'Are you coming out on Friday, Phil?'

Phil looked up from his computer screen. His colleague Callum hovered by his desk, slurping tea from a chipped Manchester City mug. It took Phil a second to recall what was happening on Friday. Their colleague, Mike, was turning thirty so a night out had been arranged. The birthday night out had been excitedly talked about in the fortnight since.

‘Mike’s do?’ Phil said. ‘I’m not sure what I’m doing.’

The textbook answer was one of those standard office replies that meant you didn’t really want to go. The other popular refusal was I think I’m busy. That line came in handy for introverts and those that simply hated their colleagues but were too polite to say. That got them off the hook. And it avoided office beef too, because, after all, who was to say it wasn’t true. On this occasion, Callum, with the persistence of a door to door salesman, refused to take no for an answer. Phil sighed. He should have played the old I’ve got family visiting card while he’d had the chance.

‘Come on, Phil. It’s Mike’s thirtieth. It’s going to be amazing. Everyone is going.’

‘I dunno.’

‘You are coming, okay? I’ll buy you a pint.’

‘Okay.’ Phil shrugged.

As the week wore on Callum and the rest of those playing out on Friday night grew more and more excited. There was endless chatter about what they were going to wear, which bars they would go to, for which cocktails, and who would drink who under the table.

By Friday afternoon the office workers were as excited as six-year-olds preparing for a birthday party. Phil simply went along with it all. With all the giddiness going on, he tried to focus on his end of week reports. When he was roped into a debate about if Dave and Moira were going to have another drunken smooch, he merely made the right noises. Most of his colleagues were going, even his manager Tony. This man, Tony Adams, was famous for having no sense of humour, and even less personality. He would often email his team from his mobile phone during the night. His workers would have whispered discussions the next day, grumbling about the point of sending a mail at that time of night when there was nobody in the office to action it for hours. Why pass on a request for back-up documents at three am?

Tony had been asked along out of politeness and management deference. When he had said he would go, as Mike was a bloody good worker, ripples of surprise and disappointment went around the office. Every employee hoped they were not the poor soul lumbered with Tony all evening. As someone put it, a night out with him would be like one long meeting.

At home time Friday most of the female members of staff retreated to the ladies toilets to get changed and sort out their hair and make up. As Phil shrugged into a fresh shirt and pair of jeans it occurred to him how much easier it was for most men to get ready.

Tony appeared wearing a dark polo-necked jumper and his thick dark hair slicked even more than usual. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the evening ahead. To Phil’s surprise almost all the company would be out for the evening. The works do’s were notorious for colleagues getting together and slating those not present. Phil had heard someone comment this week that their reason for going on the night out was so that they were not the target of the gossip and criticism.

Phil followed his colleagues into the busy bar. Most of his workmates were now barely recognisable having transformed themselves into magazine-cover versions of the people they were at the office. Tony crossed the room doing a cheesy John Travolta-style dance in time with the pulsing dance music. Birthday boy Mike caught Phil’s eye and nodding to their manager, Tony, gave a rude gesture. Phil laughed and gave a thumbs-up. People shouted to each other, struggling to be heard over the throbbing music. The air was thick with expensive after-shave and perfume, and the tang of sweet alcoholic drinks. Phil pushed through the throng and headed to the bar.

Having been served and paying over a fiver for a pint of lager, Phil joined the rest of his workmates. They had all congregated in one corner of the bar. Some standing, while others had managed to grab a chair, or perched on armrests. The group huddled and squeezed together like commuters on the rush-hour train home.

They downed their overpriced drinks and exchanged jokes, anecdotes and stories. Because of the music blaring out the group quickly formed pockets of two’s and three’s as they laughed and joked and said things they normally wouldn’t dare say in the sober, restricted confines of the office. Phil found himself sandwiched between to of his workmates who were having an in-depth discussion on the latest instalment of a superhero film franchise. Phil listened as best he could, trying to keep up with the conversation. Tom and Keith were analysing film scenes the way university students studied Shakespeare’s sonnets. He wondered if, in a century’s time. There would be classrooms studying classic literature about a boy wizard written way back in the 1990s.

