White Matter

Kurt - Missing?

Friday night's incident in the restaurant continued to preoccupy me during the early parts of the working week that followed. The thug had talked of Graeme's involvement in some extracurricular project and his words had left me genuinely curious. Set against this was a wariness about how much I really wanted to learn, given who might be interrogating me on the subject later. So I composed discreet questions in my head and kept an eye out for Graeme, though as usual he was proving an elusive person to track down.

I still hadn't found an opportunity to question him when, late on the Tuesday afternoon, I noticed Karen sitting alone in the lunch room.

My first impressions had stuck. That adult-in-the-room presence she had, her ability to convey natural authority without appearing judgemental. Suddenly conscious of how much this solidity contrasted with the oddities of the past few weeks, it occurred to me that, rather than Graeme, she was the one I ought to be talking to.

I halted at the entrance to the lunch room, leaned against the frame of the doorway. "Hey Karen, you seen Graeme about?"

She looked up, no sign of irritation at my interrupting her train of private thoughts. She shook her head. "Sorry, not that I recall."

Aware of the disingenuousness of my question, I paused for a moment in an attempt to feign nonchalance. It left me feeling self-conscious and transparent.

"He spends a lot of time out of the office. Is he working on some other project on the side?" Safest, I decided, just to come straight out with it. I moved across to the table and took a seat next to her.

She shrugged. "What Graeme does in his own time is no business of mine." She was conservatively dressed today. Leather trousers and a long-sleeved top, meaning her tattoos were visible only as an occasional glimpse when a movement of her arm caused a cuff to pull back.

"Why do you ask?"

Still feeling self-conscious under her scrutiny, no direct answer came to mind. I tried another line of attack. "Do you remember that first day I was here? You asked me whose side I was on. I'm still not entirely sure."

"Oh?"

"I've kept in touch with those people. The protestors. Just like Graeme asked." I smiled weakly. "I'm still on my mission." For some reason this came out like an apology.

"And you've started to wonder who that mission is really for?"

I shrugged, "I'm just curious, I suppose. About what he's up to?"

"This mission of his. It was a highly irregular thing to ask. At any time, let alone your first day on the job. You should feel no obligation to do anything at all."

"Of course. But I am still curious ..."

If I felt like a naughty child trying to cover up my wrongdoing – and I did – then the reasons for this guilt were not entirely clear to me. The questions I had were legitimate ones; this was true regardless of to whom I might subsequently pass the answers. Perhaps it was a sense of what I had to lose. Karen was looking at me in that way she has – compassion counterpointed by tattoos and leather – the slightest nod of her head serving as a gesture of understanding. I felt emboldened by it.

"It's not just me. The protestors, too, are curious." I watched carefully, eager to see what reaction might come from this confession of collaboration.

All it produced was a shrug. "My advice to you is don't buy into Graeme's game. That way you won't need to worry about what's behind it."

"Graeme's game?" I echoed. "All you're doing now is making me more curious than ever."