The Pursuit of Emma by Dave Moyer (novels for teenagers .txt) 📖

you think it’s been bugged.’

‘Sounds like a plan. I’ll check with Rach and we’ll see you on the weekend. Maybe go see a game or something?’

Both of us knew we wouldn’t go and see a football match but it was nice for one brief second to chat like we used to.

‘Look after yourself Tom,’ he said caringly. ‘I mean it. I’ll run her name and see what comes up and I’ll bring anything I can find down with us. Try to relax and act normal until then. Maybe go back to work or something to take your mind of it.’

‘OK mate, I’ll try.’

‘We’ll get you through this buddy, I swear. One way or another.’

‘Thanks,’ was all I was able to muster. Chapter Six

‘How are you feeling?’

Going back to work was not really an option I wanted to consider. I certainly didn’t feel like I was in the right state of mind to be working, especially in a crowded office block, but I couldn’t see any other options. I had no other leads and until I heard back from Jack, pacing around the flat all day wasn’t going to do anybody any good.

It wasn’t quite as easy as just going back to work either. The flat was a complete disaster and resembled a bomb-site more than accommodation. I was wearing my last clean pair of socks and wasn’t far away from running out of clothes completely. I had decided to take a small stand against my state of affairs and sort everything out. After four hours of strenuous cleaning my washing machine was groaning with exhaustion and my back was about to give out. The kitchen hadn’t taken long to clean; it was really just a case of recycling all the takeaway packaging. The hoover had worked overtime and was now paying dividends as I could at least see the carpet now. It felt good. Well, to be honest, I felt sore and exhausted but it felt like an achievement. A small part of my terrifyingly confusing life was back under control. I fell into bed, relieved to take the pressure off my legs and back, and was asleep in record time.

I don’t know if there is a more sickening feeling than the first moments of consciousness after your alarm goes off. I literally hate my alarm clock. I looked at it blearily and managed to set it on to snooze, which only prolonged my agony as three minutes later it went off again. My alarm clock is held together loosely with tape as I’ve taken out my unfounded dislike for it by throwing it at the wall numerous times. Poor alarm clock. All it does is the exact function I bought it to do and then gets punished for it.

After I had dragged my lifeless body out of my bed and showered, I turned my attention to breakfast. I hadn’t been shopping and had nothing suitable in the house, but for the first time in a while I was ravenous with hunger. I searched through the cupboards that were only opened when a home-cooked meal was being prepared and, in desperation, dug out an out of date pot-noodle and some rice pudding. I could lie and say I forced my way through it, but honestly, I loved it. The flavours were incredible; strong and vibrant. I feel I should explain now, the two foods were not mixed. They were served warm as a two course meal. Considerably fuller, I set about ironing my newly cleaned clothes and headed to the car. The offices for Hamilton Accountants were only a few miles away and I had got into the good routine of cycling to work every day. Somehow, I didn’t feel like exerting myself too much today. One step at a time, as it were.

At the second time of asking my car started cleanly and I was off. Twenty minutes later, I was sat in the car-park, giving myself some sort of pre-match team talk. I remember remarking to myself (again out loud) that it would have been quicker to cycle to work then sit in London traffic like that. I didn’t mind though. The longer it took to get there, the longer it was before I had to face everyone again.

I'd been back to work the day after Emma left. I remember very little of my return but it was clear to everybody that something was wrong and after confiding my problems to one colleague, it was common knowledge to everyone there within half an hour. I tried to work through it but it wasn’t long before people started commenting with their own brand of ‘advice.’ After the fifth person had told me to take a few days off, I lost it. If my memory serves me right, I threw a chair into my own desk and smashed the computer screen whilst shouting, ‘I don’t need to take any fucking time off...’

Needless to say, I was called straight into a small office where both our general manager and team leader suggested rather forcefully that I go and see somebody as I ‘obviously had some unresolved issues to work through.’ David Colt, the general manager, had even given me the contact details of Dr. Veronica Davies and offered to book my first appointment.

