The Colour of Sunday Afternoons Read online

  Joe blacked out. When he woke up, the angel had disappeared.

  Dead in five years? Joe thought. Could that be true?

  Before he could think any further about the grim news, Paul rushed in through the self-opening glass doors. “Okay, Big Boy! Let’s go get that ticker of yours checked out.”

  “Sure,” said Joe. He followed Paul out to Sue’s car. She was waiting, impatiently, to drive them to hospital. The two men got into the car.

  As Joe buckled up his seat belt, he wondered if angels could be wrong. Could Joe prevent his own death? Did he have that kind of power, that kind of ability to choose? And even if he did, where should he start, to stop it from happening to him?

  Sue looked across at him, inquisitively.

  “You look as if you just saw a ghost,” she said.

  “I did,” said Joe. “Mine.”

  Maybe, Sue thought, as she pulled the car out from the curb and began the drive to City Hospital, just maybe, Joe was beginning to see the light.

  Chapter 7

  Michael Pavlovich thumped his palm down hard on the conference room table. The monthly progress meeting was not going well, a fact evidenced by the glum faces of the employees huddled around the table, each trying to attract less attention than the next. Michael exploded with rage. “Goddamn it, Nira! That’s just not good enough!”

  The target of his fury, twenty-three-year-old Nira Kerford, sank deeper into her chair and wished she could disappear. She chewed a mint rapidly to calm her nerves.

  The snack bowl was beginning to look dangerously empty.

  Jane reached over and took another mint.

  Nira was cornered. “Mr Pavlovich, you see, it’s the program that’s no good. We ... er ...” She stuttered the words out miserably, lapsing into silence under the intense heat of Michael’s manic glare.

  The portly State Manager shook his head and paced around the room. He was the only one standing. Business as usual, thought Jane. Michael’s jugular veins stood out like cords on his thick neck; they shook with every beat of his heart. His face was red and sweaty. Finally, he turned to Nira.

  “Miss Kerford, I know you’re only a junior member of this company, but results are results. I’ve got Head Office breathing down my neck. BREATHING DOWN MY NECK. And you make a mistake like this? My job, Miss Kerford, is not secure. Neither is yours.” Michael sighed, as if he were talking to a moron.

  Nira squirmed in her seat but said nothing. She felt like her whole world was turning upside down. At least the tirade was over for another month. She could now blend gratefully into the furniture for the rest of the meeting.

  Gary, sitting next to her, smiled a fatherly smile of support.

  Nira smiled back, weakly.

  Michael turned his attention to Albert. “Mr Price. Could you go over the progress on the Nova 19 project?” Michael sat down.

  Albert stood up, walked to the front of the room, and switched on an LCD projector. Pressing a few keys on his laptop, he brought up the first slide. It was a title page, impressively rendered in high-resolution graphics:

  ‘NOVA 19 PROGRESS REPORT. ALBERT PRICE’

  Albert cleared his throat, adjusted his thick glasses, and tugged nervously at the bottom of his checked shirt. Then he began. “Well, Mr Pavlovich ... guys, I leave it to Jane and Christina to see the clients, so they could tell you about their end. I deal mostly with the machine code. I’ve been working on the translation module, German to English and English to German. You can see the concept, here ...”

  Albert put up the next slide, a complex flow chart showing how a computer would go about translating one language to another. “I’ve been coding in C, the last two months, using an object library from our Singapore branch, who first developed the project.”

  He went on talking, clicking through slide after slide, until he came to one entitled, ‘Current Progress.’

  Christina’s eyes narrowed. Michael sat up straight in his chair. The slide showed three itemised goals on the left, and three corresponding check boxes on the right. Each of the three check boxes contained a single large, conspicuousred cross.

  “Unfortunately,” said Albert, “we haven’t achieved our goals for this quarter. It’s a big task. Singapore has lost the original programming team, after two of their top people were, um, poached by a rival firm. The parsing algorithm is flawed and the program’s riddled with bugs. We’ve been trying to effect a total system rewrite, but so far we haven’t perfected it.”

