Induction
by Paul Skelton
Adrian Brewer, a bachelor of some thirty-five
years of age, had got a new job at Kadditech Industries in Leeds. It was the
job of a lifetime, a huge leap from his previous job in London. The salary was
thirty-five percent higher, he would have a Range Rover Evoque company car,
BUPA private healthcare and a whopping final salary pension. Kadditech were
even prepared to set him up in an executive city apartment and contribute fifty
percent of the rental and service charges. The cream on the cake was that he
could choose his working hours to suit himself, work from home or from wherever
he wanted to be, at any time. There was, of course, a catch or two.
Firstly, whilst he had successfully got “the
job” following three interviews in London, no one would tell him what “the job”
actually demanded or entailed. That, it seemed, would be determined at
induction. All Adrian Brewer knew was that it would require all his I.T. Skills
and computer software design experience.
Secondly, it was made clear that with such a
generous package came huge commitment. For example, it was a job for life,
quite literally.
* * *
Adrian rose promptly at five-thirty a.m. to
catch the six-twenty to Leeds. Following his ablutions, he donned his white
button-down shirt, green paisley tie, grey pinstripe suit and black brogues. He
left the final rent cheque and keys for his digs on the old-fashioned telephone
table in the hallway. He then set off to the station at a brisk pace, carrying
his gaberdine raincoat and dragging his luggage. Once aboard the train, he
settled in a first-class cabin with his skinny latte coffee. During the
journey, having read an abandoned daily newspaper, Adrian Brewer nodded off. He
was rudely awakened by an irate ticket inspector at around eight-thirty.
“Ahem, we'll be in Leeds in about ten
minutes. May I see your ticket, please? I assume you have one? Heeeeee!”
the ticket inspector shrieked whilst Adrian Brewer fumbled through various
pockets.
“Um,
er, ah, here we are.” Adrian Brewer handed over the ticket.
“Thank
you, I must inspect it, you know. It's my job,” the inspector continued
officiously. “On your hols, are you? You know,” he said, winking, “holidays?
Hmmm?”
“Er, no, business.” Adrian Brewer’s head was
pounding.
“Really? What kind of business,
eh? Monkey business? Dirty business? Eh, eh? You can tell me, you know.”
“None of your business!” Adrian
Brewer managed to rant back.
“I see, sir. Well, here's your ticket back.
Have a nice time in Leeds, whatever your business is,” the
inspector said as he pushed his right hand down inside his uniform trousers,
and then proceeded to wiggle his forefinger through the button-up fly. As he
did so, he winked, stuck his tongue out and ran off down the carriage.
Adrian Brewer then alighted from the train
and made for the ticket office to make a formal complaint about the ticket
inspector. A very bored and monotonous sounding ticket office clerk pushed a
form towards him from behind the security glass.
“Complete the form and post it to the
address at the bottom, or you can go on-line at the web address and file your
complaint there.” The clerk yawned. “Of course, you must have the name of the
colleague you're complaining about, or it won't get processed. At all. Never .
. . ever. Okay?”
“Can't they work out who I'm complaining
about from the train I was on? There can only be one ticket inspector per
train, surely.”
“Sorry, sir, you'd think so, wouldn't you?
But there's lots of them. All over. They pick the train they want to work on,
at random. Next.”
As Adrian left the station. He lit a
cigarette just as a man approached him exhaling vapour from a highly perfumed E-cigarette.
“Tobacco? Ugh! Disgusting,” spat the
man, placing his E-cigarette in his jacket pocket. “Are you Adrian Brewer?”
“Yes, that's right.” Adrian coughed,
throwing the remains of his cigarette onto the street.
“That's littering, that is. Littering, Mister
Brewer. I'll have to note that down, I will. Well, I'm Gabriel. Gabriel
Thompson.”
“Oh, well, I was on my way to . . .”
“Ahem, that's right, you were on your way,
indeed. That's, himmmininn, why I'm here.”
“Oh, I see. Kadditech have sent you to
collect me. Very clever, I have to say, because I don't recall telling anyone
how I was travelling to Leeds today.”
“What? Heebeeb. Yes, I was sent to collect
you and take you to induction, so come along, Mister Brewer, follow me.” With
that, Gabriel Thompson seemed to melt away and disappear. Adrian looked around
him to try and see where Gabriel went, but he was nowhere to be seen. After a
few moments, he decided he would hail a cab and find his own way. After all, he
had the address of his intended destination. He successfully hailed a taxicab,
jumped in and was about to tell the driver where he wanted to go.
