Free Bright Spark by Gavin Smith

stray nasal hair twitching, lustrous and stiff as
wire wool, as he exhaled with a snort that might have been laughter.
           “Rob,
looks like I’m tutoring you again,” said Biddle. “I bet you thought you’d seen
the back of me, an’ all.”
           Harkness
nodded to the two bosses, both of whom ignored him, their attention fixed on
the policy log, already up to five pages in Newbould’s flowery longhand. He led
Biddle into the main office where the phone on his desk had just stopped
ringing.
           “Looks
like someone was trying to get hold of you there, Rob. You always were a bit
difficult to reach.”
           Harkness
gestured to a chair near his own. Biddle grinned, strolled past it, rotated the
executive chair and lowered himself into it.
           “I
think you’ll find that’s my chair now, Ron,” said Harkness, voice as neutral as
he could make it. “Some stains on there of sentimental value to me.”
           “Sorry,
Rob.” Biddle stood, hands raised in mock surrender. “Forgot how much you liked
your own space. We can’t all be team players.”
           Harkness
dropped into his chair, tweaked a lever to change the incline by a millimetre
or two and it was his again. He was conscious of the weariness seeping into his
head like an anaesthetic, drawing in his horizons, blurring connections, making
insight more and more difficult. His heart was thumping against his ribs and
adrenaline wanted to make all the decisions; perhaps he should let it.
           “Give
me a clue then, Ron. Why have we been saddled with each other?”
           “Steady
on, Rob. Anyone might think you weren’t pleased to see your old mentor.”
           Harkness
drew in a deep breath and wished it was being filtered through a cigarette.
           “You
and your moods, Rob. Well, the boss heard there was some danger of you screwing
this one up with your erratic working practices and asked me to come and lend
you a guiding hand. I never mind a bit of OT and you know I’m fond of you, so
I’m here to help.”
           “And?”
           “And
nothing. Just think of me as the stabilisers on your new bike.”
           “Not
the wind beneath my wings?”
           “I
forgot how good you were at naming that tune.”
           “Well,
Ron,” said Harkness, propping his feet on the table after double-checking that
the cleaner had left. “I haven’t forgotten much. While the office is empty and
we’re both behaving like grown-ups, I should point out that I’m not happy to
see you. You made my life miserable when I was too new and dumb to kick off
about it. I’m still not sure why and I doubt you know yourself. Maybe it’s
because I’m younger and prettier than you.
    “Now,
I know you and Brennan drink, play golf and do Lord knows what else together,
which means I’m stuck with you. But if you go out of your way to botch this up
for me, I’ll walk off it and I’ll tell the boss why.”
           “You’ve
changed, Rob.” Biddle hooked a finger under his collar and pulled it away from
his bobbing Adam’s apple. “Looks like you’ve grown a pair. I always thought you
were harmless enough. Just a shame you never really joined the gang. Always
hard to know whose side you’re on.”
           “Right
now, my own. Do you need more foreplay or should we crack on with a bit of
work?”
     
     
     
           Biddle
had accepted the offer of a milky coffee, three sugars, but had insisted on
counting out the exact price of 31 pence. Harkness had left his jacket and tie
draped over his chair and slipped his mobile phone and a notebook into a
pocket. He announced an urgent and potentially prolonged visit to the gents and
left Biddle squinting at his spider’s web of notes.
           Harkness
descended to the basement, passing the armoury where a sharp crackle, a tang of
ozone and a grunt of satisfaction suggested early