The Mysteries of William Cromwell
Welcome to London — Episode 17
London. Tuesday. 10.30 am. The clock moves towards half ten and I cannot do anything but stare at my monitor and wait that Bill calls me into his office.
Today might be the day. Our annual reviews are due.
Last year I was only a new joiner at FineTech. But now I proofed myself, so I feel I deserve the promotion I applied for a couple of months ago.
I hear the familiar click of Bill’s door behind me and my head flies around. He stands in the doorframe and nods knowingly.
My heart is pounding when I step into the glass cubicle. The walls towards the open room where I sit are translucent but the other side reveals the stunning view over the city.
Bill takes the seat behind his fancy steel desk with the back to the London Eye.
In our day to day life, we don’t see Bill often, though. He pulls the strings from his little office up here and we only occasionally meet him when he sneaks out to have a coffee. I am not even sure what he is doing all day. Anyway, Bill is the one who decides now, if I’ll get a pay rise or not.
“Nicky, how are you? Settled in well?”
“Hi, thanks. Yes, been a year now. Really like it here.”
“Good, good! Take a seat.”
I feel my knees become week suddenly and drop into the seat. I feel like pray in front of the predator. A lion maybe, judging by Bill’s wild mane and his many teeth blinking when he smiles at me now.
“We’ll keep this short and sweet, Nicky,” he begins and turns the page on the stack of documents in front of him.
“You have been here a year now and I hear a lot of good things about you. Your manager speaks very highly of you, so do your colleagues and your work has been remarkable.”
I wait for the but. But the budget … But the situation of the company … What will it be? So I am surprised how the sentence turns in another way:
“So we decided to assign you to a new project. See it as probation — we offer you the bonus as for the next grade and if we are satisfied with the results you’ll get the title and the pay rise within three months.”
I can’t believe it! My stomach somersaults.
I can hardly control my voice when I thank him: “Wow, thank you so much! I won’t disappoint you!”
“I know, Nicky,” Bill winks conspiratorially.
“I assign you the ticket in our system. You should understand, that you are reporting directly to me and that the project is strictly confidential. No one on this floor has clearance for the data you’ll be working on.”
Wow. Nicky Dängler on a secret mission. I can’t believe how lucky I am. I will prove that I deserve all of that!
The next couple of weeks are very busy. I have a lot of new responsibilities and still work on my old projects. Bill expects me to send out a weekly report and checks the figures personally before I send it out to the other teams in offices all over the world. I am reading and sending more emails in this weeks than I did in the past year.
But I really want to do a good job. My colleagues are very impressed that I started working for Bill directly. Although the more envious tongues in the office gossip how I became Bill’s favourite after so short time.
“I don’t care what they say,” I muse, determined that nothing can spoil this opportunity.
My friend Hannah rolls her eyes and I realise I am doing it again. Although my project is top secret I won’t shut up about it.
“Sorry. I am talking too much about work lately, right?”
“I don’t blame you. You’ll have to call me Dr Collins from Monday on!”
Hannah is just about to finish her PhD as Pharmacist and I promised to help her prepare for her final exam.
We both laugh.
“I don’t know. Everything reminds me of work. I saw the number in this table and it is actually my project number. I can rehearse it in my sleep.
I push the book over the table to show her and imagine what I want to buy once the bonus is in my bank account.
“Not exactly a positive number,” Hannah laughs. “That table shows registration numbers for chemicals and your precious project has the same number as Cocaine. Are you working for a secret drug ring.”
“Very funny,” I stick out my tongue but grab the book to confirm it. Such a stupid coincidence.
“I don’t want to disappoint you, but we are selling software for cars and no illegal substances, Dr Collins. I bet in Hawethor they have never heard of drug misuse.”
“In where?”
“In Hawethor. In North England,” I reply, grabbing my phone to show her on the map. “Who is the native here.”
I start typing but don’t get any results back.
“Even the city is top secret in your confidential project, huh?” Hannah mocks me.
I haven’t actually looked it up — only Bill told me about it.
I open one of my emails in the hope to get a postcode in the disclaimer but only get a phone number.
Hanna peaks over my shoulder. “020? That is the code of London.”
“I think all our phone numbers lead back to the headquarter in London.”
I get a bit protective over my project suddenly and want to drop the subject. Instead of worrying about the missing links I drag Hannah back to her books.
A few days later I reply to an email to another team member, Jimmy, and bite my fingernails. My eyes hover around the telephone number in the disclaimer, which is still unsolved.
I decided to call Jimmy instead of writing him and pick up the phone.
“Hi Jimmy, this is Nicky. How are you? How is the weather up north?” I really can’t think of anything banaler to small talk about.
“Hi, Nicky. Errm, yea, all right.”