“Aha, Mister Brewer. I wondered where
you'd got to, hinnin. Now clunk click, and we'll get on our way.” The
driver, evidently, was Gabriel Thompson.
“You're a cab driver?” gasped Adrian.
“No Mister Brewer. Hinninin. I've borrowed
this taxi, the driver is a bit, aheeee, tied up.” Giggled Gabriel.
“Right!” Adrian fumed. “Stop this car,
now, and let me out. I've changed my mind. I don't want this position. I
don't wish to complete the induction, do you understand? Let me out, now.”
“Too late, Mister Brewer. Too late, I'm afraid,”
Gabriel said soothingly. Adrian noticed, for the first time, that his driver
was dressed in a pure white unblemished suit, and that his skin was unusually
pale with a waxy sheen to it. The car was accelerating rapidly, Adrian became
agitated and very nervous. Within a few moments, he passed out.
The next thing Adrian Brewer was conscious of
was walking into an entirely featureless white room. There were no door handles
or even visible gaps defining panels and doors. Ahead of him was another man
clad in white, with pale waxy skin, sat at a white desk with an object on it.
The object seemed familiar. Adrian was sure he had seen it before. As he
approached the desk the man in white looked up.
“Sit down, please, Brewer. I'm just uploading
your details now. Won't be long. I'm Peter Brook, your induction officer.”
Peter Brook virtually snarled the last bit as if his job-title held great
menace. “So, Brewer, you were born and baptised a Christian. A promising start,
yes. A fairly well adjusted and compliant child, excellent. From a decent
family .”
“Excuse me, Mister Brook, is this relevant?”
Adrian Brewer was experiencing some discomfort. He felt something here was not
quite right.
“Of course, it's relevant, Brewer.
After all, you'll be here a very long time.”
“Yes, I suppose that's true. Sorry.”
“Now, teenage years, oh dear. Promiscuous,
weren't you?”
“Well?” Adrian smiled. “I was young
and hot-blooded, know what I mean?”
“I see, no shame then. You realise that's a
cross on my checklist, don't you?”
“Why? I've had loads of girlfriends and
lovers all through my life, so what? I mean, how does that affect anything,
eh?”
“Brewer! Really! Are you trying
to fail? Now, try a bit harder, will you, please? Next, gambling, alcohol and a
flirtation with drugs, really? How do you atone for that, then?”
“Okay, the drugs were a mistake. I'm
clean now. You can test me if you like.”
“Really? That's good, Brewer. Yes, much
better. What about the wanton gambling, then, and the drinking, eh? Do you wish
to repent of those now for me?”
“NO! I bloody well don't.”
Adrian sounded outraged. “Look, I like a flutter here and there and a tipple
down the pub, where I can sometimes pick up girls. I don't hurt anyone, okay?”
“Brewer, I have almost all crosses,
where I should have ticks. The big boss doesn't expect saints at
this stage, that went out in the sixties. But he does expect a
repentant attitude amongst candidates.”
“What? For a bloody job? Are you kidding me,
Mister Brook? What about my qualifications, my experience and achievements? Do
they count for nothing?”
“Correct! They count for nothing, Brewer,
and now you keep swearing. It's as if you actually want . . .” Brooks was
interrupted by the sudden and violent vibration of the object. He picked it up
and spoke to it as if involved in a telephone conversation.
“Er, y-y-y-yes, sir. Ahem . . . Indeed, sir,
I am doing my best, but . . . please give me one more try, sir . . . No . . .
Yes . . . What if? . . . No, please, sir. Oh.” Brooks finished the
discussion abruptly, or rather it was stopped for him. He was now perspiring
heavily. He then addressed Adrian Brewer.
“This job used to be easy, Brewer. You
either were or you weren't, you see? Either you did or you
didn't.”
“Did or didn't?” Adrian repeated.
“Believe, Brewer . . . believe. But
then the pass rate went down, didn't it?” Adrian shrugged, and Brooks went on,
“So, the boss decided to embrace diversity. Yes, diversity. I've had all
sorts: Muslim, Jew, Sikh, Scientology, Wombles, Smurfs, Triads, and the list
goes on. Honestly, it's so confusing. Oh yes, and just as one masters the
skills required for that, He decides to be more inclusive. So, the net casts an
ever-wider field. Yes, I have to consider atheists as well, now. I used to have
good pass rates, Brewer. Now? Well you might as well know, I'm on a final
warning. You see my pass rates have declined, because, I'm told, I'm too strict
on the whole “born-again-Christ as saviour” bit. Huh! If I fail you, Brewer,
I'm in deep trouble.” Brooks ended tearfully.