As the evening wore on and the lager flowed, Phil could feel the beer affecting him. He always found that drinking was like walking a tightrope. There was that perfect, sweet stage, where he was relaxed enough to make small talk and tell the odd joke. If he carried on drinking and got swept along by the atmosphere and celebration, then he would end up making an idiot of himself and would inevitably wake up with the dreaded ‘beer fear’ the following morning.

He downed the last of his pint and headed for the bar.

The barman slid his pint over. As Phil took a swig he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see his manager, Tony Adams grinning at him. His boss had a squiffy, far-away look in his eye. Phil swore under his breath.

‘Well done on the Millican account, by the way.’ Tony slurred.

‘Yeah, cheers.’ Phil muttered.

Phil hurriedly retreated to the group. He hoped that when Tony returned with his drink he would find another victim to smarm with his patter.

The night and the drinking wore on.

By ten o’clock the whole group was wasted. Anyone who had plans for the following morning, or who did not intend on drinking themselves into oblivion, had headed for home. The group’s numbers had depleted but the volume had been cranked up. Crammed together around tables, in the corner of the club, the remaining co-workers were now engrossed in slurred, wandering conversations that nobody was quite following.

The guy next to Phil was telling him a long-winded tale. The supposedly-true story concerned a short feller getting on a bus and being mistaken for a child. I’m forty-two the guy had apparently fumed to the bus driver before storming down the bus. Phil forced a chuckle. He heard his colleagues on the next table telling jokes about dead celebrities. Each gag was followed by cackling, shrieking laughter. Phil ducked to avoid the ice cubes thrown at him. The guy facing him, a stocky lad who worked on transport, grinned at his own hilarity.

‘I didn’t ask for ice.’ Phil waved his glass.

His colleague guffawed, spilling his own drink down the front of his shirt.

Phil looked around at his workmates. He himself was completely drunk and everyone else was further down that road than even he was. They were twisted, distorted versions of their nine-to-five selves. One guy who was painfully shy in the office was telling anyone within shouting distance about his experience with a Blackpool sex-worker on a stag do weekend.

Phil went to the bar for another pint. When he returned two women were having a heated argument over a text message one of them had sent. They were each starting their sentences with I’m not being funny, but, and followed that by being downright rude. Tony was lecturing one of the lads on how Brexit would affect the business.

Later.

Phil was on his own sipping at yet another pint when Callum flopped down on the chair beside him. They stared out across the dimly lit club at the dancefloor. Callum pointed a finger. Phil noticed Tony amongst the crowd.

‘Look at him.’ Callum said. ‘I hate him.’

Tony was deep in conversation with a pretty brunette who was much younger than him. He was in the process of handing her his business card.

‘Anyone else would just text them their number.’ said Phil.

‘He can’t switch off the smarm. Always spouting the managerial guff that impresses nobody.’

‘He really does think he’s something else.’ Phil agreed.

‘He thinks he’s better than us plebs. He needs knocking off that high horse. Did I tell you how he really dropped me in it last week?’ asked Callum.

‘Really?’

‘Aye, there was a mix up with the deliveries out in South Africa. Nobody’s fault. And that snake went straight to head office. Proper grassed me up.’

Phil shook his head in disgust. On the dancefloor the brunette was laughing in something Tony was whispering in her ear.

As the night went on, more and more people drifted away, staggering off into the night in search of kebabs and a taxi home.

Callum gave Phil a nudge.

‘Fancy calling for one in the Boat House?’

‘I’m plastered, mate.’ Phil replied. ‘I really should get off.’

‘But?’ Callum grinned.

‘But, yeah, one more wont hurt.’

They pushed through the crowd heading for the door. Phil had one hand on the door handle when he heard a voice.

‘Alright, lads? You getting off?’

Phil’s heart sank. Tony bounded towards them like a puppy who’d been left home alone all day. Before he could say a word, or motion to Callum to say nothing about going for a pint, Callum drunkenly blurted out the truth.

‘Yeah, we’re stopping off at the Boat House for a pint.’

‘Mind me tagging along? asked Tony.

