Minions (21 page)

“Fair enough.”  Devlin arranged his questions into a
logical sequence, starting with the most pressing first, in case he got cut
short.  “I got a message that said it was too late for me.”

“Is there a question for me then?”

“Am I in danger?”

“Everyone’s in danger.  Crossing the road can be
dangerous.”

Devlin sighed.  “OK then.  Am I in danger from my work at
LastGasp’?”

“No,” Whitely answered with barely any interest. 

“Are the others dead as a result of LastGasp’?”

“Yes,” Whitely was playful.  “And no.”

“Are you going to explain?”

“You’ve got to ask the right questions.  If it teaches you
anything, LastGasp’ needs to teach you that.”

“Why did David die?”

“I’m assuming we’re talking about David Yeardley.” 
Whitely was visibly saddened.  “He wouldn’t be the first.  And chances are he won’t
be the last.  Next question.”

“So was it actually suicide?”

“With the caveat that I haven’t seen the Police report, it
probably was.  If you’re implying that he might not have died at his own hand,
I’d suggest you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“So why would he do it?”

“Do what?  Specifics please, or I can’t help.”

“Why would he kill himself?”

Whitely sighed, “Don’t underestimate the power of guilt as
a motivator.”

“What was he guilty of?”

“I don’t know.  Who says the guilt is his.”

“So what killed the other LastGasp’ employees?”

“Who said they were killed?  A lot of us, most of us, are
still alive and kicking.”

Devlin sighed while his stress heightened again after a
temporary reprieve.  “How many of them are dead then?”

“That’s hardly relevant.”

“Why not?” Devlin challenged.

“It’s not relevant because you don’t give a fuck.  Why
would you care how many died?”

“My next question was going to be …”

“Your next question should be dependent on your evolving
understanding.  That said, I sincerely doubt you could have a relevant question
prepared.”  Whitely was strangely incensed.  “If I said 10, that means nothing
just as if I’d said 100.  Neither would contribute to your understanding.  If
LastGasp’ employed one thousand people, over a period of time some will die of
natural causes, in car accidents, whatever.  So what does a simple count of the
number that have died tell you?”

“Not a lot.”

“And don’t bother wasting my time asking
how
they
died.  That’s not relevant either.  I won’t pander to any morbid fascination
that anyone might have.  I’ll help you out though, because I’m that kind of
guy.”

“Thank-you.”  Devlin waited for Whitely to say something
pertinent that wouldn’t make him feel like a ten year old in trouble. 

“Don’t thank me until I actually do something for you.” 

“Why did you leave?”  As soon as he’d asked it, Devlin
knew that the question had found its mark.  He watched as Whitely, previously
arrogantly comfortable in his chair began to squirm.

“I had a life changing experience.  The details of which
are either personal or a matter of public record.  After that, I didn’t feel
like working, or being with people either for that matter.  I bought this
house, cash of course, thanks to the money Glen gave me, and that’s it.  And
clearly I’m still alive.”

“How long have you known Glen for?”

“Does
that
matter?”

“Just curious is all.”

“I’ve been waiting for years to be put out of my misery.” 
Whitely’s tone was angry.  “Good enough answer for you?”

Devlin looked around the room once more, as much a
distraction from Whitely’s intermittent looks, as he marvelled how anyone would
live amid such filth.  While he hated himself for thinking it, he figured that
much of the damage outside the house could reasonably have been a series of
hints from neighbours interested in their own property values.  Perhaps Whitely
was the quintessential neighbour from hell. 

There were no clues in the room as to why Whitely would
live as he did, or to explain his facial wounds.  It was not a human way to
live.  He recalled seeing commercials and documentaries about unfortunates from
the third world living in rubbish dumps, but to the best of his memory those
people would still have a ‘home’ than was devoid of waste, as much as
possible.  Whitely on the other hand seemed willing to live surrounded by
rubbish of all descriptions.  His injuries obviously contributed to the waste. 
There were bloodied tissues around the room, but they were certainly more
prevalent within what amounted to tissue throwing range from Whitely’s
armchair.  On some the blood was still an off red colour, on others the colour
had dried to a dark magenta, on still others they were near black, but on all
there was no mistaking the source.  The volume on each was another matter
entirely, easier to quantify, but more difficult to qualify.  Devlin figured
that the tissues had been used for more than a shaving cut, but less than a
gunshot wound.  He appreciated that there was a large grey area in between, and
this made him look for fitting wounds all the more.  Judging by the sheer
volume of frozen meal containers scattered everywhere, rodent bites, or
possibly dysentery, would be understandable.  Once again Devlin had a closer
look at the wounds on Whitely’s face.

