Mr Black
by John McGroarty
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: The future was bright. But not in Scotland.
_____________________________________________________________________
It had been a hectic week for Adrian. Brazil was a goer. It was all definite now. All signed and dotted lined. Business intelligence for the emerging giant. Maybe they’d all have to move there someday. Someday soon. The future in the steam of the Amazon. In the hot rain. In the forests. Among the flies and the mosquitoes. And the blue wing exotic fowls and the beasts of paradise. Maybe Scotland was finished. We’ll all have to go and cut down the primordial trees and enclose the land. Build airports and shopping malls. What did it matter? Hadn’t Scotland started like that? In mud huts and midgies. Now we all had the palace and the two carriages.
He cut a piece of lamb chop and stuffed it in his gob. He chewed. Shred the flesh in his mouth.
“Here’s to the city in the jungle,” said Myra, raising her glass.
Adrian smiled. Swallowed. Picked up his glass. The glasses clinked. The dark wine ran down their throats.
“Aye,” said Adrian, “I still can’t believe that we won the contract.”
He ran his tongue around his teeth.
“We’ll be able to buy that house next to the loch and send the kids to a better school,” Myra said happily.
Adrian tried to block the image. He laughed. Scotland sinking into the sea. Into time. Frozen. Only the moon reflected in the mirror of its lochs.
Myra took hold of Adrian’s arm.
“Hey, isn’t that Mr Black?” she said.
Adrian followed her gaze across the tartan carpet to a table of old men eating in silence. A circle of grey suits. He focused. Aye, it was him. He was about to shovel a forkful of salmon into his mouth. He was older. His face was fatter and the skin more peeling, but it was him.
Myra nudged Adrian. “Why don’t you go and say hello? Tell him about the contract in Brazil. Go on,” she said.
She gave him a little shove.
Adrian wiped his hands on his serviette. He had started to sweat. He thought about Mr Black. The managing director of the first company where he had worked. The bully. The psychological bully. Just like his father. He had singled Adrian out almost from the first day for special treatment. Had seen that he was predisposed. The cunt. Now he was an old cunt. He had the whiff of failure and stale dreams about him. And something else that was coming. That was coming soon for Mr Black.
“Yeah,” drawled Adrian, “why not?”
He pushed his chair back across the black watch tartan and got up.
He hesitated for a moment. Ran his fingers through his hair. Torn between ambition and pity. A last chance to save something.
“Go on,” said Myra. She flung her head towards the table.
Okay. Adrian started to march towards the table as if he were going to knife them all.
“Excuse me,” he said, hovering.
The suits continued plying themselves with food and drink. Adrian coughed. The heads turned towards him. Adrian smiled broadly. He stuck out his hand.
“Mr Black? Adrian Taylor, from Whitepoint Systems, do you remember?”
Adrian thrust his hand a little further forward.
The old man turned to look at him. He scrutinised him closely. His suit. His face. His haircut. The teeth of his smile.
“I’m not Black,” he said, looked away across the restaurant, and then down at his plate. He stuffed another forkful of salmon into his mouth. Masticated. All the old men turned their concentration back to the food. Slurped and supped in the silence. The circle closed.
Adrian withdrew his hand. He tittered a little hysterically.
“Old cunt,” he said under his breath, turned, and walked briskly back to his table.
“That was quick,” said Myra.
Adrian shook his head. He looked across at the table.
“What, Adrian?”
“He’s not, not the man he was, I think he’s suffering from some dementia thing,” he finally said in a half whisper.
“What? Didn’t he remember you?”
“No, he said he wasn’t Black, I don’t ... he doesn’t even ...”
Adrian threw up his hands.
Myra felt a little flat.
“Well, it doesn’t matter, I mean you don’t need his approval anyway,” she said.
She poured a couple of glasses of wine.
“No,” said Adrian, picking up his glass, “I don’t, every dog will have its day, Mr Black.”
He sipped on the wine. It was Brazil now. In the jungle. In the heat of the future. Among the mosquitoes and the primordial trees. Alone. No lochs. No Scottish moons. In the sweat of the rootless brow.
