Corporate Bodies (5 page)

He looked disconsolately round the empty warehouse. Through the windows of the ground-level office he could see Dayna and Heather involved in inaudible conversation.

A childish temptation gnawed at him. He moved back to the forklift truck and sat in it. Loaded shelves meant that he was out of sight of the office.

Really would be fun to make the lift work, wouldn't it? Raise and lower a pallet . . .? Even see if he could pick one up perhaps . . .

He turned the key in the ignition. The engine started. He reached for the lifting controls.

But no. That was being stupid. Could easily cause a lot of damage. Press that ‘Quick Release' button by mistake and you could send a whole pallet's load smashing down. Be your age, Charles Paris. (‘Forty-eight, but play younger.')

Reluctantly, he switched the ignition off and got down from the truck.

Just as well, really. The girl Dayna was coming out of the office. If she saw what he was up to, she'd think he was out of his mind.

She didn't seem aware of his presence, but stood irresolute by the door. The room inside was empty. Heather must have retreated to her inner office.

Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Charles moved silently out of the warehouse, in search of the staff canteen.

Outside, he met Trevor who, with his habitual surliness, directed Charles Paris towards the delights of Rissoles and Spotted Dick.

IN THE EVENT, he went for the Steak Pie and Jam Roly-Poly, impassively served from behind heated counters by hard-faced women in pale blue housecoats. The vegetables suffered from that sogginess endemic to British institutional food (and rather too much British restaurant food), but otherwise the meal tasted all right. And the prices were amazingly low. Delmoleen subsidised its employees' eating generously.

Any sneaking hope he had had that the canteen might be licensed was quickly dispelled, and, to his amazement, Charles found himself ordering a cup of tea with his lunch. It must have been the influence of the environment, and perhaps his costume, as his actor's instinct slotted him instantly into the role he was playing. Cup of tea, dollop of gelatinous custard . . . it made him feel as if he was back in one of those early sixties plays of social realism, something like Wesker's
Chips with Everything
(‘The effeteness of Charles Paris's performance left me suspecting that the RAF would have turned him down on medical grounds' –
The Huddersfield Examiner
).

Still, he thought piously, good thing not to be drinking at lunchtime – although the righteous sensation of having satisfactorily finished his day's work deserved the reward of a quick one.

But no, it was good. Too few lunchtimes passed these days unassisted by drink. To have abstinence forced on him like this gave Charles the reassuring feeling that he wasn't an alcoholic. He could take it or leave it . . .

He would rather
take
it, obviously, but at least he wasn't chemically dependant . . .

Or probably wasn't.

He tried to put from his mind the image of Will Parton and Griff Merricks downing glasses of wine in the Executive dining room, and comforted himself with the promise of a large Bell's when he got back to his bedsitter in Hereford Road.

The canteen offered him the same measure of conviviality as it did of alcohol. Since he didn't know anyone there, he had hardly expected a hearty welcome and cheery hands waving him over to join tables, but he was surprised by the positive antipathy that exuded from the Delmoleen employees.

He was recognised as an outsider – probably the unfamiliar overalls didn't help – and as such he was suspect. While he looked around for a seat, he was first briefly scrutinised by the other diners and then pointedly ignored. Finally finding an empty table piled high with the detritus of earlier lunches, he sat down and ate his meal as quickly as possible.

He had finished inside ten minutes and it still wasn't one o'clock. He wandered outside the canteen. Knots of Delmoleen workers stood around smoking and chatting. Over on a bit of open ground an improvised game of football was under way. The only acknowledgement Charles's presence received was the odd deterrent stare.

He wondered at first if they could recognise him as an actor and were showing the traditional reaction to ‘bleeding fairies'. But there was no way anyone could know his profession. Maybe they suspected him of being a management spy, a time and motion consultant. But that too was nonsense. No, he finally decided that he was incurring resentment simply because he was unfamiliar.

It wasn't a pleasant sensation, though. Charles felt tempted just to leave, catch a train, go home. Griff Merricks had said he only needed the few extra shots for editing and those were done.

