Читать книгу Beach Bodies: Part Three - Ross Armstrong - Страница 11

Far away. But then, not really so, so far. The night watchman takes over from the day concierge.

‘Anything happening?’ says the Night man.

‘In this place?’ says Day.

‘Yeah. Any trouble?’

‘A hell of a lot. It never stops,’ laughs Day.

‘Sure,’ chuckles Night.

It’s an in-joke between the two. Not a hilarious one, by any measure, but a joke all the same. They’ve exchanged these exact words nearly a hundred times.

It’s not funny because of the content, not anymore. The content has faded away and the humour is in the repetition. The words have become sound; a musical leitmotif that describes their relationship. They allow themselves this moment of kinship, at 8 p.m. whenever the two meet: eight days out of every month.

You have to rotate people a lot in a place like this. Because concentration is difficult. It’s been worn away by smartphones and rolling news and constant content. And these guys need to stay ready, stay awake. Just in case.

The work isn’t strenuous. You just have to check around once in a while. Shine a torch around. It’s a waiting game unless the worst happens. Then it’s life and death.

So they rotate between six guys. But these two guys, they get on best.

What makes Day laugh even more, is that Night’s last name is actually Knight. Which would be even funnier if Day’s surname was actually Day. They have laughed about this many times. But it isn’t. It’s Lambert or Butler or Hedges or Rothman. Some brand of old cigarettes anyway. Knight can never remember which.

Knight takes a seat and assumes the posture, waving Day away. Years ago, he might’ve stuck his feet up on the desk, but these days a higher standard is expected, and someone is always watching.

Instead, he trains his mind. Mr Knight clears his inner chambers from intrusive thoughts and focuses on the phone, because sometimes it rings and it looks good if you pick up straight away. The odd phone call from some suit who wants you to check on a few things.

Some mad question, they always ask. Do this, do that. Makes a change from sitting watching the thing. They use an old white phone, a real one, from days gone by. It’s a professional joke, Mr Knight has been told. And he enjoys the opportunity to interact with old technology. He likes handling the thing. It feels cold against his ear. The weight, the ceremony of it all. It’s this sort of thing that made him take the job in the first place. It’s one of the little privileges.

He doesn’t have to be here. He gets his Basic Income. He could take that and use it to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Not quite a tropical island, but not too far off. But he likes being here. And it’s nice to have a purpose. At his age.

Mr Knight takes the phone off the hook and puts it to his ear, just for the feeling of it. He mimes a few words into it that no one will ever hear; he’s from a generation that never grew up. Then he puts it down and stares at it, indulging in the most basic pleasure there is: breathing, feeling well, and feeling time pass by.

Four hours later, the thing rings and Mr Knight picks up immediately.