Free The Folded Man by Matt Hill Page B

opportunity, a kingmaker before him. But you know, lies aren’t becoming, Michael – that’s what our mam said. And my quarrel’s simple, really. Few lads saw you come in. Not talking them no-neck meatheads on door either. And these lads reckon he’s got a shop in your city. Pills and rest. Reckon he used to go ambient. Might still be freelance. Doesn’t care who he works for, does he? Council lads, council coppers. Lads in my industry. Decent CV by all accounts though.
    Brian’s wheelchair squeaks. Soft fibres crushed from left to right.
    I don’t know anything about that, says Brian.
    Course you don’t, son. But throw a cushion long enough, Michael, and the zip’ll hit someone in eye.
    I mean, I don’t get what you’re saying.
    Not saying a lot. Just wary of that cunt aren’t I? Enough that you both snuck your ways in here. Still. He’ll be wondering where you’ve got to.
    Brian nods.
    Expect he will. Anyone left to see out there?
    Ian looks at his watch. Taps it.
    Aye, a few, he says. Some enterprising bastard turning car plant machinery into walker tech. Ian plays his poker face. The hook, the line, the sinker.
    Really? says Brian, the reflex getting the better of him. So much so that for that split second, he thinks, Fuck Noah and Garland anyway.
    Ian reaches over the desk with a card.
    Take this with you. Want to talk to me again, call this number. It’s a redirect, so don’t be put off if it throws your call around a bit. Suffice to say I’ve had files wiped off that thing under your arse.
    Brian pockets the number. Rocks in his chair and turns clockwise. Tick tock. Time running slow, running thick.
    Oh, and wheels?
    Brian doesn’t turn back. He’s on the way from the room by this ramp. It’s dark out, now. Dark and grisly – the air gone wet.
    What would you have done, if you saw that sand-coon smiling at the end of our city’s tower?
    Brian stops. Thinks. Watches the dust roll across the floor.
    Why?
    Just want to know. That people-dust in your eyes. The smells. Your seven-year-old brother cut up and bleeding in your hands.
    Brian says, I would’ve done nothing. I wouldn’t have been able to reach.
    Â 
    Back in the house that Ian built. Into this home where you’re easily lost.
    Into a house of eyes – a room of seats and enduring stares. Down that central aisle. The hush loud while the man on stage rants and raves about this and that.
    Brian sees Noah back in his place. He stops short of his feet and whispers, Miss me?
    Noah ignores him. Brian stops still.
    Ships in the night, Brian says.
    Piss off, Noah goes. You’ve gone and diddled us. Told you to stay bloody put, didn’t I?
    There’s sweat on brows, on stage and off. Brian’s meat is burning with itches and stress. He should’ve remembered nylon mix never sits well over split skin.
    But they’re on to us. Have been since we got here –
    I know.
    They know about your council chums. Jobs you done. That Garland’s a lobbyist. And they’ve wiped our tape –
    I know. I know. Just shut up. Tell me what happened later.
    We should get off.
    No. Camera at one o’ clock. Don’t look at it you daft bastard. It’s aimed at the pair of us –
    Clapping explodes behind them. It rolls side to side, back to front.
    This last few and we’re out, says Noah, raising his voice now.
    A fat man lolls off stage to cheers and more.
    Just don’t leave my sight.
    Brian eyeballs his lap, his tie like a fat arrow to all that’s wrong.
    The clapping picks up again as there’s some introduction, some chatter.
    And on the stage, the staring man – the man from the toilet – walks out.
    Brian stares and stares and stares.
    Turns to Noah with, My days, that’s him.
    Hello, says the man above. Thanks. Thanks –
    It’s a pleasure, the man says, holding up his hands. Cheers. But you’ll stop