So, as I marched slowly up the steps which fronted Hamilton Accountants, I did so with a flurry of butterflies flying around my stomach. How was I going to play it? Should I play it cool and walk in like nothing had happened? That didn’t work so well last time. Should I be honest and tell them what I was going through? Again, history didn’t favour this option. I decided to go in looking ill and exhausted (which I felt) and hope people would feel sorry for me and give me some privacy. I loosened my tie a bit, ran my hand roughly through my hair and pushed open the doors. As I stumbled through reception I gave a small, courteous nod to the two receptionists, both of whom took an unmistakable double-take at seeing me. That was their gossip sorted for lunchtime. I scanned my personnel identification card and walked through another set of doors. Most people take the impressive elevators here but as I only work on the second floor, and because I have a small fear of dying violently in a lift as the cables snap and I fall rapidly to my death in a small tin can, I normally use the stairs. Even though it can’t be any more than twenty-five steps, I could feel myself struggling for breath as I reached the top. ‘I really am not fighting fit at the moment,’ I thought.

The design of the second floor is sadly open-plan and although I had been given my own office with a door and blinds, it was situated right at the back of a long narrow room with at least fifteen other people working in there, watching. That’s twenty nine eyes (Doug from Human Resources has a lazy eye and cannot point both in the same direction) that would be pinned on me as I walked down the central aisle. Knowing this beforehand, I took a deep breath and walked in, trying to hold my head up high.

The silence that fell across the office was instant, rippling to the furthest seats as they presently turned their heads to look. There was no pretence from most, who openly stared and pointed, which I found a little rude.

I could feel the stares burning into my back as I strolled through the office and could audibly hear the ‘whispers.’ They could at least wait until I got into my office, surely! After what seemed like an eternity, I reached my office door and after a brief fumble with my keys I managed to unlock the door and shut out the gossiping.

They say ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ but I have my doubts. I had survived walking through the office, which was an achievement, but I certainly didn’t feel any stronger. I knew they were talking about me, partly because I had been in this place for years and partly because I could hear them clearly through my door. The second my door was closed, the whispers disappeared and were replaced with pandemonium. I didn’t care. Let them talk. I guess it’s human nature to want to gossip and, years ago, I’m sure I would have been one of them. But I certainly wasn’t anymore.

It felt weird but in a strange way good to feel these ‘human’ emotions again. I felt embarrassed, I felt nervous and I felt shaken up, but I was feeling again. I might have felt pretty horrendous but I certainly felt alive, which I greeted secretly like an old friend. Maybe going back to work was a good idea after all.

I pulled closed the blinds, settled into my chair and switched on my new computer. It was a shiny, black thing that operated a lot faster than my old one had. Moments after turning it on, it was ready to go and to my surprise all my previous files had been transferred over. They must have been able to save stuff off the hard drive. I should have trashed my computer years ago.

After half an hour, there was nothing else to do except work. My procrastinating had lasted so long but with my desk organised and my files rearranged, I had to concede defeat and get on with the job I was paid for.

Processing numbers is not exciting: fact. Nobody in the world wants to do it and nobody enjoys it. Anyone who says otherwise is wrong. But for those of us that can do it, it is simple enough work and there are plenty of opportunities for good money. Eventually. I slipped into my old life for a while and it felt comfortable. It felt good. I began wondering how long it would take before I was disturbed. I had thought ahead enough to stop at a corner shop and pick up lunch and I harboured a small hope that I might be able to get through the entire day without seeing another person. If I didn’t drink anything and was dehydrated enough, maybe I wouldn’t need the toilet either. Optimistic.

My hopes were dashed about twenty minutes later when there was a knock at the door. I froze silently for a second, hoping they might go away again but they persevered, knocking louder than before.

‘Come in,’ I called out generically, trying not to convey any weakness in my voice.

There was a hesitation before the door moved and team-leader Jeff stood in its place, beaming at me.

‘Tommy. Glad to see you’re back son. It’s good to see you,’ he said, starting into the room. He stopped quickly and glanced at me a little more carefully. Perhaps he had just remembered the way I behaved last time we saw each other.

‘You...feeling better? Back to your old self?’ The questions were casual enough but I could tell he was attempting to judge my mental state. I put him out of his misery.

‘I feel fine Jeff. Much better. I’m sorry about last... you know... the way I...’

‘Hey Tommy son, don’t