopying, and that she was to be presented with a giant cheque – something that must highly irritate banks, she thought – providing the necessary funding for her to begin her own business. ‘Call it a golden goodbye,’ Co would say, winking and shaking her hand firmly, perhaps clasping his other hand over their hands mid-shake, before asking Joan to take Miss Simmonds’ belongings to her car – a car which had now magically been transformed into an Aston Martin (another part of the unexpected prize, apparently) – and calling all other senior and middle-managers to the front entrance to wave goodbye, singing ‘so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye’ in perfect harmony, as if rehearsed for weeks in after-work singing sessions in preparation for this moment. 

Her inbox appeared on the screen but there was no email from Co this time, only a ‘no subject’ email from Clarkson. Clarkson! Lost in the heated world of coffee and Robyn, she had briefly forgotten forty minutes ago. It hadn’t, as she had hoped, disappeared into the ether, with Clarkson moving swiftly on with his day, realising it was pointless to dwell on such matters. Here, before her, sat an email, the email, perhaps, that would make her 11 o’clock date with Nigel as redundant as she was about to become. She did, however, have a choice: ignore the email and continue with the day, as if it had never arrived, assuming that Munch would so blow Nigel away that he would defend her against all accusations if necessary, telling Clarkson that it would be ‘in the company’s interests’ to keep her on, or, she could acknowledge that her curiosity would not permit her to spend 80 more minutes not knowing and submit to the gnawing desire to face her fate right there right then.

‘Dawn?’ It was Deborah. ‘Dawn, have you seen this?’

She sighed. ‘What is it?’ she asked, striving to cover up her exasperated tone with over-surprised joviality.

‘Clarkson’s email. Have you seen it?’ she persisted, her voice a forced whisper so as to keep the conversation as private as possible whilst everyone paused to listen in.

Excellent. He had sent it to Deborah too, perhaps everyone, just to compound things. Clarkson’s Revenge Part 2. A rollicking good tale for the dinner table that evening, his children’s eyelashes fluttering in awed wonder at their father’s magnificence, his wife leaning, Robyn-like, across the dinner table, hanging off his every word as the story of Desperate Dawn’s downfall reached its climax. She would be the evening’s entertainment for people she had never met, the one talked about like an illicit lover until the early hours of the morning, as Clarkson’s wife reiterated just how ‘proud’ she was of her husband for dealing with such a difficult, despicable, degenerate of a woman.

‘Dawn? Dawn, have you seen what’s happened to Kate?’ Deborah continued, now adding intriguing substance to her questions.

Dawn opened the email, offering a quick ‘hold on a minute’ to keep Deborah suitably pacified while she read its contents. She raised her hand to her mouth as she read.

Dear all,

It is with some regret that I am writing to inform you that I have been forced to let go our recently-appointed health and safety officer, Kate Perkins, owing to a number of recent mishaps and omissions of responsibility that have left this company with no choice but to take action and begin looking elsewhere for a suitable replacement.

As I am sure you are aware, this company values highly our employees’ safety and it is of paramount importance that everyone feels protected from possible harm, both inside and outside the building. I am sure, therefore, that you will support our decision and will warmly welcome Kate’s replacement, whom I hope to appoint with the greatest possible haste.

In the meantime, if you have any concerns regarding health and safety matters, please do not hesitate to contact me until we have appointed a new full-time member of staff to the role.

T. Clarkson.

‘Dawn? Dawn, do you realise what you have done?’ It could have been Deborah’s voice or her own accusatory conscience, it mattered little. The email said everything that needed to be said. By failing to secure the handbrake that morning, she had caused Kate Perkins to lose her job. No word about the incident from Clarkson, only instant results and repercussions. There had been enough loose wires and obscured fire-escapes not dealt with to file a hundred lawsuits but no-one ever expected them to actually lead to anything. Was this really the final straw? Perhaps she’d been blamed for the water-dispenser incident too? A series of sobs accompanied the shuffle of feet that descended the front steps of the office building. Dawn hurried to the window.

As Kate approached the cars, Dawn became aware of Deborah’s presence by her side, along with the eyes of the four other trainees, for whom sandwich reinvention was on hold until the moment had played out in full. Reaching deep into her bag, fumbling around inside as her hands shook with every sob, Kate pulled out her car keys, before stopping to blow her nose, seemingly louder than usual, and passed by a row of cars in search of the vehicle that would carry her far away from Clarkson’s condemnatory claims.

She paused by her car, turning her head briefly towards the windows of the office, where six trainees stood glued to the glass, before noticing that one had torn herself away from the spectacle and had retreated back into the office space. She turned back, slung her bag into the boot of the Citroen C4 and reversed rapidly, turning gracefully on the level-ground of the car park before pulling away and disappearing onto the main road.

Deborah turned to see Dawn sitting at her desk, hunched over her keyboard, sipping her coffee.

‘Dawn? Are you all right?’ she asked, balancing her tone perfectly between concern and condemnation.

‘Absolutely,’ she lied.

Her fingers began to type away, ushering Deborah back to her desk.

Munch: not for drivers of Citroens.

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