On the other hand, in the pre-lunch confusion, Charles hadn't actually been granted an official release. And directors were notorious for changing their minds after a couple of drinks. Charles had been booked for the full day and his professionalism told him that he shouldn't leave until Griff Merricks gave him formal permission. The daily rate he was being paid was quite impressive, and Charles didn't want to screw up the chances of further work in this lucrative area by being absent when needed.

He contemplated finding a local pub to pass the next hour. But he hadn't seen any when he arrived at the station, and no doubt if there was one around, it would be just another outpost of the Delmoleen resentment of strangers.

Disconsolately, but vigorously, as if his movement had some purpose, Charles strode back towards the warehouse. He'd left his raincoat there, apart from anything else. And in his raincoat pocket was a potential lifesaver. Not, he reflected virtuously – if a little wistfully – a half-bottle of Bell's, but something much more wholesome – a copy of
Persuasion
. He did find rereading Jane Austen every few years wonderfully therapeutic.

As he entered the warehouse, the huge space was very still.

But it was not completely silent. From somewhere in the distant stacks Charles could hear the hum of an electric motor.

He moved towards the source of the sound.

It was in the aisle they had used for the filming. Where he had left his forklift truck, a pile of loose cartons, fallen from a shelf above, lay scattered on the ground. The truck itself had moved forward and was embedded into the pile of empty pallets which stood against the wall at the end of the aisle. Its engine still protested as it pressed against the slowly splintering wood.

Charles tried to work out what could have happened. If the ignition had been left switched on and the motor running, it was just possible, given the looseness of the gear lever, that one of the falling cartons could have knocked it and engaged the engine. Then the truck would have moved forward.

But that did assume that the motor had been left running.

And Charles knew he had switched the ignition off.

It was as he had this thought that he heard the other sound.

Lower than the mechanical hum of the forklift engine, and more human.

He moved forward, suddenly panicked.

Yes, through the slats of the pallets, slumped against the foot of the wall, he could see a human shape.

The moaning was ominously low and feeble.

Charles Paris leapt into the seat of the forklift and pulled the gear lever into reverse. The truck jerked back, dragging some of the pallets with it. Others toppled noisily to the ground.

Charles disengaged the gear and switched off the ignition.

Then he tugged at the heavy pile of pallets to clear them from the wall. His hands snagged on the rough wood. He was aware of splinters digging in, but felt no pain.

As he pulled back the last obstruction, the moaning was interrupted by a little gasp, almost a sigh of pain.

Charles looked down into the space he had cleared.

The limbs lay at odd angles, unnaturally compacted against the wall.

The shallow rasp of breathing could still just be heard from the crushed body, but blood trickled from the nose and mouth, indicating severe internal injury.

It was the girl, Dayna.

HE LOOKED around for help, but there was no one else in the warehouse. The girl was unconscious and looked ghastly, but vague recollections of the basic principles of first aid told Charles he shouldn't move an injured person. He'd just have to leave her and go for help.

He hurried up the aisle to the office at the back. There was no one in the outer room. He knocked on the interconnecting door and moved through into the inner office.

Brian Tressider and Heather looked up with surprise at his entrance, but without embarrassment. Nothing untoward had been going on, and indeed looking at the two of them – he wirily elegant, she frankly frumpy – it was an unlikely thought that anything might have been. She sat at her desk, an opened but untouched packet of sandwiches in front of her. He stood at the other side of the room.

The Managing Director cocked an interrogative eyebrow at Charles.

‘There's been an accident. It's dreadful. In the warehouse. We need an ambulance.'

‘What's happened? Who's been hurt?'

‘Dayna.'

It seemed to Charles that, at the mention of the name, Heather searched Brian Tressider's face for some reaction. What she was expecting was hard to judge, but, whatever it was, the craggy face remained impassive.

‘Get on to Security, Heather. And Personnel. They'll have a contact for her parents or next-of-kin. And find Alan Hibbert – quickly!'