Devlin tried to think of more polite questions than the
most obvious ones, but the longer he tried, the more reasonable they seemed.  He
convinced himself that asking anything would be acceptable, particularly as his
visit was sanctioned by Glen.  The worst that could happen would be that
Whitely would put him in his place.  He could at least try to ask the impolite
questions politely.

“Whitely, why do you live like this?”

The question didn’t appear to fluster Whitely.  “Now
that
is none of your business.”

“Well, I tend to think that it is,” Devlin got brave. 
“I’m looking at you and wondering if I’m looking at myself in the future if, or
when, I leave LastGasp’.  You live in shit and someone, or a lot of people,
hate you.  So what’s your story?”

“My story is exactly that. 
My
Story.  None of your
business.  Suffice to say that my story was decided long before I left LastGasp’”

“But …”

“How about you shut-up for a bit and let me tell you some
things,” Whitely interrupted.  “I can’t and won’t speak for the others, but
Glen didn’t make me who, or what I am.  Neither did LastGasp’.  That much I did
myself.”  His tone softened, as if there was a certain catharsis in talking. 
“I understand your concern, but I can’t say you have nothing to fear.  The
worst thing is that the things that I can tell you will only heighten your
anxiety.

“Perhaps it would help if you knew that I don’t think
you’ll end up like me.  I have my regrets, but regret doesn’t change what’s
happened.  I live like I do because I don’t care.”  Whitely looked weary. 
“It’s a funny thing.  Do you think that suicide is brave?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Sure you have.  But anyway.  Whether out of bravery or
cowardice, I couldn’t do anything about it myself.  So I’m still here.  I spend
each day waiting, but nothing ever happens.”

“That doesn’t explain your face.”

“It’s the face I was born with.  But sadly I still have to
look at myself in the mirror.  A lesser person might not look in the mirror,
but that didn’t seem right.  I guess it’s part of my absolution.  My way, I get
a reminder every time I see my reflection.  It doesn’t help the time pass any
faster, but it helps me focus as the hours and days roll on.”

Devlin thought about what he’d just heard.  If he
understood correctly, Whitely’s injuries were self-inflicted.  He couldn’t
think of an appropriate comment on the matter. 

Whitely revealed a contented grin, but as the grin
broadened further, several ill-healed wounds on his forehead ruptured,
releasing a trickle of fresh blood.  He relaxed his face to a more comfortable
vacant expression and reached for another handful of tissues.  “So what are you
going to do now?” he asked, partially muffled through some tissues.

“I guess I’ll have a chat to someone else on Glen’s
list.” 

“They won’t tell you any more, or less, than me.  Unless
you find Malcolm Venn.”

“Why?” 

Devlin scanned Glen’s list for the name.  He was on his
third pass before Whitely commented.  “He won’t be on your list because Glen
doesn’t know where he is.  Glen wouldn’t want him found either.”

“So how do I find him?”

“I would have thought a more logical question would be ‘
who
is he?’”

“OK.  So
who
is he then?”

“If you can find him, and that’s a reasonably big ‘
if
’,
he might make a lot of things clearer.  I might add that you won’t be the first
to look for him, and you won’t be the only one.”

“So what’s so special about Malcolm?”

“How can I put this simply?”  Whitely feigned a pensive
expression, immediately regretting doing so and grabbing another handful of
tissues.  “Ok, how’s this.  You’re a
reader
, and you
read
.  You
only read.  Malcolm is a lot less passive.”  Whitely smiled, quietly satisfied he’d
made his point as clearly as he was going to make it.  “On your way out, can I
ask
you
a few questions.”  Whitely made it clear that their meeting was
effectively over. 

“But …”

“First question,” Whitely began, interrupting.  “Where
does Glen live?”