  Michael’s jugular veins began to throb again. His face turned a deeper shade of red, almost purple. He looked like he was about to boil over.

  Before Michael could erupt, Christina broke in. Clearly, the Deputy State Manager was not amused. “Albert! I thought we spoke about this last meeting. We can’t afford for this project to flop!”

  Albert removed his glasses and wiped them on his handkerchief. “It’s the time factor, Ms Forward. We can do it, but we need either more time or more personnel.” He paused. “I know we can do it.”

  Jane was sitting so quietly she felt almost invisible. Inwardly, she was appalled. She knew Albert could do it, too, if only Michael and Christina would give him the resources he needed. But Jane remained silent. She had learned from harsh experience that disagreement was futile. It was never given more than lip service and it usually landed you in hot water.

  Christina had heard enough. “Why don’t you sit down, Albert? I’ll talk to you about this failure, after the meeting.”

  Albert, a man resigned to his impending execution, switched off the projector and trod back to his chair. He knew perfectly well that Christina was not going to allocate more resources to the project, not in the current era of cost-cutting and downsizing. Head Office, he thought morosely, had the idea that the way to get more productivity out of people was to squeeze them harder. It was the Lemon Theory – the harder you squeezed, the more juice you were supposed to get. Albert felt more like a lemming than a lemon. He resumed his seat. Janette Hofert, a young tech-writer who could never be serious, least of all at times of stress, pinched his leg under the table. Uncharacteristically, Albert smiled at her warmly. At least she was awake, he thought, which was more than he could say for the company management.

  Christina decided it was time to move on. She addressed the group. “Gary, Steve and Janette have been working on upgrading our networking facilities. Can one of you update us, please?”

  Gary relaxed in his chair, uninterested. It was safer to keep quiet. Janette was still trying to suppress a giggle, amused that Albert – the computer nerd – was softening toward her, at least enough to smile at one of her pranks.

  Steve thought he had better speak up. He didn’t bother standing. “Yeah, we’ve put in a totally new system. The hardware’s been upgraded to meet our new 26B standard, as published by New York. We should be able to interface to any other Infosolve branch without any problems at all. Data transfer times are down, too.”

  “At least someone’s doing their job!” Michael spat, unable to control his frustration any longer.

  “Okay,” said Christina, curtly. “Thankfully that system won’t give us any more problems. Any other general business?”

  The air was heavy with suspense. Gary, Nira, Albert, Steve, Janette and Jane were all so bored they could barely take any more. The only thing which relieved the boredom slightly was the stress. At last, it looked like the meeting was over; they could all get some real work done. Nira would need an hour or two to recover. Albert would probably fret for a while about company policy and consider leaving for greener pastures. Gary was looking forward to a cup of coffee. Janette thought she’d phone the guy she met last week. Steve would chew the fat with Jane, and they both would try to laugh about it all.

  Christina brought the ordeal to an end. “All right, people. That’s it for now. Let’s break for lunch.”

  As if suddenly electrified, everyone sprang up from their chairs and raced out of the room, as quickly as they could without
making it look like a fire drill. Even Jane was quick off the mark. She headed directly for reception, planning to make her way outside the building and stretch her legs. Only Michael and Christina remained in the conference room, shaking their heads and talking pointedly about their problems with Head Office.

  Steve followed Jane though the reception foyer, toward escape and fresh air. He had to rush to keep up with her. Grace, vigilant as always behind her reception counter, couldn’t help making a little quip as the two raced by. “World War Three?” she inquired.

  “Not quite,” said Steve. “Just a minor a civil war.”

  “Non-nuclear,” Jane added.

  Before Grace could reply, Jane and Steve had pushed open the glass doors and were making their way down the stairs to freedom.

  Steve tapped Jane on the shoulder. “Hey! Slow down!”

  “I hate those meetings,” said Jane, slowing to a gentle walk. “They’re so pointless! What does Michael think he’s going to achieve? Even Christina ... I mean, she used to be my hero. Now she’s just like Michael, all over again. I think he’s a bad influence on her.”

