Short Story Saturday: Induction by guest author Paul Skelton

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