A PHONE CALL

I return from the toilet. In the office, the phone is ringing loudly, penetrating the air, jarring againgst my ears. I take in the scene at a glance; nothing new here - just repetitions and slight variations of the same patterns I've been observing for months.

The off-white walls are blank except for a large year planner above my workstation and a tattered poster of Hulk Hogan which has been there forever. Pete is sitting on a stool, resting his bare foot against the desk. His shoe and a limp sock lie sadly on the floor. He is staring at his foot, wriggling his toes. Even from here, the stench of stale chip shop vinegar is insulting my nostrils.

'How long has that been ringing for?' I ask.

He jumps, turns to face me. He squints slightly; an eye is lost in the folds of flesh.

I repeat myself, shouting over the telephone. I walk over to it.

He shrugs, bends his knee and cups his foot in both hands. 'I dunno. Bound to be for you.'

I pick up the phone. It's CJ. He shouts at me. I mutter some pathetic apology; something about a late delivery. He shouts me down, talks over me.

The phone still to my ear, I watch Pete. He is picking at the sole of his foot with his fingernail. I wonder if he can actually hear any of CJ's words, if the tinny reproduction of that booming voice can be picked up from a distance. I hope not, for Pete's sake. Judging by the idiotic expression on his face, I doubt it.

Time passes. Eventually CJ finishes. I understand. I put the phone down.

'Look at this, Rob,' Pete says. He points at the sole of his foot. A large, circular, inflamed growth is visible. A bit of blood is coming out. It looks disgusting. I say so.

'What do you think it is?'

Reluctlantly, I look closer.

'I dunno, Pete. A verruca? You want to get that looked at.'

He grimaces and continues to pick at it.