  They reached the ground floor, strolled out to the small garden at the rear of the building, and sat down on a bench seat.

  “I know what you mean,” said Steve. He put a friendly arm around Jane, squeezed her shoulder briefly, then returned to his normal slouch. Jane mirrored Steve’s pose, both of them staring at their shoes. They sat there for a while, in silence.

  Eventually, Jane spoke. “Thanks, Speedy. I love you, too. At least the two of us are sane. Do you think sanity could spread? Could it take over the whole company?”

  “Are you kidding? No way. But I could see you running a meeting, Janey. I know you just sit there and say nothing, but if you had a little authority, you’d do things differently. Wasn’t Christina talking about a promotion?”

  Jane thought for a moment. “I’ll tell you this much, Speedy. If I ever sweep into power, things will be different. Look at Nira and Albert! Those are bright kids. If only we used them right, instead of abusing them. If only we gave them opportunities, instead of squeezing them into what-we-want-when-we-want-it-how-we-want-it!”

  “I know,” said Steve, slowly. “I know what you mean.”

  Jane sighed. She knew it was just a pipe dream.

  It was six-thirty, that same afternoon, when Jane looked up from her terminal, rubbed her eyes, and decided that enough was enough. She switched the screen off, gathered together a few papers, and stood up. The programming room was quiet. For once, everyone had gone home on time; everyone, that is, except Gary. Jane had been so absorbed in her work, she hadn’t noticed him sitting quietly at his desk, hands steepled under his chin. He seemed to be deep in thought. Jane wandered the length of the room, over to his desk.

  Gary looked up, slowly.

  “Programming trouble?” said Jane. “You know, there’s no algorithm that can’t be coded. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Gary grunted. “It’s not work, Jane. Trouble at home.”

  Jane pulled up a chair and sat down. “But I thought ...”

  “ ... I lived alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do.”

  “So? What? You look tired, Gary. Can I help?” Jane had never seen Gary like this: grey, pale, and worried. He was always so solid and dependable.

  Gary took a deep breath. He looked at Jane for a moment. “Not unless you want to talk to my father for me. He won’t speak to me. My mother ... don’t even ask. She’s probably still crying.”

  “But what is it, Gary?”

  “Ah ... I’m adopted, Jane. Never told anyone, but I’ve been tracking down my birth parents these last three years. I found them.”

  Jane didn’t know what to say. “And your folks?”

  “Well, they never told me I was adopted. I found out by chance, three years ago. Found some papers, put two and two together. I never told them I knew. Then, last week, I found my birth mother. My natural father’s ... dead, probably. Anyway, I told my parents I’m going to meet her. They’re devastated, of course.” Gary looked piteous.

  “They don’t want you to meet?”

  “They say they feel betrayed, Jane. They want me to be loyal to them. My birth mother, it turns out, was ... well, a prostitute. They want me to leave it all in the past. And don’t even ask how I feel because I don’t know. It’s all a bit much for an aging forty-year-old. This stuff’s for kids.” Gary slumped a little lower in his chair.

  “My God! Why haven’t you told me about this before? Are you okay?”

  Gary smiled ironically. “I’ve kept things secret for so long ... I don’t think I know how to talk about them, any more. I just need some time alone. Thanks.”

  Typical Gary, Jane thought. He was always calm in a crisis. She wished she could do something to help. “Okay, but just remember if you want to talk, you’ve got my number. Don’t forget now, will you?”

  “I won’t, Janey.”

  “Okay. You gonna be okay, here by yourself?”

  “Sure,” said Gary. “Go home.”

  Jane frowned at him, for a long moment, then left him alone with his thoughts. It had been a very long day for both of them.

  A few minutes later, as she locked the glass doors at reception, Jane couldn’t help wondering if Christina knew what Gary was going through, and, if so, whether or not she cared one iota. Jane recalled that Christina had refused Gary’s recent urgent request for leave – hardly compassionate of her, if she knew. As Jane made her way downstairs she asked herself, for the second time that day, if she really did want to be like Christina after all.

