oppressive. Touches of humanity exist in the way staff have decorated their booths; a photo pinned here, a small vase of flowers there. The workstations still look like hutches. The semi-private supervisor offices line the open centre, underlit glass boxes that are uncomfortably reminiscent of cages for battery hens.
The staff are highly focused. Workers flit quickly and efficiently or remain hunched at workstations like gargoyles, concentrating on their net-linked computer screens. Ben is perversely excited by the energy and technology he sees all around him. He sees ergonomic headsets and lower back pain, call-waiting and eye strain. He’ll have a lot to do.
He examines his workstation, checking the drawers, and is surprised to find that the bottom one has not been cleared out. There are odd items in this little haven of untidiness; photobooth strips, a conker on a string, an uncleaned mug, a pair of socks, yards of tinfoil, a fierce-looking army knife, lots of aspirin bubblepacks.
Ben doesn’t see that he has been seated next to the girl from the elevator. The name on her tag reads: JAMESON. She doesn’t appear to have noticed him, or perhaps she’s just too busy. Needing to load the DVD, Ben surreptitiously attempts to turn on his computer, but can’t find the right button. He climbs around the back of his desk, searching for it.
The girl’s noticed him now, and watches in amusement as he tries to discover how to turn the iMac on. After letting him fumble about for a while, she leans over and discreetly boots the computer up for him.
‘Bottom left,’ she whispers, and points.
Ben feels for the button but still can’t find it.
‘No, your other left. You’ve never used one of these before, have you?’
Ben feigns indignance. ‘Of course I have. I’m just used to a different type. Uh, brand. You know, model.’
She smiles witchily. ‘You use firewire or infrared for Powerpoint spreadsheets and Word docs?’
‘Oh, well,’ he says casually, ‘you know, either really. Both. Whatever, I don’t mind.’
‘Which OS did you train on, then? Ten?’
He studies the ceiling, thinking. ‘Oh, er, the usual one. Yeah, ten, probably, or maybe eleven.’
‘Okay, sport, it’s all yours. Take it away. Let’s see what you can do.’
Ben is screwed. Aware of being watched, he tentatively taps the keyboard and shuts everything down again. The girl scoots her chair beside his and holds out her hand.
‘I’m Miranda, corporate slut.’
‘You don’t look –’
‘Corporate, I know. What I mean is, I’m a temp. That’s how they see us, the management. High pay, low dignity. And you don’t know your way around an iMac. We met in the lift.’
‘The shoe hammerer.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m gentler than I look. Listen, I’ll keep your secret. Just tell me what the hell you think you’re doing here.’ Ben gives her a look of bruised innocence. ‘Oh, come on. Anyone can see you’re a company virgin. How did you ever get this gig? Is your daddy a director? Can’t be your mummy, this place has a glass ceiling. I’ve worked everywhere, they’re all the same.’
Ben thinks for a moment and mumbles. ‘I – uh – well …’ Miranda mirrors his innocent look and returns it bigger. Maybe he should level with her.
‘Shit. Well, the truth is, a friend helped me make up my CV.’ He pulls a disc from his pocket. Miranda takes it from him and inserts it into the iMac. She opens the only file and examines his CV on screen. Apparently he has worked at three of the hottest companies in the city. Yeah, right.
‘Pretty fucking unconvincing. And you got away with this?’
Ben checks his watch and pleads with Miranda. ‘For just over three minutes. Look …’
‘Miranda. Like in
‘Miranda, I need this job,’ he pleads. Other workers have noticed their conversation and are pretending, rather obviously, not to listen.
‘But you’ve never done anything like it before.’
‘No. I was a hospital carer.’
Miranda scrolls down through the document and finds a second CV – this must be the real one, because it’s a lot less impressive. It runs to all of three lines. ‘Bit of a career jump, wouldn’t you say?’ She reads on. REASON FOR TERMINATION. ‘Jesus, kicked out for organising a strike. Why do you even keep a copy of this?’
‘To remind me,’ he explains.
‘I wouldn’t, not around here. The central server searches everyone’s hard drives. Erase it if you’re planning to stay.’
‘I have to make this work.’ He doesn’t want to beg, but he will if necessary. ‘I can do it. It’s Health and Safety, how hard can it be?’
‘Harder than you think. But I may be able to help you. ‘
Miss Fitch walks past. Her X-ray glare causes Miranda to break off. She waits for the all-clear before resuming.
‘We’re not supposed to be talking.’ She points to the tiny CCTV camera in the corner above their workstations. ‘It’s activated every time anyone moves their chair. It picks up signs of fraternisation and relays them to the management monitors. You should keep a screensaver made from a worksheet so that you can default to it when a supervisor passes. And put a pair of sunglasses on your desk. You can see who’s prowling around behind you.’
‘How do you know this stuff?’ he asks. Maybe she’s older than she looks.
‘I’m a temp on 100WPM/1BB. We know everything.’ She waves the question aside as she ejects his disc and slips it back in the case. ‘Hundred words a minute and one bathroom break a day. Highest rating. I don’t have to work here.’
‘Then why do you?’
‘They pay more. I’ll go with anyone. In a strictly business sense.’ A quick smile. Miranda’s voice carries, and others start to notice when she’s not getting on with her work. Ben means to look busy and committed, but it’s not easy.
‘But why is this place –’
‘No more questions. Seal those luscious lips.’ She holds a finger to her mouth. ‘I’ll meet you at the refreshment station in half an hour.’
They stand before the coffee machine like spies exchanging secrets. Miranda points to another CCTV camera above them as she spoons in Nescafe. ‘The supervisors time our breaks. We’re not allowed tea because we’re sponsored by a coffee company.’
‘What about mineral water?’
‘Coca Cola. Approved company brands only. So why would you want to work here?’
‘The money, and I’ve got a lousy employment history. After the strike, I had a kind of a breakdown. I’m not good in stressful situations.’
She hands him a styrofoam cup. ‘Well, you really picked the wrong place this time.’
‘Look, I just need to make some cash. Toe the line, be like everyone else and keep my mouth shut.’
‘You don’t look like someone who can do that.’ She’s flirting with him. She couldn’t be, could she?
‘I can do it,’ he says unconvincingly. ‘I’ll fit in and earn some hard cash if it kills me.’
‘It might do.’ She sips coffee with a smile. ‘The last guy who had your desk disappeared.’
Ben reads his on-screen manual. Under DUTIES it has:
ASCERTAIN WELFARE OF ALL STAFF IN YOUR RESPONSIBILITY AREA AND FILE WEEKLY REPORT TO HEAD SUPERVISOR. Thirty pages of small print follow the heading, but he skips that part.
‘Okay.’ Broadly speaking, it sounds easy enough. Ben one-finger types: ACCESS WELFARE REPORTS FOR:
He highlights all the twentieth floor group members. The screen reads: ACCESS DENIED PERMISSION BY GROUP HEAD: MR CLARKE.
It make no sense. How can he do his job? There’s one way to find out. Ben knocks on the glass wall of Fitch’s booth and enters. Fitch is busy and barely bothers to look up.
‘I’m unable to access the staff’s previous welfare reports, Miss Fitch.’
‘You don’t need to. You’re going to file new ones.’ She’s marking work, ticking and crossing out, a teacher destroying the lives of her pupils with the flick of a pen. No family pictures here, no knick-knacks, just paperwork,
