Messed up man

Emma has been messing with my press files, having some existential crisis about how to use a semicolon, so I'm already angry when he summons me with an email. The glass walls of his office have misted up, and a urea tang drifts across the air when he opens the door. He has been shredding documents for two days.

Fresh capillaries have burst across Roger's cheeks, but he seems vibrant, shivering with life even, as he sweats it out. The picture of his ex-wife and daughter has disappeared. The drinking and barrage of emails parroting the latest from Breitbart and a score of similar sites suits the new him. It stinks in here.

He points at me with a fistful of payslips. 'Keep a leash on Bongo Bill, for fuck's sake.' I knew this was coming. Tope sent edits on a piece on rent control. Roger wanted a pro-landlord hatchet job, but Tope balanced the argument.

'Jesus, Roger.' That chicken. He's getting what he wants. I don't think I even own any safety pins. I want to gut him, wrap him in foil and roast him at 200 degrees until the juices run clear. 'Your soul is rotting inside you. And I'm not his manager.'

'Pippy and Dopey are as much use as tits on a nun. You like playing with his balls, you tell him.'

'No, Roger. I've got too much to do. Why not try taking responsibility before you go, for novelty's sake?'

'Careful, Tinkerbell. I've still got time to fire you.'

I give him the finger as I head back to my desk. As the door closes behind me Roger yells, 'Tope, get your arse in here!'

#

The carcass of a deer washed and wrapped, ready for aging

A ticking clock looks a lot like a burning fuse.

We're nearly at press. We've lit enough fires of hyperbole under those poor accountants, found striking colour-rich imagery glamorous enough for our departing führer, and even Tope has managed to get articles signed off. Two more days and Roger is gone.

Two more days and Clarence might tell us who's replacing him.

But instead of flight checks and final sign-offs we're all watching as two contractors, thick-necked men in short-sleeved blue shirts and black stab-proof vests, announce themselves to be immigration enforcement. They're hanging about in the kitchen as I make tea, one of them snorting on phlegm every few seconds. I offer him a paper towel and he stares at me with a vacant promise of violence.

I take my tea back to my desk and am about to ask Tope what's going on when the contractors stride to Roger's office, following some unheard signal. Roger holds the door open for them, spears Tope with a finger and reels him in with a flamboyant ushering arm.

I can't work whilst the interview carries on. Roger, having donated his drinking hole, joins me, standing in my blind spot. He's slurring slightly, my computer quietly announcing the arrival of midday, as he says, 'Someone grassed him up. Told the government he was here illegally.'

'He's not, is he? Don't you have to check that stuff.'

'Yep.' He suppresses a belch, but the acrid smell of it reaches me.

'Shouldn't you tell them that?'

'Where are my galleys?'

Two days could be too long. I could roll my chair back into his feet. Or turn it and whack him in the bollocks 'accidentally'. I could pour my tea on him. Or use a Sharpie to write The death of the gene pool on his shirt. How effective would it be to stab him with a biro? Then inspiration strikes: 'Tope said he's got some comments from a writer to check.'

There's a noise like a boiler on the edge of exploding that deflates into a febrile, 'Ffffuck. Lucky bastard.'

Roger stalks to his office and raps a sweaty sovereign ring on the glass.

#

Corporate execution

It's late, and I'm back at the office. I stopped for beers with an old friend - a goth who got older, she's got opinions on prams to share - and my bladder is fit to burst.

The urinal doesn't drain, so it's a game of brinkmanship, playing the building's plumbing against my own. Constantly holding back leaves me with an underwhelming relief. I'm feeling confused as I leave the toilet and see the office lights still on.

The shout is clear through the doors, like a dog's yelp of pain. I walk towards it, not processing what it means properly. Just a beery curiosity drawing me in.

Tope and Roger are stood at Tope's desk, bent at the hips towards each other, the mirroring perfect. They are both shouting, firing spittle and insults across the inches.

I'm starting to call to them, to tell them to calm down or Roger to fuck off or something, but my brain can't piece it together before Roger swings at Tope. It's a clumsy blow but it catches Tope on the cheek and drops him into the desk.

There's a clatter and a flurry of paper but I don't see much more because I'm picking a clumsy path through the office towards them. I slam Emma's monitor to the desk as I wheel to face them.

Tope has recovered and rammed Roger's head into the screen. And it has gone right through. But not like it's shattered the screen, more like through. There's this fuzzy grey line around his neck, like he's slipped out of tune. Tope is staring in shock as I grab Roger's shirt and pull. I say, 'Help me, for fuck's sake.'

We grab a shoulder each and tug, but Roger doesn't move. He's stuck fast. We try again and this time he gives a fierce shake and is sucked in up to his waist. His body narrows where it meets the screen, shrinking down to 21 inches with the same fuzzy grey line.

There is a hissing noise.

Tope and I look at each other; the terror is plain on his face. There is another tug, what sounds like a double-click, and then Roger is gone. One shoe is left behind, empty and ripe with sweat.

I peer round the back of the screen as Tope grabs his bag and starts walking for the door. The fluorescent lights shiver and bristle nervously. I can't remember if we have CCTV or not.

#

Bad trees bear bad fruit

Clarence has found a Linda to replace Roger. Linda wants to work for the Guardian. She swears less but has a delivery like steel. Her contempt for idiots seems bottomless, and her definition of idiot broad. Emma loves her.

Tope and I met for a drink, after the police came to interview us. They seem to believe I stopped in to use the loo and found Tope working late - and that neither of us saw Roger. We tried to talk about what happened, but it didn't work. We told each other it was weird, and lapsed into silence. It will be a relief when he goes back to uni next week.

The next issue of the mag is coming up, because mystery can't stop business. I'm back in the stock libraries.

They still look like Roger. Except now he's standing in an empty car park with an open umbrella, just the frame, no fabric. Or shouting at diverse employees. Or hitting his wife

###