started off at Limps as a work experience, forced by his parents to do something, anything, other than write his silly stories. And three years later he was still there, filing, plonking out letters, photocopying, but always, in his head, writing stories. His father said he should read more than write, he said before you even pick up a pen you have to know the history behind what you are writing about. He said, ‘You can’t have a tree without roots.’ But Albert believed that history was created every day and roots were growing all the time, it was just a matter of where you planted the seeds.
Albert liked writing about what he already knew. He liked to write about what he saw and what he felt. He liked to write at about six o’clock when the sky was so pink and perfect he could almost see Marc Bolan rising out of it. He liked to write about the cute girl he saw on the train that day who had odd shoes on and had bent a fork around her wrist as a bracelet. He liked to write about when he was little and wanted to be a wrestler so badly he would wear a carrier bag over his body like a vest and tear it open like a raging Hulk Hogan. He liked to write about the homeless man that got on the bus and told all the passengers he had stolen ketchup, brown sauce, vinegar, salt and pepper from a café and had managed to get away with it, laughing to himself, muttering, ‘Condiments, that’s all you need.’ He liked to write about the fat little Mexican girl with the braces on her bottom teeth who walked past him every day and the way she was always so fascinated by the little box above his house that looked like a front door where a pigeon lived. He liked to write about the weird lady with the white boots who was always trying to commit suicide and asking people if they wanted to come round and see her cooker. Or the squatters who everybody used to hate until they made a theatre in the living room of the squat and everybody loved the shows so much that whenever the council came over, the neighbours lied and said the owners to the house were just on holiday, just so the shows would continue. That’s what Albert liked to write about.
Boredom. How could anybody ever be bored? But, he had to be careful because that’s exactly what everybody at Limps suffered from, boredom. And it was contagious.
Once upon a shitty day, Albert had just finished a story about a wolf when he decided he was a bit peckish. Rolling back on his chair across the grey gravel carpet, he was about to stand when he saw Norman sinking his milky teeth into a cardboard sandwich, inside was all rubbery cheese and browning lettuce. He saw Sue eyeballing the computer screen so intently her eyes were beginning to bleed. He saw John just sitting, his broomstick tash twitching. Albert felt sick, watching them, he felt as though he were watching the room though a television screen. So, out of nowhere, he began to run.
He ran through the desks, throwing the paper up in the air, over to the bookshelf, rattling the books, encouraging the files to slide out of the shelves, he picked up the plant, still in its pot, grey and droopy and he smashed it against the wall (and then he felt bad, because it was alive and had the potential to be something beautiful. He would tend to that later). Then he ran in circles, destroying anything in his path and his colleagues just watched him. Gormless.
Out came Mr Hurt. ‘What on earth is going on?’
Good point. Yes, what was going on? He had to say something…
‘It’s a tidal wave. Outside.’
‘A tidal wave?’
‘A tidal wave, a flood, a…a…monsoon! Water’s everywhere…We’re going to be drowned if we don’t move now, now, now. Allow yourself to be swallowed up or move, move, move!’ he yelled.
‘A monsoon? From where?’ Mr Hurt tried to understand, but he hadn’t communicated in so long it was as though he expected a feast of bats to come screeching out of his mouth.
Before he even had a chance to answer, the workers uprooted, their knees creaking out of their swivel chairs like rusty hinges, surprised almost that their bodies could do something other than sit and plonk. They ran too, they joined in with Albert, running, fast and fierce, panicking. They found their voices, realized they could scream, realized they didn’t want to lose their lives, realized that they did want to have barbeques and parties, and learn how to make Death by Chocolate, they had always wanted to go to the ballet after all and pack a suitcase and go shopping for toiletries, they did want to skive work, have a duvet day, sleep all day, and see the sea. They ran, falling, scratching their kneecaps, scraping their skin violently, the bleeding felt good, throbbing, a pulse of its own. Alive, they felt alive. They threw themselves down the concrete staircase, reckless. Some cackled, wild with hilarity, and poured out of the fire escape, grey jumpers, grey ties, grey socks in a pile only to see…
Nothing but an oily street.
‘Where’s the flood?’ Norman demanded.
‘The monsoon?’ Sue asked, teary-eyed.
‘The tidal wave?’ Mr Hurt quivered. Their pupils swelling from the sunlight. Flowering as though jasmine in hot water.
‘I…’ Albert began. His heart was still drumming, adrenaline soaring through his veins.
‘You mean to say you lied?’ Mr Hurt sneered. ‘You were bored and so you lied. You lied to me, you lied to your colleagues and you lied to yourself. You are a disgrace to Limps.’ He shuffled his tie, pulled it close to his neck. The cluster of people looked up at him, sourly; never had they felt so let down.
‘I’m sorry,’ Albert said. He wasn’t.
‘Hollow words,’ Mr Hurt muttered. ‘Hollow words.’
In the evening, Albert went out and got drunk by himself. He sketched a monster on a beer mat; he was a better artist than he thought.
‘Fancy a bit of colour?’ the barmaid asked him, suggestively.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ He spluttered his shandy over the table, wiping it with his sleeve. Albert had never been any good with girls.
‘Whatever suits you.’ The girl strutted off.
He saw the crayons by the till, divided into little plastic beakers, obviously meant for children. Hopelessly aching to ask for them, as a bit of colour was all he wanted.
The electronic sound of paper going in and out of a printer was driving Albert up the fucking wall. He was stuck in this office, in this block, this box, this tiny fucking stone box, with no way out. He had been looking for jobs all morning. He would be sacked sooner or later, wouldn’t he? If he kept up this foul behaviour, they would just fire him. Good. He wanted to be fired. He would rather be happy and poor than get the same sarcastic pay packet, week in week out and be a prisoner to a photocopier. He saw it on television. People could have fun in offices. Ricky Gervais had fun in an office, didn’t he? And everybody in Ugly Betty? Their office was like a circus. Why couldn’t it be the same here? Why couldn’t they get hot people to work here? Not to go out with, just to look at. He would fancy the funny girl who sat in the corner with the bowl haircut who threw elastic bands at his head and wore kooky dolly shoes. There could be a bitch, a geek, and a prick that everyone hated…
Then, suddenly, Albert found himself doing the same thing as last week, the same thing again. Leaping up, plunging to the sky, he ran, he didn’t know where he was going or why he was doing it, but he did it and this time he let it rip, as though it were meant to happen, so none of the awkward talking happened again. He picked up an ancient fire extinguisher and let it blow,