And so the three of them trudged across the dark city streets, heading for a quiet pint in the Boat House pub.

As they went through the door Phil smiled. This was more like it. This was what they needed A pub. Not a bar, no music, no dancefloor, definitely no karaoke. There was a bar along one side of the wood-panelled room. A few of the round tables were taken up with drinkers. The fixtures and fittings looked like they dated back to the Victorian era, and so did the clientele. Phi’s fashion sense was firmly stuck in the Nineteen Nineties but the old fellers drinking in the Boat seemed planted much earlier in the last century. They wore long coats, and flat caps. Their caps were old men’s flat caps, not the foppish designer ones sported by young trendies who learned history from period TV dramas.

Tony drummed his fingers on the bar top.

‘How about a whiskey to kick-start this party?’ he boomed.

Phil sighed. Why did he have to speak in such an affected way? He nodded, yes to the whiskey though. Callum had a glint of mischief in his eye.

‘Are you buying?’ Callum asked.

Tony waved his gleaming gold credit card to summon the middle-aged, bored barmaid.

The three pints of lager and three whiskey chasers were lined up in front of them. Phil, Tony and Callum reached for the whiskey glasses. In unison they downed the shots of fiery liquor, wincing as it burned their throat.

Phil rolled over in bed and sighed. The hangover kicked in a moment before he opened his eyes. The daylight spilling through the curtains made him wince. The room shook and rocked as though his bed was a dinghy on a stormy ocean. He took a deep breath.

As he lay in bed, clinging to the duvet as though that would stop the swell of his bed room, he tried to recall the events of the night before. He breathed slowly, in and out, counting as he did. He could have done with a glass of water but he was in no condition to move just yet. Maybe in a little while. He nestled his head deeper in the thick pillow. His mind went back to those childhood days when a bug had laid him up. He had taken to his bed and felt quite similar to the way he did now.

His mind wandered like a television set being flicked across dozens of channels. Snapshots of old friends, holiday meals in a sunny climate, walking the dog in Worsley Woods, a TV sit come from the Seventies. Random images drifted through his mind. How much had he had to drink last night? He tried again to remember what had happened later in the evening. How had he got home? Tram? Train? Taxi? Had he gone old-school and spent the last of his cash on beer and walked home? No idea. He recalled the noisy bars of the city, recalled telling some offensive jokes and telling some home truths to more than one of his workmates. Oh yeah, he and Callum had wanted a quiet pint. The Boat House. Of course. And as they were leaving, Tony had collared them and tagged along.

They had been the noisiest group in the quiet, cosy pub. There had been pints of lager and shots of whiskey and goodness knew what else.

Phil spent the next few hours drifting in and out of sleep. Every time he rolled over and opened his eyes he felt a little bit better. Thank goodness he had no plans today.

Eventually, at some point mid-afternoon, he had recovered enough to get out of bed. He braced himself with the nervousness and dread of somebody making their first sky-dive. He forced himself to sit up. He nodded as the sea on which his bed was sailing was calmer now, just a gentle rocking sensation. He gently slid off the bed.

Having thrown a dressing gown around him and stepped into his slippers, he trudged downstairs. He went into the living room and yanked open the curtains. Daylight filled the room, spilling across the wooden laminate floor. He shook his head in confusion. The floor was covered in dirty footprints. It looked like a football team had been cleaning their dirty boots in the rom. Cleaning up the mess would have to wait. First thing he needed a cup of tea.

The kitchen was in its usual state, the sink piled high with a hodgepodge of kitchen utensils,. cutlery and crockery and pans. He would dump the stuff in the dishwasher at some point.

As he flicked the kettle on he noticed the dirt under his fingernails. Just what had happened last night? Maybe he had hiked across the county to get home. Maybe the trek had caused the mess in the living room and the muck under his nails.

He took his cup of tea and returned to the living room. He flopped on the sofa and switched on the television. On screen a TV chef was making a complicated recipe look as easy to make as beans on toast. Phil had a sudden sharp flashback to the events of the night before.

