Thursday 13th At 7.57am, Ian boarded the tube at Finsbury Park and got jostled along the inside of the carriage like any other day. He looked around him, trying to avoid other people's eyes, pretending to read the adverts along the upper parts of the window. Then he recognised a face. Suddenly, without realising what was happening, he had started talking at the man who was conspicuously minding his own business behind a pink broadsheet. "I know you, you're Pinstripe Man. Last week you knocked me with your umbrella when you rushed past me on the escalators. You got my left trouser leg wet."
Pinstripe Man sank his head further into his paper and did his best to ignore him. Ian then let his eyes roam round the carriage some more, and spotted another familiar face. "Hey, and you're Kitten-Heel Lady. You once rudely queue jumped me at the taxi rank at Euston."
Just as Kitten-Heel Lady was about to reply, for she was rather forthright and not afraid of voicing her opinions, the train pulled into Warren Street. The doors bleeped open, and Ian swiftly exited the train. Without warning, an urge to be the first commuter to reach the steps at the end of the platform came over him. Putting on a burst of speed, he secured his first place with a leap onto the bottom step, then proceeded to bound up the stairs three at a time, leaving behind a wake of bewildered office workers. Friday 14th "Ian, could you come and see me in my office please" came the voice over the phone.
"Certainly, Mr Peterson" Ian replied. He knew straight away that his boss had something important to talk to him about, so he swiveled himself round in his wheelychair twice, and set off towards the closed door at the end of the hallway. After giving two short raps, he swung open the heavy wooden door. In front of him was Mr Peterson with a very serious look on his face.
"Ian, sit down. I've got a few questions I need to ask you." Ian plonked himself down in the plush black leatherette chair with chrome handles. "I've heard some strange reports about your recent behaviour from Nigel."
"Is that so?"
"Yes it is. Apparently you were flicking flaming balls into a wastepaper basket yesterday. You've had an exemplary track record until now, so I'd like you to explain your actions."
"To be honest with you Brian, I can call you Brian can't I? Those balls had it coming. I mean, you eat a Mini Babybel, and then there's all that wax left. There are only so many things you can roll it into before your thoughts turn to what else you can do with it. There's a nice cube, then there's a snake and the pancake, then it all just gets a bit dull. You're holding the wax in one hand, and suddenly there's a lighter in the other, and things progress from there. In fact, all this talk of burning things has left me a little warm, I'm going to go and get an Almond Magnum."
"Wait just a sec..." But it was too late. Ian had swiveled himself out of the chair and started strolling off towards the lifts. Later that day, Len from I.T. picked up a copy of the Racing Times that he had found lying around in the break room of the 5th floor. He browsed through it, then absent-mindedly folded it under his arm and took it to his desk, unaware of the doodles that Ian had drawn over it. Saturday 15th On Saturday morning Len from I.T. was searching through his briefcase to find the USB key that had his wake up and be happy music mix on it, when he caught sight of the Racing Post again. He placed it to one side while he cued up his music, then noticed there were rings around several names of horses running that day. Not a man usually to gamble, his wake up and be happy music mix had put him in a "what the heck" kind of mood. On his way to the dry-cleaners he put a tenner on a five way accumulator.
By 4.45pm, Len had won just over two grand. Sunday 16th While waiting in a queue to pay for a 342ml bottle of Heinz Ketchup and the weekly TV listings, Ian suddenly collapsed in his local corner shop and died. The autopsy showed that a massive brain tumour had recently developed and had suddenly stopped the blood flow to his prefrontal cortex and cerebellum. Monday 24th Fourteen people attended Ian's funeral. There may have been more, but Nigel, the head of I.T. had to cancel all compassionate leave at the last moment due to a tight deadline. Ian's headstone read "Ian: He suddenly came to life." Which, dear reader would have been a much better title to this story than "A short story about a man called Ian". Had Ian known he was going to suddenly die in his local corner shop, he would have told the owner that he would have preferred to be cremated not buried. He couldn't stand the thought of his grave taking up valuable ground space. No, he would have liked to have been scattered on a beach, perhaps in Norfolk, on a bright day, while seagulls flew overhead, occasionally diving to peck dying jellyfish off the shore. Thursday 27th A letter addressed to Ian arrived at his former flat. Enclosed was a congratulatory letter telling him that he had won a holiday of a lifetime. There was also a handwritten note attached from the President of the company explaining that his tiebreaker had been far and away the best one they had received out of all the entries. In fact, they were considering using it as their next advertising campaign, and they would be in touch in due course about royalties. |