‘Yes, Brian.'

‘I think you should call an ambulance first.'

Charles's suggestion was rewarded by a flash of anger from the Managing Director's grey eyes. ‘Security will do that.' Brian Tressider didn't take kindly to being told how to run his company.

Just as she reached for the receiver, the telephone on Heather's desk rang. She picked it up. ‘Oh, Mother, what is it
now
? Well, it is a bad moment. We've got an emergency on and . . .'

Brian indicated the door. ‘Show me,' he commanded.

Charles Paris ushered him through the offices to the warehouse, and down the aisle to where the girl lay. Her breathing seemed even weaker. The pool of blood from mouth and nostrils was spreading ominously.

Brian Tressider showed no emotion. ‘Did the pallets fall on her?'

‘No, the forklift had somehow started and pushed them against her. I moved the truck back.'

The Managing Director gave a curt nod. ‘Industrial accidents are buggers. Last thing you want in a place like this.' He looked back up the aisle to the scattered cartons. ‘Those must've fallen and knocked the truck into gear.'

‘Does that really seem likely?' asked Charles.

The flinty grey stare was turned on him. ‘Well, I can't think what else happened, can you?'

‘Just seems a coincidence. Anyway, somebody must've left the truck switched on.'

Brian Tressider shrugged. ‘Happens all the time. Trucks keep having to be recharged when they shouldn't because some idiot's left them running. Dozy lot of buggers you get in a place like this.'

‘But presumably you will investigate to find out who did leave it switched on?'

‘Yes, we'll investigate.' His voice didn't express much confidence in the efficacy of the procedure. ‘They'll all deny they were the last ones to touch it.'

‘I think
I
was the last one to touch it. You know, in the filming.' This prompted another sharp stare. ‘Then I'd bloody well keep quiet about it, if I were you.'

‘But I know I left it switched off.'

‘Yes, I'm sure you did.' The scepticism in the tone was undisguised. Though he might not have used the expression ‘bleeding fairies', Brian Tressider clearly shared the common prejudice against the theatrical profession.

He looked down at the injured girl and pursed his lips with annoyance. ‘Why people can't just do what they're meant to do I'll never understand. Most industrial accidents occur because people are where they shouldn't be, or doing what they're not meant to be doing.'

‘Well, what do you think she was doing behind the pallets?'

This got another shrug. Such speculation apparently held no interest for Brian Tressider.

They heard hurried footsteps and turned to see Alan Hibbert approaching. The Warehouse Manager took in the scene instantly.

‘Shit,' he said softly.

‘Yes. Shit,' Brian concurred. ‘Is the nurse on her way from Surgery.'

A nod. ‘And they've called an ambulance. She's still alive, isn't she?'

‘At the moment. Not looking too good, though. Maybe we should put a blanket over her or something?'

The Warehouse Manager found a blanket and gently covered the still form. ‘Silly girl. She was a right little mixer, B.T.. Always poking her nose into things that weren't her business.'

Again the Managing Director didn't seem interested. The girl's behaviour was irrelevant. It was the inconvenience of the accident that seemed to preoccupy him. ‘Have to do a full report, Alan, won't we . . .'

The Warehouse Manager caught the slight interrogative inflection at the end of this. ‘Sorry. No way round it. I must get on the blower to the Environmental Health Department straight away.'

‘I'd hold fire till she's been moved to the hospital, if I were you,' said Brian Tressider.

Alan Hibbert looked at his boss in some surprise. Despite the softness of tone in which they had been spoken, the words had been not a suggestion, but an order.

The warehouse staff who'd been involved in the video and the film crew who had made it were assembled in Heather's back office an hour later for a debriefing from their Managing Director.

‘Listen, we're all obviously very upset about what's happened and I hope it's reinforced to the lot of you working in this warehouse just how seriously the safety regulations have to be followed. Now of course we're going to have an internal investigation to find out exactly how the accident came about and to make sure that this kind of thing can't happen again . . . isn't that right, Alan?'