John C.P. Warner

I’m involved in an interview. Well, as I write to you I assume it’s fairly apparent that I am not involved in an interview at this very moment, but I wish to convey to you a sense of literary immediacy which, I am reliably informed, is imparted to a piece of storytelling by the present tense. I am, therefore, involved in an interview. Directly opposite me, across a somewhat scarred, utilitarian office table, there are two women: their hair is tied in uniform buns, their bodies squeezed into uniform suits – the cuts of which flatter despite being stern. One of these women is bespectacled, the other is not, one chews a pen held in her right hand, and the other chews one held in her left. Aside from this unconscious mirroring, these two women are nothing at all alike. Between these two non-identical women and me there is: a tape-recorder, three cups of formerly hot beverages, an open lever-arch file and two fine-rule A4 pads of recycled paper.

The tape-recorder may stand out in this picture, I understand, jarring against the present tense, may even appear to date my story somewhat; mine is, however, a present tense that occurs only very slightly in the past, the tape recorder should therefore be viewed simply as an anachronism on behalf of my interlocutors. The machine cannot, after all, be blamed for its own presence; it is simply a functional yet useful item which slowly rotates its heads, setting down for the non-existent future the words that will pass between us. Not us, obviously, for remember I am involved in an interview. Were the contents of the ensuing conversation ever to be held in doubt, the magnetic tape that trundles over the recorder heads would be able to set straight any confusion, it is an honest ribbon trundling through an honest machine.

 

# # #

 

It was a day much like any other when I realised that the world had ended. That is not to say that there was any kind of cataclysm, I had not augured it as a seer must, nor had there been ominous events that would arouse my suspicions – no two-headed chickens, no surfacing of the leviathan. There had recently been a six-legged goat, but I have since chosen to attribute that to simple coincidence. Some have suggested that I had somehow become a devotee of that peculiar doomsday-cult surrounding the end of the Mayan calendar. I don’t believe that calendars have a great deal of influence on time – my own, for example, which hangs dog-eared and somewhat forlorn on my kitchen wall, ended on the 31st of December 2010. I very much doubt I could convince you that the photograph, of a puppy wearing a Santa hat, which accompanies that final month, could be considered an ill omen.

 

A lot has been said in the media about the aftermath of the end of the world. Glib phrases are bandied around by sardonic commentators, hurtful headlines like: ‘Apoca-fibs’, ‘The Day the World Stayed Exactly the Same,’ or ‘North-West Call Centre Operative Correctly Predicts that Nothing Will Happen.’ I feel I have faced opportunistic opprobrium, have been maliciously maligned, importunely impugned. Such simplistic sound-bites do not reflect what I imagine to be the near universal acceptance by philosopher and scientist alike that the world has ended. The fact that nothing has happened should only serve to emphasise rather than refute the premise. I have come to terms with such things and despite their turbulent text, despite their poisonous prose, I have accepted that such utter morons, having nothing better to do than wag their pens at people are bound to say such things. I am, therefore, not bitter.

 

I had awoken a little late that day and, for the sake of honesty, I will admit that the only thing I was really considering with any real intellectual vigour was how best to ensure that I did not go to work that day. I am a fairly solitary individual; I enjoy the things in life that one may enjoy alone – such as a fine single malt, a well-made film, or the bitter self-recrimination that follows masturbation – I had indulged all three of these passions the previous evening, possibly to excess, and frankly the thought that I might have to mingle with my dead-eyed co-workers was anathema to me. My go-to standard excuse in these situations is that of any right thinking person, namely a mild to severe case of the shits – severity dependant, of course, on how likely one is to be able to face the following day.

Today, however, something was different.

 

Not only had I suffered just such a case of exaggerated excretory evacuation only two weeks previously, forbidding a repeat, I also felt a disquiet I could not at that point fathom. It is only looking back at this episode that I see it for what it was: the first signs of my singular understanding of our world’s condition. You may scoff, but there and then I feel I had subconsciously unravelled the mystery of the end of the world. Before breakfast. I scrabbled for my cigarettes which, along with an ashtray and a rather splendid, stainless-steel Zippo lighter, occupied the cold side of my double bed. I rolled onto my back, placing the ashtray on my bare chest, and lit my first cigarette of the day. I drew deeply upon it and exhaled a plume of smoke that danced lazily in the draft from my partly opened bedroom window, before it crept across the ceiling seeking out one of the few white patches, which it would then endeavour to paint the dysentery brown that is no doubt mirrored by the colour of my alveoli.

 

# # #

 

I think it’s safe to say that I am not what you may have had in mind when you imagined the herald of end times – if you had imagined one at all. I haven’t a beard for a start, it is not wispy nor straggling, white or flowing or of floor reaching length. In this area I must admit a base, most likely genetic flaw that some may consider precludes me from the role in which I recently found myself. My facial hair is most decidedly incapable of Old Testament grandeur; it is patchy, almost ginger brown and clings to my rather sallow cheeks more like moss than a hirsute indication of divinely received wisdom – such as that which film and literature have taught us to associate with prophets. I am therefore, more often than not, clean shaven. If it pleases you, however, I am not entirely averse to having an imagined beard. Be my guest.

