At the Edge of the Game by Gareth Power Read Free Book Online

already in the
cold. Bobbing over the potholed surface I overtake the long-skirted girl in
Ranelagh village, reach the crest of the incline, discover that, such is the
friction inherent in the bike, it won't freewheel down the other side. So a
cursed eternity later I'm over the canal, violating the one-way system at the
Odeon, passing Stephen's Green, dodging down hushed side-streets, skirting a
bleak midweek Temple Bar. Over the brimming autumnal Liffey, finally to the
badlands around Talbot Street. The denizens of these parts are coarse of face
and of word. They know who is of their sort and who isn't, and I get the look
of the outsider as I weave past huddled congregations. For some reason
Peoplefirst Temp Agency has not moved away from the area, despite all the
trouble and all the hassle being here must surely attract.
    I can see a
bloke in a combat jacket rushing up the road from the opposite end. Instinct
kicks in. Leaning into the bike for leverage I squeeze every bit of momentum I can
out of it, get to the door of the office before him, get myself buzzed in.
    ‘Shite!’ says
yer man, still yards away.
    ‘You are...’
says the woman at reception with sufficient derision to make me wonder if she's
Amanda. But no, she isn't. Name tag says Majella. Yer man starts pressing the
buzzer, knocking on the window. She pays him no regard at all.
    ‘George Holden.’
    ‘Holden.’ She
picks up her phone, murmurs into it, tells me to go through to the main office.
Going through, I spot yer man atop my bike, lofting a long finger as he wheels
away up the street.
    A big fat
African man named Arthur bids me sit without deigning to actually look at me. I
take a seat in front of his desk. He pushes a form and pen towards me. ‘Name,
PPS, spouse name, spouse PPS, bank, etcetera.’
    ‘Right.’ His
drumming fingers are most distracting as I work through the form, trying to do
it quickly so he won't think I'm an illiterate who can't hold down steady work.
    ‘Okay...’ He
scans down through what I have written, seems pleased by it. Finally looks me
in the eye. ‘Good man yourself.’ You-ah-self, he says in that African way.
    He puts a
photocopied road map on the desk between us. ‘You know west Dublin at all, my
friend?’
    ‘A bit.’
    ‘So here is the
place, you see? The company is called Avatan. You heard of them? Very large
drug plant, with many departments - manufacturing, research, admin, legal,
etcetera. Great need for exchange of physical paper documents. Not e-mail and
SMS and such.’ He makes a dismissive gesture, finding the thought of vulgar
electronic communications distasteful. ‘Huge amount of post also arrives from
outside every day. Need for a large Operations department, with well-staffed
mailroom arm. Avatan are our best client by far, my friend. Keep me fat.’
    No idea how to respond
to this.
    ‘Naas Road. Bus
stops here, if you lack a car. Walk to here, around here, in here. 7AM tomorrow
morning. ‘
    ‘Seven. Right.’
    ‘You understand
how the system works, my friend? I think you are new to temping?’
    ‘I think I
understand.’ Not sure what he's driving at.
    ‘Here it is. You
have one hour, maybe two, to impress the boss lady. Her name is Candy. Ask for
Candy McThomas at reception.’
    Candy McThomas.
No woman with a name like that will have any time for me.
    ‘Listen, and
learn quick. Mailroom is a busy job. You work non-stop. There are rest breaks,
when the load is light. Never unless, understand? She sees you stop, you're
gone. Most men we send, they make it to lunchtime, maybe, then they are sent
home. Paid for half a day, and then back to the dole queue. This is good work
if you can impress her. That's very important.’
    ‘Okay, I get
you.’
    ‘Do you? Okay,
take this map away. Don't forget, 7AM. It would make sense to be there early.
Say 645.’
    ‘Okay.’ I get up
to leave.
    ‘Oh’ he says. ‘One
other thing. Come over here.’
    I follow him to
the corner of the room. ‘Lift