Phil, Callum and Tony downed yet another shot of brightly-coloured liquor. The conversation was becoming increasingly heated. Drink had swept away the niceties of earlier, leaving a surface as sharp as barbed wire. The three of them were talking over each other, not listening, concentrating only on the point they were trying to make.

Phil couldn’t recall what the three of them had been arguing about. Had it been work? Politics? Tony was famous for his right-wing, self-centred views, and he managed his team in the same fashion.

Finally the three of them spilled out of the pub and out onto the street. As they walked through the city streets the angry debates continued.

Tony had been arrogantly pontificating as they staggered along. Phil said nothing, trotted along beside them. Callum had been protesting strongly to the Tory guff that his manager spouted.

The images came back to Phil’s hung-over mind like the main feature at the Odeon. Callum raged at Tony, demanding to know just who on earth he thought he was. Tony had given a smarmy shrug and told him to wind his neck in.

And on down the dark streets they went.

On the less-than-salubrious side of the Northern Quarter, Callum turned down a narrow side street. The back street didn’t look wide enough for a scooter, nevermind a car. The orange streetlight glow barely penetrated the darkness. Phil and Tony stopped.

‘Are you sure this is the way to Victoria station?’ Tony asked.

Phil was about to add that he too had lost his bearing when it happened. What little light there was in the alley reflected on the kitchen knife that had suddenly appeared in Callum’s hand.

Recollecting the scenes from his morning-after sofa, Phil felt sick.

In the grim midnight, backstreet setting, the kitchen knife seemed far from domestic. There and then it was a deadly weapon. The look on Callum’s face said this was no practical joke.

‘What are you doing?’ Phil yelled.

In a blurred frenzy Callum attacked his manager. Tony screamed and cried as Callum set about him with the blade. Phil was rooted to the spot in drunken disbelief. By the time he pulled his colleague off his victim, Tony was lying lifeless in the gutter.

Phil rocked forward on his sofa. Had that really happened? Was he recalling a dream? He was tempted to call Callum and ask if what he was remembering had actually happened. Surely it had to be a bad dream caused by too much booze. It just had to be.

The doubt that it was true stopped him making the call. Something else also made him hold off. He did not want to have his fears confirmed. If he did not know for certain, then there was a chance it may not have happened. If he made the call, and it had happened, then he would have the doubt, and his world, shattered.

Was all this in his head? Was it all part of the hangover? He had never experienced anything like this. Mind you, he had not been that drunk in a very long time.

He was sure he’d get to work next week and find Tony there, as infuriating as ever. It had to have been a dream. He said the words out loud, had to be. He gave himself a reassuring nod. He would put it out of his mind.

On the Monday morning drive to work he listened to a middle-of-the-road radio station. He made the change from his usual rock station. He hummed along to the sedate pop tunes and, in his head, went over his work for that week.

His heart sank when he pulled into the carpark and spotted Tony’s front row parking spot was empty. Surely not, he whispered. He climbed out of his car and walked quickly across the car park. With a feeling of dread, he swiped his ID card and went into the office.

As he threw his coat on the back of his chair he nodded to Tony’s office.

‘No Tony today?’ he asked the guy who sat facing him.

‘He’s emailed to say he’s working away this week.’

Thank goodness. Phil felt waves of relief wash over him. So it had all been some weird dream brought on by the booze. Now we really could put the whole thing behind him. He smiled to himself and got stuck into his work.

By lunchtime Phil was feeling almost back to normal. The office always proved to be a good distraction from whatever was on his mind. Every time the horrid dream came to mind he would tell himself that everything was fine and that Tony was working away.

Phil popped outside for a cigarette. As he took his first drag, Callum appeared beside him. He hovered at his elbow, pale and jittery.

‘I think we’ll get away with it.’ he said, his voice quiet and urgent.

‘What?’

‘Tony.’

‘He’s working away.’ Phil insisted. ‘He sent an email.’

‘That was me. I logged into his account.’

Phil was too stunned to speak.

‘By the way,’ Callum said. ‘what did you do with the knife?’

With sickening clarity Phil remembered seeing a knife in the kitchen sink that did not belong to him.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom