Old Porters

Chapter Four

Four

Approximately an hour and a half after he left the school gates on a typical Thursday afternoon Roger’s heart was racing. He made his way to the big double doors of John Mcoy’s office. The teenager knocked, and then discreetly wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers.

     The dark wooden doors opened, and out stepped a small man. He was wearing lab coat and a wrinkled suit underneath it. The coat was starting to turn grey, as was the wild hair on the man’s head.

     “Hello,” Roger said slowly. This was not what he expected John Mcoy to look like. Then he noticed the photo card clipped to the man’s belt. Doctor Alistair White.

     The doctor looked the teenager up and down, then walked away without a word.

“Come in.”

The voice came from beyond the doors. It was not exactly deep, but it was not light or squeaky either. It was hard, and Roger assumed the accent was that of a Cork native, because he had looked Mcoy up online and that was where he was from. It had been over a month since the accident and nobody from Mcoy Industries had bothered to check on Roger’s progress after that lawyer had made it clear that if there was a lawsuit, Russell Watson would loose his job for bringing a member of the public on sight without authorisation. When the letter had arrived inviting Roger to meet with Mr Mcoy it had come out of the blue.

Realising he had been staring into space for several seconds, Roger obeyed the command. He stepped into the office and saw, sitting behind a big old fashioned desk that did not really fit with the ultra thin computer sitting on top of it, a man who looked exactly like Roger expected his dad’s boss to look like. Minus the horns and the goat legs.

“Nice to meet you,” Mcoy said rising from his seat and offering his hand to Roger. The Irishman stood before the large window that formed one wall of the office. The afternoon sunlight did not make him glow like he had a halo, it highlighted just how dark his hair, suit, and eyes were.

Crossing the room with more steps than were not awkward, the teenager shook the outstretched hand and smiled, whilst thinking that the Irishman felt a little cold and clammy.

The teenager and the Irishman were almost the same height and their eyes were almost perfectly level. It was a view into the soul that Roger did not really want.

“I trust you found us alright?” Mcoy asked.

“Yeah, I mean, yes, it’s not my first time here,” the vigilante said trying to control his heart rate. After all, what was there to be afraid of? Mcoy was still holding his hand. This was probably the longest handshake that there had ever been.

Mcoy released the teenager’s hand and pointed at the guest seat. The teenager sat. “Now Roger I just wanted to catch up. Talk about the accident,” the Irishman said as he walked to a drinks cabinet by the wall.

“I’m over it,” Roger replied.

Mcoy poured himself a glass of orange juice from a jug in the shape of the DNA double helix. “Would you like some?” he offered, pouring another glass without waiting for the response. The teenager nodded, post pour, and then took the glass when it was handed to him.

“So no side effects then?” the Irishman asked as he sat back behind his desk.

Roger did his best not to gulp. Side effects, the lawyer had asked his dad about them too. Did Mcoy know? Did he know what those chemicals would do to people? He must do, someone must. What was the teenager supposed to say? ‘Your chemicals turned me into a super strong, super fast, crime fighting badass, don’t tell anyone though’.

“No nasty scars or anything? I hear you took quite a whack,” Mcoy said, flashing a scary, Hyena like smile.

The teenager sighed with relief and slurped his juice. It was sharp, and there were bits in it. He preferred smooth without bits. With a forced smile, Roger told himself he was being paranoid. Then he started to worry that his pit stains would start to seep through his white shirt, and blue cotton jumper. He turned the glass around between his fingers. “None sir. All the bumps and bruises healed up nicely. All back to normal. Perfectly normal.”

“That’s nice to hear,” Mcoy said draining his glass. “I just wanted to tell you personally that if anything unusual happens, if you ever want to talk to someone, I’m here for you. Who knows, perhaps one day we could offer you a job here. I understand you’ve a passion for knowledge just like your old man.”

The teenager studied the pale skinned, dark haired Irishman for a moment. Although everything he said was nice, it looked like the words hurt as they passed his lips.

“I appreciate it,” Roger replied. Was that it? He had taken a half hour train ride and waited around in the lobby for another half an hour for this?

Mcoy rose to shake Roger’s hand again. This second shake felt different to the first. It was not only clammy, but it was weak, as if Mcoy had run out of energy.

“It was nice to meet you sir. And thank you for---”

“Think nothing of it,” the Irishman said as he returned to his seat, and pointed at the glass in Roger’s hand, “You can leave that on the way out.”

As soon as the teenager had done as commanded, and the door was closed behind him, Mcoy was pulling a clear plastic bag out of his top desk draw. As quickly and as carefully as his body would allow, he sealed the glass in the bag, making sure not to touch the glass with his fingertips, or spill the remaining juice.