“Oh, I heard it was wet over the entire week?”
“Yes. Uhm, a bit rainy. But it’s fine. What’s up?”
I try to ignore Jimmy’s defensive tone for simple small talk. Maybe he is just the only British person who doesn’t like to complain about the weather. I close my browser window which shows the forecast for the next days — bright sunshine drawn all over the north of England and Scotland — and turn to the figures for the next report.
After I hang up I am not any closer to my mystery, than before. Since my conversation with Hannah, I have this awkward feeling. A tickling in the back of my head, as if there was something wrong.
“Tony?” I slide to the side to peak between the monitors to the other side of the desks where my colleague frowns at his code.
“Did you ever work with Jimmy Scott? From the Hawethor office?”
He moves his attention to my face but keeps the frown.
“Who in where?” Very helpful as usual.
“James Honeyman-Scott? Up in the north? Hawethor?”
“I am sure I would remember that name,” Tony sighs by the sight of my clueless face. “You are not English, so I forgive you. But you do know the Pretenders, right?” He sighs again and puts ‘Don’t get me wrong’ on speakers when I still don’t seem to understand.
But I can’t let go, yet. “Did you ever work with any of the other lads? Jay Reatard? Chris Kelly? Ike Tuner?”
“Are you even allowed to tell me these names, or do you have to kill me now,” he jokes and already turns back to his computer.
“Very helpful. Can you just answer the question?”
“I know Chris Kelly.”
“Really?” My hopes get up.
“Yea, didn’t he die from Cocaine a few years ago? You have a famous team over there.” He bursts into laughter when he sees my hopes turn into an annoyance.
“Not that Chris Ke- wait, what did you just say?”
I type the name into google and stare at my screen. 2013, Chris Kelly died of an overdose of Cocaine — the Pretenders blare in the background through our office.
I keep going. The tickling grows. James Honeyman-Scott, 1982. Jay Reatard, 2010. Ike Tuner, 2007 — all overdose of Cocaine. I swallow hard.
“What is it Dengler? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I think I just spoke to one,” I reply and stare at my screen.
“I work for a bunch of dead musicians on a project where the number refers to the very same drug as they died from. In a city that doesn’t exist.” My paranoia slowly takes over.
Now I have Tony’s attention.
“Don’t be silly, Nicky. Maybe the name is just a part of the city or so. How do you spell that?”
I scribble it on the print out with my ticket numbers. Tony comes around to my desk and moves the paper in a few different angles.
“Did you ever notice that that’s an anagram of ‘Heathrow’?”
“Like the airport?” My mind shuffles the letters, baffled.
“What exactly are those codes?” Tony asks hesitantly and skims through the list under the name.
“These are my tickets. They are different from our usual codes. I think they use an older ticketing system than we do.”
We look at each other and I grasp for air.
Wordlessly I bring up the website of Heathrow and type the first ticket number on the list into the search box.
Heathrow to Columbia — direct flight in two weeks.
Each number brings up another flight to Columbia over the next months and even Tony seems concerned now.
“This is ridiculous,” I decide eventually and get up. “I’ll talk to Bill. There is no conspiracy going on!”
With the print out in hand, I aim straight for Bill’s office. There will be an easy explanation for that and he can show me this damn place on the map.
I knock on the door and slip into the room without waiting for an answer.
Bill is on the phone. He rotated with his chair to the nice view, so I can only see his headset poking over the backrest like a weird antenna.
“Yes — Yes — Exactly — We don’t leave a trail — She is completely clueless — No — She thinks it’s part of a promotion.”
My heart is in my mouth. Bill slowly spins around while he speaks and I stand frozen in the middle of the room.
His lion smile fades. “Nicky?”
But I heard enough. I spin around and reach for the door. I pull it open, but Bill is already behind me and slams the door shut in front of my nose.
“Let me explain,” he starts vividly and the tickling in my back is louder than ever.
“I know about the drugs,” I blurt out — there is no escape but ahead.
I can feel his breath on my neck and think he is calming down.
But just when I dare to put my hand back on the handle he grabs my wrist and turns me around. His red face only an inch from mine.
“Then you’ll finally get what you deserve!”
I close my eyes.
“Did you hear me, Nicky?”
I focus on Bill’s face again. He folds his hands on the smooth surface of his desk and smiles at me, the London Eye lazily spinning behind him.
“What?” I wake from my dream.
Bill’s smile widens. “Congratulations, Nicky. You deserve it.”
“Oh, thank you,” I leave his office, shaking.
“So?” Tony stands behind his desk and the others assemble around me.
“I got the promotion,” I say it out loud and can’t believe myself.
To my colleagues — For making work a place I like to go to.
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This is the last episode for this series. But Nicky Dängler will be back!
