The Third Person

I had to pass through one of the main shopping precincts to get to Graham’s building, and it was heaving with people. It always was on a Saturday. All those weekday-workers came out window-shopping. Couples went strolling. Kids hung out in baggy, coloured posses, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. And there was this genuinely unpleasant, slightly threatening undertone to everything. It was as though, despite the smiles and hum of conversation, at any moment somebody might buy something.

A few minutes’ walk took me to a quieter section of the city, where the canal snakes through at the edge. Graham’s building backed onto the canal, which is why the three lower floors remained entirely unoccupied. When the industrial skies open over winter, the abandoned canal overflows, filling nearby buildings to an admirable height and washing away any derelicts that have managed to squeeze in through the cracks. Of course, it doesn’t make any difference to the high-flyers on the floors above: for them, the canal is just this picaresque thing from another era; it’s no different to having an old, golden barometer on the wall, or a three-hundred-year-old wooden chest to put their dirty laundry in. When the banks flood, it just gets a few metres closer and they can see it better. That’s all.

The intercom on the front of the building looked like something you’d put a cigarette out on – and, if you did, it probably wouldn’t have left a mark. Cars shot past behind me as I tapped in seventeen-twelve and in the pause that followed, I turned and looked around. Busy road. Perfectly-styled park over the other side. A deli further up, painstakingly recreated. There was probably even a nice little church around here somewhere: a church without a door. When we were teenagers, Graham had told me: life’s just a lot of fakery and bullshit, and I hate it. What had happened to my friend?

I heard the voice come out of the intercom and turned back.

‘Hello?’

His voice, and yet not. All the intercoms in the city centre sound exactly the same: it’s a lightly amplified, disguised male voice. Imagine a vaguely pissed off robot. For all I knew, it was Helen answering the door, but I took a gamble that it wasn’t.

‘Gray,’ I said, leaning in. ‘It’s Jason.’

A pause.

‘Hijay.’ Our old amalgamated greeting told me it was him. ‘Come on up. Wait; hang on.’

The intercom was muffled for a few seconds. I could hear that he was talking to Helen, but couldn’t make out the actual words. Of course, I didn’t really need to.

A moment later, the intercom cleared.

‘Come on up.’

The latch on the steel door buzzed loudly for a couple of seconds, as though in warning, and then clicked open. I pushed it and went inside, and was immediately hit by the smell of fresh pot-pourris that filled the stairwell. This was such a nice apartment block.

The elevator was already on its way down for me. I waited for it to arrive, already sure that this was going to be a tense morning.

A couple of picture portraits.

Those are the facts – but even there they’ve come out uneven, because the facts about Helen are more difficult to pin down. Nobody would ever deny the things I’ve said about Graham – what you see is what you get – but Helen’s a far more subjective prospect: it’s difficult to pin down anything concrete and personal about her, because she’s totally absorbed in the relationship.

Certain things are true, of course. She is small (five foot) and thin (probably about seven stone), and she does have clear skin, in the same way that a baby has a clear conscience; these aren’t things she’s ever had to work at. In fact, she’s never had to work at anything, as far as I know. Her parents are both very rich and very protective: a lethal combination. They paid her way through University, and then supported her for a while afterwards, all the time assuming that their investment in her gave them overall control on any decisions she had to make. If you wanted to see Helen as a company, you might see her parents as two silent partners who between them have the casting vote. You would have to see her as a small company, of course, but keep that a secret from the silent partners: they see it as a world-beater.

What would this company do? It’s simply not streamlined for business and knows it. So it merges. There is strength in numbers, and it makes sense for the weak to ally themselves with the strong. The silent partners – who, having organised it themselves, don’t understand how weak the original corporate structure is – see it the other way around.

Merge by all means, they explain, but never forget who is the most important and dominant company in this merger.