 

# # #

 

As the last tendrils of smoke from my cigarette dissipated, I reached for my phone and prodded at the screen, wearily stroking, cajoling it into displaying my address book. I selected my office manager’s telephone number, tapped the little green phone icon and placed the handset to my ear. Thirty seconds later, tutting, I took the phone away from my ear and began the timed-out process a second time, this time watching the screen to ensure the co-operation of the tiresome little device.

 

‘Amy Bridges, how can I help?’ Her voice was bland, affectedly modulated in the way of all people of my profession. I believe it is the intention of large customer service departments to work gradually toward a pivotal moment when degraded humans and upgraded computers become interchangeable.

 

‘Hello Amy, it’s James, how are you doing?’ I asked, cheerfully. I was feeling surprisingly content, with no real excuse in mind, knowing that I would somehow steal a day from my paymasters.

 

‘Ah, James, stomach problems again is it?’ she enquired in a manner I assume she believed was arch.

 

‘Not at all, I’m feeling quite well actually.’

 

‘What can I do for you then, are you running late?’

 

‘Oh no, I won’t be in.’

 

‘You’ve just said there was nothing wrong. . .’ she let the statement hang briefly between us, an unspoken – or rather an actually spoken, though perhaps not entirely implicit accusation.

 

‘I certainly did,’ I replied after a pause. ‘The world has ended, I’m afraid; I may require a few days to get over the shock. I’ll let you know when I’ll be back.’ With this said, I fumbled with my phone, muttering murderous Luddite oaths at the black sliver of plastic until it eventually, seemingly arbitrarily, ended the call of its own free will.

 

# # #

 

I am writing this so that you will be better acquainted with my, I feel, somewhat heroic part in the events which are no doubt still so fresh in your mind. I wish only to be honest with you, feel it best to lay my cards on the table. As such I will state that the closest I have ever come to a vision was a rather intense fit of giggling that came as a direct result of a naively purchased chocolate brownie from a wise looking – not to mention bearded – Turk, the owner or at least tender of a coffee bar named Free Adam in Amsterdam. Though these things may annoy apocalypse cultists, you will no doubt have heard the news, watched the video clips, read the blogs, listened to the podcasts and know, categorically, that I am the man that first brought you the news that our world was ended. This is my side of that most historic story.

 

# # #

 

Amy Bridges was a simple woman; she had left school at sixteen and had wanted for little. She had found employment and stuck with it, progressing slowly, through time served. People would sometimes ask her what she thought about glass ceilings, she would reply that she liked them as you could always see the sky; it was an unusual sort of optimism. Having replaced the handset, following that brief, peculiar conversation, she shook her head – as though attempting to dislodge a worrisome thought, laughed briefly and made her way through the hospital green office, over the stained, brown, nylon carpet squares to the desk of her direct superior.

 

Terrence Symonds, Terry to those who told him they were his friends, was a goblinesque fifty-something with looks so singular they could have belonged to a man either ten years younger or older. He was crouched over an archaic computer which squatted like a pallid plastic toad on the desk – onto which his paunch spilled, testing the strength of an expensive and ill-fitting shirt. He looked up, guiltily from his online shopping and nodded at Amy, winking complicity.

 

‘I’ve heard everything now,’ she giggled girlishly in a manner at odds with her weary appearance, adjusting her blouse uneasily under Terry’s gaze.

 

‘What now?’

 

‘That oddball James has just called in...’

 

‘Mr Squits?’

 

‘Got it in one.’

 

‘I take it he won’t be in today – stomach trouble is it?’

 

# # #

 

 

‘Bazza! Pint?’ yelled Terry, his nasal whine table-sawing through the background noise of the bar. ‘You’ll never guess what one of the fucking phone monkeys has taken the day off for. Unbe-shitting-lievable.’

 

Barry Kelly was of Irish descent and his genes had conspired to sculpt a perfect and clichéd stereotype, throwing together unmanageable reddish brown hair, pale skin, freckles and green eyes; the penchant for drinking had been his own contribution and the filigree of burst capillaries that coloured his nose a faint purple, had been that of the drink. He hated Terry, but enjoyed Terry’s seemingly inexhaustible supplies of cocaine. He accepted the drink then raised an eyebrow, wearily inviting further exposition in the hope it would expedite a trip to the toilet cubicles. He was a local councillor, a frequent renter of male company and father of three.

 

‘The fucker said the world had ended. Can you believe it? I can’t stand the cunt, but that takes some balls.’

 

‘Seriously?’

 

Terry snorted with laughter. ‘Yeah, said he’d need a couple of days off to get over the shock. I’m not sure whether to fire the little prick or give him a raise.’

 

‘One of the better excuses I’ve heard,’ answered Barry, briefly distracted from future cocaine consumption.

 

# # #