“So then the woman from finance threw a stapler at Johnston’s head and started screaming something about divorce and his wife. Holy cow Carlin, you should have been there. It was like a battlefield.” Cayman is talking. I knew he was talking. I was ignoring him. “Who knew Johnston was having it off with some chick from Accounting? Man, his wife is going to be so pissed OFF! Carlin… Carlin… Fuckin’ eh Carlin are you even listening?”

I whirl around, my mind completely not on whatever it is that Cayman is saying. His real name is Frank, but everyone around here calls him by his last name. We all get called by our last names, I’m Carlin and he’s Cayman.

He’s prattling on about something that’s happened upstairs, I know that. Cayman is very interested in the things that happen upstairs. I personally couldn’t give a toss, but for the rest of the company, this is practically a past time.

I work in the mail room at Hackney and Deans. It’s a publishing company. Once again, I really, really couldn’t care less. I deliver the mail. That‘s my job. While Cayman is talking at me, I’m sorting letters from one large basket into three thousand other baskets. Yes, I exaggerate. It’s part of my charm.

Who the fuck am I kidding? I don’t have any charm.

I toss the last piece of mail from my main container into the large box in front of me and then flash a grin with no humour at Cayman. He’s chewing gum. God I hate it when he chews gum. He does that popping thing that drove that character in Chicago to murder. I understand her on a molecular level now.

I haul the relevant boxes onto my mail cart and mumble something about heading upstairs. He won’t mind; he won’t care. Paul Dempsey, known affectionately as the Dempster (by everyone but me), has taken up a position on the other side of Cayman. I’m free. He won’t even notice I’m gone.

Story of my life.

The walk to the elevator is startlingly uneventful. I pass no one, and that’s the way I like it. The elevator is empty, stark and plain. This is the employee elevator, not the client one. You should see the client one, it’s shiny with mirrors and a nice chrome handle. I heard that one day a record producer and her assistant had sex in there. It’s just a rumour, and I don’t believe it.