Balance - Book one, Page 2

  * * *

  Researcher. That was the official title of my job at The Whisperer. Though if they had been honest they would have called it “New-Guy-Hell.”

  You see The Whisperer is not so much a magazine as it was the single biggest load of completely fabricated celebrity bullshit it’s possible to bind between two glossy covers. It preferred to be called a “gossip magazine,” but really, who’s fooled?

  My job was to scour the internet for information or photos that might help to embarrass, or better yet humiliate various celebrities. A good day was when I managed to spot the overlooked nipple of a popular female star in a new photo, and let me tell you there is something very wrong with your life when you get excited about a cheeky nipple for all the wrong reasons.

  I’d worked there for only a few months and already been reduced to turning in information about celebrities’ pets to fulfill my daily quota of “ten items of interest”. That was what three years of studying journalism had got me; a “ten items of interest” daily quota and a salary that still had me living with my mother.

  It wasn’t all bad, though. The lively environment of The Whisperer offices was a buzzing hive of activity, populated by interesting characters and flirty ladies.

  A quirky, heavyset girl named Marge regularly brought in cookies, always quick with wisecracks and somehow inexplicably comfortable with her position as “comic relief”. The boss, a strikingly handsome man named Chad, was hard on everyone and constantly fretting about the deadline, but deep down we all knew he had a heart of gold. And then there was Cindy. Gorgeous despite her approachable demeanour, sarcastic but only in the most lovable fashion, and man oh man could she kick up a storm when one of her team was being exploited…

  That’s all a lie. The part about the wacky office colleagues at least; my job really was shit. Marge, Chad and Cindy will not be making an appearance in this story. In reality The Whisperer offices were as dull as it’s possible to be without being a concentration camp.

  My desk, quietly sitting in a corner that seemed less well lit than the rest of the office, was positioned so as to be just beyond talking range of the next person. You might think that this had just been a small lack of foresight in office layout, but it soon became clear that this was a well-planned decision. It had become apparent that any person holding the job of “Researcher” would soon be reaching out to other human beings in frantic desperation; a pathetic attempt to remain sane. So clearly the correct course of action had been to place the soon-to-be-insane employee’s desk on the fringe of “inside voice” distance. All the better to let them sink alone, without dragging others down for the ride. Much like kicking well-anchored vines away from a man being consumed by quick sand.

  It occurred to me that others probably did not make such detailed observations about their environment, but it was something that I found myself doing often. In fact I held it as a personal matter of pride to see things that most did not; like spotting a deeper level of the world lingering just below the surface. You might walk through The Whisperer offices a hundred times and not notice my previous observation, but I managed to pick it up on my very first day on the job.

  My eyes drifted to my PC monitor, currently displaying what may or may not have been an aging female singer exposing her panties while climbing from a limo.

  I had not yet got round to braving the Department of Magic’s cruel “on hold” music a second time. The truth was that the more I thought about it, the more I began to fear what the government’s reaction would be to my transgression. It was no secret that harsher punishment had been dealt out to those who broke magical laws as of late, and what penalties I might pay was starting to become a concern. After all, what I had unintentionally done seemed to be something that could be a dangerous hazard. Not by any means the worst magical hazard I had heard about, but something that might ruin the days of unsuspecting civilians. What the normal procedure was in this case I did not know, but I was reminded of a rather disturbing picture I had seen in that brochure they handed out on the first day of high school…

  Just then a hand descended on my shoulder and I jumped.

  “Well, well, well, surfing the snatch on company time.” a voice said.

  It was Brent, a late twenties graphic designer from a section of the building that remained a mystery. The only person I considered to be a friend from the bowels of The Whisperer. We only made a bit of small talk when bumping into each other in the kitchen, but that was more than the casual “good morning, good bye” banter I had going on with everyone else.

  “She’s nearly fifty,” I responded.

  “Really? Who’s it supposed to be?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really.” He leaned in over my shoulder for a closer look, “That’s an awfully provocative pair of panties for a fifty year old. I’ll bet she’s a minx, even if she is old enough to be my mother.”

  “You are aware of the incredible level of Freudian depths you just ploughed?”

  “Ah. Yes, very clever.” He sat on the edge of my desk and scratched at the little goatee that lived on the tip of his chin. It was the most finely trimmed and nurtured piece of facial hair I had ever seen, putting my own rather scruffy stubble, which existed because I’m too lazy to shave, to horrible shame.

  “Listen, there’s a work thing going on Friday, lunchtime,” he continued, “Cecil’s birthday. You should come.”

  “Who’s Cecil?”

  I suppose I should have been happy I was being invited to something, a chance to get to know some of my work associates and solidify my place in the company. But besides the fact I was not much in the mood for social occasions, the truth was I couldn’t imagine a more agonising way to spend my Friday. Since promotion seemed about as likely as a shower of frogs I had no interest in the company or its people.

  “You know, Cecil!” Brent said, “That guy who does that job. Good old Cecil, what a character.”

  “You have no idea who he is, do you?”

  “None. But look, it’s my responsibility, okay? I got shafted with the damn office team-building bullshit in my section and I have to make sure people show-up.” He paused, then added a hook; “Claudia will be there.”

  I racked my brain, “The girl at the front desk?”

  “That’s the one, what a fox. She can’t stop talking about you.”

  I doubted this. I had said a total of one sentence to her. It went; “I’m here about the job.” My instincts told me that blonde haired Claudia the Receptionist preferred guys that could afford to take her some place other than a fast food joint.

  To spare Brent’s feelings I made a show of being torn with the difficult position, even going as far as to sigh in disappointment. “I’d like to, Brent. Really, I would. But I’ve got an appointment at the Department of Magic.”

  Brent stared at me, studying my face. I nearly burst a blood vessel forcing myself to hold eye contact and not let slip a telltale sign of deceit. The effort didn’t pay off.

  “You’re lying.” he declared, “I’ve seen jars of mustard with more magical ability than you.”

  My bluff had failed. And I for one had the common decency to not draw out a defeat. “Yes I am. But just for the record; I really could have an appointment on Friday.”

  “At the Department?” His attitude changed gear to genuine interest.

  “Yes. I had a dream.”

  “Ah. I hope you changed the bed sheets.”

  “Ho ho.”

  His eyes narrowed, he looked at me in a manner that suggested for the first time. “I honestly didn’t take you for a magic user. What’s your Spirit Level?”

  “No idea, I’ve never had it measured.” I replied, “Doesn’t interest me enough to willingly subject myself to six hours of queues in a stuffy government building.”

  “But rules is rules.” he said jovially. A sinister grin turned the corners of his mouth upwards; suggesting new cards had been dealt while I was distracted. “The up-si
de is that I have the means to help you jump to the front of the queue, effectively circumnavigating those six long, blasphemous hours dealing with the body odour of the fat guy that will inevitably be in the seat next to you.” He paused for effect. “It just so happens that my brother, Benny, is a Junior Enforcer.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  He shook his head. “I shit you not. He could handle your Spirit test personally and have you registered before lunch.” Another pause. “So I’ll see you at Cecil’s birthday? No need to bring a gift, your heartfelt best wishes will do.”

  I hesitated, but it was futile. Check and mate. “Claudia will really be there?”

  “Sure. But your chances of getting with her are about equal to dandelions suddenly springing out of my ass.”

  “Great.”

  He took out his wallet, fished for a business card and handed it to me. “Good luck. Benny’s a bit of an odd one. He made a guy eat his own liver once.”