FARAWAY

Musgrave is a slimy bastard and I hate him.  I watched as he minced towards the table I’d reserved for us, my body language open, a smile on my face.  I stood and grasped his limp, damp hand in my strong handshake; “Musgrave, old chap, good to see you!”

“Jarvis, my dear fellow!” he simpered, taking the seat opposite mine, “how are you?”
I didn’t answer his question, because the honest answer would be that the sight of his pale face and dead eyes made me sick.  We were social enough to order wine and sensible enough to make one glass last through the meal.  We discussed the company my bank was representing and the offer it was making to the organisation Musgrove stood for.  He made what should be a simple transaction difficult.

At the office I wrote a report and e-mailed it to Smeaton outlining the conditions that were likely to be accepted.  Smeaton marched into my office without knocking; “You’ve screwed up, Jarvis, there’s no way the client will accept this.  Go back to Musgrave and tell him he’s dreaming.  In fact, fuck it, Jarvis, as you’re so obviously incapable, I’ll do it.”

I stared at Smeaton’s florid complexion and pig ignorant stare, feeling bile rising inside me.  I wished he would drop dead of that heart attack everyone said was waiting to happen.

Thursday night in the City had lost its thrall for me.  I didn’t go to the pub with Smeaton and the rest of them afterwards.  Why should I when all they did was posture and belittle each other.  I went to the airport and took a flight to my most recent personal acquisition - a terraced fisherman’s cottage far from all of them, on a rugged, remote island a thousand miles from London.  Nothing would touch me there all weekend.  I’d have perfect solitude.  No limp handshakes, no arrogant stares, no aggression, just silence.  I felt myself relax as the plane took off.  I was leaving it all behind.

Friday I woke to silence, I breathed in the clean air coming in from the open window.  I stretched my tired limbs and hauled myself out of bed.  The quiet was eternal.  The landscape stretched away from my window as I pulled my curtains; rough grassland leading down to a turquoise sea.  The sun managed to break from the grey clouds.  Before I worked, I would go for a walk.  I dressed quickly and rushed out to my front door.  I opened it and stepped into the garden.  At the same time, I heard the door of the house next door and turned to greet my neighbour.  I stared at him for a full twenty seconds, then I smiled brightly; “Musgrave old chap, good to see you!”  In the garden opposite the large red faced man turned round and the look of horror on his face was quickly replaced by a grimace.  “Smeaton, dear fellow!” Musgrave and I chorused.