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: The future was bright. But not in Scotland.
_____________________________________________________________________
It had been a hectic week for Adrian. Brazil was a goer. It was all definite now. All signed and dotted lined. Business intelligence for the emerging giant. Maybe they’d all have to move there someday. Someday soon. The future in the steam of the Amazon. In the hot rain. In the forests. Among the flies and the mosquitoes. And the blue wing exotic fowls and the beasts of paradise. Maybe Scotland was finished. We’ll all have to go and cut down the primordial trees and enclose the land. Build airports and shopping malls. What did it matter? Hadn’t Scotland started like that? In mud huts and midgies. Now we all had the palace and the two carriages.
He cut a piece of lamb chop and stuffed it in his gob. He chewed. Shred the flesh in his mouth.
“Here’s to the city in the jungle,” said Myra, raising her glass.
Adrian smiled. Swallowed. Picked up his glass. The glasses clinked. The dark wine ran down their throats.
“Aye,” said Adrian, “I still can’t believe that we won the contract.”
He ran his tongue around his teeth.
“We’ll be able to buy that house next to the loch and send the kids to a better school,” Myra said happily.
Adrian tried to block the image. He laughed. Scotland sinking into the sea. Into time. Frozen. Only the moon reflected in the mirror of its lochs.
Myra took hold of Adrian’s arm.
“Hey, isn’t that Mr Black?” she said.
Adrian followed her gaze across the tartan carpet to a table of old men eating in silence. A circle of grey suits. He focused. Aye, it was him. He was about to shovel a forkful of salmon into his mouth. He was older. His face was fatter and the skin more peeling, but it was him.
Myra nudged Adrian. “Why don’t you go and say hello? Tell him about the contract in Brazil. Go on,” she said.
She gave him a little shove.
Adrian wiped his hands on his serviette. He had started to sweat. He thought about Mr Black. The managing director of the first company where he had worked. The bully. The psychological bully. Just like his father. He had singled Adrian out almost from the first day for special treatment. Had seen that he was predisposed. The cunt. Now he was an old cunt. He had the whiff of failure and stale dreams about him. And something else that was coming. That was coming soon for Mr Black.
“Yeah,” drawled Adrian, “why not?”
He pushed his chair back across the black watch tartan and got up.
He hesitated for a moment. Ran his fingers through his hair. Torn between ambition and pity. A last chance to save something.
“Go on,” said Myra. She flung her head towards the table.
Okay. Adrian started to march towards the table as if he were going to knife them all.
“Excuse me,” he said, hovering.
The suits continued plying themselves with food and drink. Adrian coughed. The heads turned towards him. Adrian smiled broadly. He stuck out his hand.
“Mr Black? Adrian Taylor, from Whitepoint Systems, do you remember?”
Adrian thrust his hand a little further forward.
The old man turned to look at him. He scrutinised him closely. His suit. His face. His haircut. The teeth of his smile.
“I’m not Black,” he said, looked away across the restaurant, and then down at his plate. He stuffed another forkful of salmon into his mouth. Masticated. All the old men turned their concentration back to the food. Slurped and supped in the silence. The circle closed.
Adrian withdrew his hand. He tittered a little hysterically.
“Old cunt,” he said under his breath, turned, and walked briskly back to his table.
“That was quick,” said Myra.
Adrian shook his head. He looked across at the table.
“What, Adrian?”
“He’s not, not the man he was, I think he’s suffering from some dementia thing,” he finally said in a half whisper.
“What? Didn’t he remember you?”
“No, he said he wasn’t Black, I don’t ... he doesn’t even ...”
Adrian threw up his hands.
Myra felt a little flat.
“Well, it doesn’t matter, I mean you don’t need his approval anyway,” she said.
She poured a couple of glasses of wine.
“No,” said Adrian, picking up his glass, “I don’t, every dog will have its day, Mr Black.”
He sipped on the wine. It was Brazil now. In the jungle. In the heat of the future. Among the mosquitoes and the primordial trees. Alone. No lochs. No Scottish moons. In the sweat of the rootless brow.