Thirteen
THIRTEEN
Bruce knocked at the heavy oak door. Jefferson’s name was written on a bronze plaque at head-height, beautifully polished. Maybe Jefferson did it himself on the way in to his office every day. Or maybe he had an underpaid subordinate do it for him, with their tongue. A booming smoker’s cough rasped through the panelling.
“Enter.”
Bruce turned the brass handle and clicked open the latch. His stomach tightened as he stepped inside the small room. It was time to face the music.
Jefferson was sat at his desk in a leather swivel chair. He stopped writing on a ledger pad as Bruce entered the room. His bright blue eyes shone through small round spectacles, and he nodded his balding head toward a much less comfortable looking chair the other side of his broad, cluttered desk.
“Sit down.”
His voice was icy; he dropped his expensive Montblanc ballpoint smart-pen on the desk to punctuate the statement. It was a status symbol, the latest tech wrapped in a substantial designer skin. Capable of transmitting and recording hand-written words digitally, smart-pens were the new must have executive gadget and Montblanc made the very best. Somebody was being paid too much. Bruce felt the arctic gust of Jefferson’s icy glare lower the temperature of the room around him. He kept his mouth closed.
“Right, Johnson, I understand that you feel your daily employed attendance at this University is an unnecessary burden, yes?”
The undertone was inescapable. Bruce answered.
“First of all sir, I have to apologise for my absence. I was unavoidably detained by my mother’s illness. Someone had to drive her to the hospital.”
Jefferson snorted at that.
“I understand that I should have phoned in, or emailed, but I’ve had literally no chance to do either. My phone’s been on the blink and I’ve barely touched a computer since poor old Mum fell ill. Leukaemia is such a terrible disease.”
Bruce layered it on, super thick. Think Johnson; think pussy.
“Well, Johnson, I’m afraid I don’t believe that for a second; they practically issue computers at birth nowadays. However, your friend Professor McCoy has put a good word in for you. I understand that he thinks you indispensable. I don’t happen to agree with that, but I do agree that Professor McCoy is a brilliant man and a tremendous asset to this university. If he says that you must stay, then usually, I would be inclined to agree.”
The pause was pregnant, with triplets. Bruce couldn’t take it.
“You said usually sir?”
“Yes Johnson, I said usually. Unfortunately for you, today I received a rather unusual decision from the board. Our funding has been cut. This institution faces financial ruin Johnson. I must make cutbacks.”
Bruce knew what was coming next; the end of the line. Jefferson snatched up his pen like a conductor’s baton.
“Unfortunately, your position was already in question before your unauthorized absence and, despite your “extenuating circumstances,”
Jefferson said the words with a measure of contempt. They felt personal.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go. You will receive full pay for the period of your notice, which is two weeks from today. I’m sorry Johnson.”
He sounded anything but. His blubbery lips twitched, as though he were suppressing a smile. Bruce looked around the office, desperately trying to find an alternative to the welling anger inside him, something besides his twitching prosthetic arm. Johnson. I’m Johnson, he told himself. Stay in character. Know your role. He spoke slowly, measuring the words.
“Well, I have to say, I am surprised that you feel that you can fire somebody on the emotional edge so easily. Things aren’t going well for me at the moment, sir.”
Jefferson loomed large across the desk, the smart-pen twirling in his hand. Bruce couldn’t help but think of the reaper, swinging his mighty blade. He wondered why he cared so much. John Johnson was just a cover, a ruse. How long had this been going on? He couldn’t remember. The tremors in his arm reached fever pitch.
“Johnson, you’ve been a valuable member of staff during your years here, but I’m afraid it is over. It is time to move on. I have a meeting in five minutes, if you’ll excuse me.”
He’d said years? What kind of cover lasts that long? Bruce’s mind reeled. Why could he only remember the Mastah Blastah case? What had happened before? Jefferson had gone back to his ledger. Clearly, the discussion was over; Johnson’s career was over.
As Bruce stood to leave, some kind of compulsion gripped his bionic arm. The pistons hissed quietly inside as the arm drew back, pulling back the white lab coat sleeve, revealing his metal wrist. He tried desperately to think of something suitably cutting to say as he left, but his mind crackled with white noise. His arm burst forwards as fast as lightning like a cobra striking, snatching the smart-pen from Jefferson’s grasp. The big man had just enough time for those icy blue eyes to melt a little before the sturdy ballpoint slammed into his ear and deep into his brain, right up to the lid.
Bruce backed away as a trickle of blood sprung from Jefferson’s bull nose. Eerily, his body stayed in exactly the position he had been sat in, frozen in place, his face a mask of shock. A rasping gurgle accompanied the final rolling back of the man’s eyes as Bruce stepped away from the desk. He hadn’t planned to kill Jefferson. He hadn’t even moved. His prosthetic arm swung back into place at the thought, like a naughty child running back to mother. It seemed to have a mind of its own. At least the deed had been clean, quiet. His lab coat remained creased but spotless. He had to buy himself some time. There was a deep, walk-in cupboard at the back of the room. It would have to do.
Bruce wheeled Jefferson’s body into the cupboard and tipped him from the chair. Luckily, the cupboard was chaotic; there were stacks of files everywhere. In the corner, a life-sized skeleton stood covered with a dust sheet. He wrapped Jefferson in the sheet, rolled him against the far wall and stacked files in front of him, on top of him, until he became entombed in paperwork.
He went back out to the desk; Jefferson’s machine was logged on. His inbox was open. He turned the out-of-office automatic email reply on and sent a mass email out to the faculty, informing them that Jefferson had had to rush out to attend to an urgent family matter and would be unavailable until early next week. That should give him some breathing space. He found a key in the desk drawer that fitted the cupboard door and locked it; even better. He slipped the key into his pocket.
As Bruce left the office, the words he had been searching for came to him, like a flash from a cheesy crime novel. He couldn’t resist the dramatic irony. It didn’t matter that there was nobody around to hear.
“You’re excused.”
He pulled the heavy oak door shut quietly behind him, and left the University for the last time by the fastest route possible.