“This is not about a job at Kadditech, is it?
This is something else entirely. Right where am I, and what exactly is
going on?”
“You don't know, Brewer? Oh, joy! Oh, praise
be. We still have a chance. Right, pay attention, Brewer. You, as an
Earthly being, died on a train. You are now facing final judgement. With
me so far?” Brewer nodded. “Good, so this is your final chance to repent on all
your sin and avoid the lift that only descends to the Vortex of Eternal Shame
& Flame.”
“Do you mean Hell?”
“Exactly so, Brewer. The pits of debauchery
itself, to be avoided at all costs.” Peter Brooks was brightening up now and
warming to his theme. “Yes, down there it's all sin and din, you know. The
habitat of reprobates, the cursed and the damned. A cacophony of “The Devil’s
Music”. Sex and depravity. Utter filth and disgraceful habits. You'd prefer
Heaven though, Brewer. Oh, yes, eternal bliss. It's all white, clean and
neat in there. Soft notes of harp and birdsong all day long. Yes, the days are
long, indeed. As long as you want them to be in fact. No squalid darkness
illuminated by flame in there, indeed not.”
“Did you mention devil’s music? I assume you
mean rock and roll?” Brewer asked.
“Oh, no, Brewer. I mean, yes, rock and roll is
devils’ music, if you can call it music at all. But I was forgetting you
were in a rock band, weren't you, playing that kind of hideous noise? Oh,
Brewer, please at least repent on that if nothing else now. I'm begging
you.”
“Wait a minute, Mister brook, are you saying
that old rockers go down?”
“Why, yes, of course they do.”
“Like Amy Winehouse and Janis Joplin?”
“Hussies,” spat Brooks.
“John Lennon, Keith Moon, Jim Morrison, Chris
Cornell, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain John Bonham and Lemmy?” continued Adrian.
“Yes, Brewer. Cursed, shamed and damned,
all of them. Plus, all manner of dictators, despots, madmen and criminals.
Although, they are under lock and key.”
“I see, Mister Brooks. So, what happens to you
if I don't repent? Eh?”
“Don't say that, please, Brewer.”
Brooks looked close to tears as he implored Adrian Brewer, and then the object
vibrated again. With a shriek of
despair, Brooks took hold of it and spoke into it.
“Oh,
er, hello, sir . . . what? . . . no, please . . . no, not that .
. . he hasn't said he won't repent on that, yet, sir . . . but . . . I
see.”
“Bad news, Mister brooks?”
“You've done it now, haven't you, Brewer.
Yes, I'm sacked, fired and dispensed with. I'm surplus to requirements. Not fit
for purpose. Redundant. Blamed and shamed, all at once. And it's down to
your stubbornness, Brewer. Well, you'd better come with me, come on. Bring the
object, will you?”
They walked down a long corridor, reaching a
featureless grey panel at the end. The panel evaporated before them, revealing
a cubicle. They both stepped inside. The panel then solidified again, and the
lift descended.
“Are you escorting me?” Adrian enquired.
“Not exactly, Brewer, no. You see, I'm
condemned along with you. I'm being cast into the Vortex of Eternal Shame &
Flame, as well.”
“Why are we bringing the object?”
Suddenly, Peter Brooks smiled. “Glad you asked,
Brewer. I'm returning it to John Bonham. He was the drummer with Led Zeppelin,
as I'm sure you know, and he forgot to take it with him when I condemned him to
Hell, you see. The object was made for the “Presence” album cover. It's of
great value. The boss won't be able to reach me through it now, of course.”
The lift came to a stop, and the grey panel
facing them dematerialised. Ahead of them was a provocative looking female in a
cat suit.
“Hello, boys. Do come with me,” she
purred. “We'll show you a really good time.”
Adrian looked at Peter. “I recognise you now,
Mister Brooks. You were that ticket inspector on that train, weren't you?”
“Yes. That's right, Brewer. Come on, we
can’t beat the system, so let’s join the eternal party! Yaheeeeeeeeee!”
THE
END