  Joe tried not to yawn. It was hard. His eyes began to water as he desperately suppressed the urge. Gloomily, he surveyed the unhappy panorama of another monthly sales meeting at Biopharm.

  Stan and Harry were seated side by side, exchanging an occasional sarcastic whisper. The other seats were occupied by Kerryn, Claudia, Michelle, and Karen O’Neil – a highly respected Senior Sales Representative. Not only was Karen a mother of three grown-up children, but she was also one of the most solid performers in the national sales force. It was curious to Joe that his boss, Kerryn, never bothered to sit at the head of the meeting room table. Somehow it made her seem more like one of the troops.

  Vikram Krishnan, the dour and ill-liked Assistant Manager, was giving a lecture on this month’s sales figures, stabbing his pointer at hundreds of tiny, illegible numbers on the overhead-projection screen. The fan in the projector hummed quietly; it was a soothing noise and one which had a sedative effect on Joe. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall asleep altogether.

  “As you can see,” Vikram went on, dressed immaculately in a suit that cost about three times what Joe could dream of spending, “Stan’s territory has performed well, especially for Zemtril ...”

  “Well done!” Harry chimed.

  Claudia found it impossible to contain herself. “Stan’s targets have been set low by nine percent.It’s no wonder his figures look good! My targets have been raised by five percent. How can you expect me to perform, when ...”

  Kerryn cut her short. “We can talk about that later, Claudia.”

  “Never mind the targets,” said Michelle, gaily. “Just put my figures up. That’ll make these old dinosaurs look bad!” She looked wickedly at Stan and Harry. Kerryn seemed to appreciate her youthful enthusiasm. Harry and Stan, well used to these kind of jibes, simply ignored her.

  Karen, effervescently dressed, as always, her gold bracelets jingling as she moved, decided it was time someone said something mature and sensible, even if this was a sales meeting. “The targets are a problem, Kerryn. You know I’m not a troublemaker, but Claude ... er, Claudia does have a point. Headquarters must set fair targets, or we all feel cheated.”

  This time it was Vikram who spoke. “Karen! Claudia! This is a sales meeting, not a tea party. We’ve got a lot of figures to get through. If Kerryn says we’ll talk about it later, we’ll talk about it la
ter.” The fire in Vikram’s dark eyes dared anyone to say another word. “Now, as I was saying, we can see the trend for growth is currently 150%, year-to-date, which is an excellent launch curve ...”

  As Vikram rambled on, Karen shook her head and decided it wasn’t worth it – she knew when to back down. Claudia fumed quietly. Joe was still finding it hard not to nod off. Stan and Harry put on an admirably polished facade of intent listening. Michelle, who had been making cheerfully encouraging comments throughout the meeting, tapped Joe’s foot under the table with her own. Joe smiled wanly but it seemed to him that Vikram’s voice had become a distant drone, like the sound a little airplane makes far away in the sky. He began to fall asleep.

  “And so,” came Vikram’s angry voice, suddenly loud and clear, “what’s your opinion on this, Joe?”

  Gripped by panic, Joe woke up; he tried to invent a meaningful reply. “Well, I think it looks ... good, Vikram. Very promising. We’re going from, um ... strength to strength.” Quickly, and rather expertly, Joe escaped the spotlight with a well-aimed question. “What do you think, Kerryn?”

  “I agree. There’s definite progress, here. Vikram, perhaps you’d like to show us the New York figures for comparison?” Kerryn got up and put another transparency on the projector for Vikram.

  “Sure. Well, New York was the first to launch our entire global operation. As you can see, we’ve outperformed their growth by ...”

  As Vikram continued, Joe breathed a sigh of relief.

  Michelle, from the other side of the table, winked mischievously.

  Joe had to smile.

  The meeting rolled predictably to its conclusion, half an hour later. As the tired group shuffled out of the meeting room, Joe went to the water cooler in the corner. He downed a paper-cupful of the refreshing liquid in one gulp.