Devlin accepted that the question was a little odd, but he
gave Whitely some latitude.  “I’m pretty sure he lives on the top floor of
LastGasp’, or at least a room there somewhere.  I don’t rightly know really. 
From all accounts he doesn’t sleep much anyway.” 

“Next question.  Where and when did you meet him?”

Again, Devlin marvelled at why Whitely considered these
mundane questions to be necessary.  “I met him on a train, a few days ago.  We
started talking, he gave me his card, and later that day I called him and he
offered me a job.” 

“Interesting,” Whitely replied succinctly, disinterested. 
He took up his remote control but stopped short of using it.  “One more thing,
Devlin.  Only knowledge comes with death’s release.  Don’t confuse knowledge
with truth.  Remember that.”

Devlin couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at the obscurity
of the comment.

“Goodbye, Devlin.”  Whitely turned on the television and
started cycling through the channels.  As a final parting gesture, he farted.

Devlin took the hint.  He navigated his way through the
dark corridor and into the bright sunshine. 

Only after his first breaths of fresh air did he realise
just how bad Whitely’s home, his living room in particular, actually smelled. 
On entry, his many breaths walking slowly along the hallway had gradually
introduced him to the pungency, but with his faster exit, the freshness of the
dew heavy air was all the more noticeable.  He scratched his hair
sub-consciously just thinking about the way Whitely lived.

                                                                                                                                                        
Chapter - 42.
               
 

At the first traffic light, Devlin checked the
glove-compartment and console for some air freshener.  He still had a bad taste
in his mouth from Whitely’s house and while he knew that it would pass, he
wasn’t prepared to wait.  The odour in Ikel’s car was nowhere near as over-powering
as he remembered, in comparison at least, but surely Ikel would have
something.  He found some car deodorant and sprayed it liberally on both the
car interior and himself. 

He reached for Glen’s list looking for the next
ex-employee to visit.  Whitely’s words about the limited value of visiting the
others were loud in his mind, and he lost interest in any other impromptu
visits.  He pondered the rest of what Whitely had said, and in particular, he
thought about his last questions.  Even in hindsight, the questions were
pointless.  Whitely clearly had a long history with Glen, and as he rarely, if
ever, ventured out of the house, then surely he was beyond the need for the
mundane banter that Devlin’s answers clearly constituted.  Unless, he thought,
Whitely was genuinely interested in what he’d said, despite his apparent
disinterest.  He thought over his replies again, obsessing that it was he who’d
missed the point.  The traffic light changed and in an instant Devlin had an
epiphany.  Whitely had asked the questions not for himself, but instead to
subtly make a point. 
If Glen lived and worked at LastGasp’, then why would
he be on a morning suburban peak hour train?
  Devlin suddenly doubted that
their meeting was purely one of chance. 

Five minutes passed, then ten and Devlin was no closer to
being able to understand either
what
was happening or
why
it was
happening.  Most importantly, he couldn’t understand where he himself fitted
into the situation.  He tried to consider himself as just a casual passer-by,
and one who could easily move on and forget about it all.  Whether he was
willing to turn his back on the money, legal money, on offer from Glen was
another matter entirely.  Whether he fully understood why or not, deep down he
knew that he was involved in some way.  More importantly, the messages that
he’d been sent, conceivably from his stolen phone, and the information from
Conrad told him enough to know that he couldn’t walk away.

Devlin started to fidget, anxious for his own well-being. 
He considered his options, superficially at first, and then with increasing
granularity, weighing up the potential upside and downsides of each.  Leaving
LastGasp’, possibly without a word to anyone, was a very reasonable option.  If
he was truly
that
fearful, then it was possibly the only option. 
However, the fact that he had nothing
definitive
to actually be fearful
of made him look further into other courses of action.  His concerns were
logical, but only circumstantially.  The messages themselves meant nothing, but
suggested a great deal.  The death of David and possibly others did not
constitute a legitimate threat to himself, particularly when he was still to
confirm anything that Conrad had said.  For all he knew, he could well have
been played by Conrad, and Whitely, and even Glen for that matter.  Being
honest with himself, he knew that he was prepared to discount this avenue
because of his reluctance to leave LastGasp’, but he was content just to have
identified it as an option.