SomeWhere On... (BXB)

...Great Titchfield Street

It's a 2-for-1 deal at a pub on Wells Street. And if I'm lucky, I can get them for free by snogging the bartender. He's got a soft spot for me, for some reason. Either way, that's great for me because I'm broke and I don't fucking care. So I figured I'd try to pop over to see if I could get a pint or two off him. If his manager's there, I'm fucked.

I stop. I should probably let my boss know I'm not coming into work.

Nah. She's a cunt.

Whatever.

I keep going.

And guess who do I see in the fucking window, sitting at a posh glass desk and talking on a phone, looking like a fancy-ass piece of shite?

Mr....Dumbass American Guy. Whatever his name is.

Excep the actually looks kinda smart all made up. He's wearing a suit that I think is too small and a tie that's too thin for his body.

And the way he moves, too. It's...weird. Like watching a dog do ballet. He uses one finger to push his glasses back, but he goes back to writing something down in the same move. His face's serious. He moves the way you'd imagine a backup dancer would.

I mean, I also haven't seen him in, like, two weeks. And if I'm going off of just how this guy moves, I don't think it's him.

But then he looks at me, slams down the pen in his hand, squishes his face up against the window, the way a kid presses their face against something when they're excited, and waves like a...kid, because I don't know a better way to describe it, at me.

In all likelihood, it is a pretty straightforward reaction for Mr. DAG.

I keep walking because I'm not interested. I don't want to talk to him. Except it's really a short walk because he opens the doors to the building and shouts, "You're the guy from the Bugle!"

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

I just keep walking.

But I hear him running up to me and say, "I have something. For, for you, I mean."

I keep going.

"Wait. Hold on."

He takes my hand and slips in a hard card before I hear him sprinting. I look back and see him running back to where ever he was before he got distracted. A Sainsbury's gift card for £25 is in my hand. "The fuck 'm I s'posed to do with this?" I mutter, and slip it into my pocket. Because it's still fucking worth something. Or I could give it to someone.

But then I groan and turn back toward the building he ran into. My phone's vibrating but I'm not interested in it right now. It probably just Steve. But I just need to straighten all this shit out with him before he thinks this is something else.

Like we're friends or something.

I walk in. The woman at the front desk asks who I've come to see. "I have a mate here," I say, and I think she can already smell the ale on my breath. "He, uh...just ran out, and then came back?"

She looks at me and then picks up the telephone. "I have a..." The receptionist looks my way with wide eyes and pursed lips.

"Tommy Maguire."

"...a 'Tommy Maguire' to see the new intern." She nods. "Yes, him." She nods, and then writes something down. "All right." She hangs up the phone, and gestures for me to sit in a nearby armchair. "He'll be with you in a moment."

I go to sit.

It's a comfy-ass armchair. So I'm good to just sit there while he takes his time.

He comes out a minute later. His black hair's all ruffled and he pulls this boxy Bluetooth thing from his ear. In the process, he almost takes off his glasses. "Hi, sorry. I was answering a call." He looks at me, and, just, looks troubled, seeing me or something. "Is something wrong?"