GOOD MORNING

I have to get up at half past three every day in order to be at work for half past four. This ordeal, terrible as it seemed at first, has become easier and, of course, pales in comarison with the suffering experienced by the victims of Stalin's gulag system, or indeed those of the Rwandan genocide.

With Pete's help, I have to lift and arrange huge bundles of newspapers which will then be put into vans and delivered to various outlets in and around the city centre. Sometimes, amidst the soupy cotton wool fuzz of the morning, and somewhat stultified by the routine, I question the validity of the whole exercise. I wonder if it really matters if the public find out which cunt's been knocked out of Big Brother or which violent terrorist organisation has been voted into power in Palestine. What would happen if I just chucked the whole lot into the Trent?

I become less tired, more aware and substantially more annoyed when Vince, the MSR driver, turns up and engages in 'banter' with Pete. He stopped trying to discuss his limited range of topics with me months ago.

As I watch him, his scrawny, tatooed arms and shaven cranium, I feel every fibre in my body tense with hatred. I barely manage to control myself as he starts to laugh, and I get a detailed view of blackened molars and holes where incisors should be. He tips his head back for a particularly raucous round of laughter and I get a glimpse of his eyes, usually hidden by purple-tinted specs. Dead fish eyes, staring uncomprehendingly, uncaringly at a dead, grey world.

Pete also seems to be enjoying himself.

I can't stand it any longer. I get up out of my seat. I'm going to see CJ.

N

If I am not completely mistaken, that moon-faced mongol is flirting with her. And there's another issue here too - why is she over in our part of the warehouse so often? There's absolutely no need for her to be here except . . . well the stark reality is just too dreadful to contemplate.

They are lunching together. She: pasta salad with an identifiable Asda logo on the lid. He: jammie dodgers and a can of Red Bull. I'm sitting at the computer with the publications list open at 'N' in front of me. News of the World. Nexus. Nuts. My brie and redcurrant sandwich is lying, slightly compressed on the work surface.

SMITTEN MIT DEM KITTENS

Gott ist unsre Sonn und Schild! Darum rühmet dessen Güte Unser dankbares Gemüte, Die er für sein Häuflein hegt. Denn er will uns ferner schützen, Ob die Feinde Pfeile schnitzen Und ein Lästerhund gleich billt.
3. ChoralFlauto traverso I/II e Oboe I/II e Violino I col Soprano, Violino II coll'Alto, Viola col Tenore, Corno I/II, Timpani, Continuo

Nun danket alle GottMit Herzen, Mund und Händen,Der große Dinge tutAn uns und allen Enden,Der uns von MutterleibUnd Kindesbeinen anUnzählig viel zugutUnd noch itzund getan.
4. Recitativo BContinuo

Gottlob, wir wissenDen rechten Weg zur Seligkeit;Denn, Jesu, du hast ihn uns durch dein Wort gewiesen,Drum bleibt dein Name jederzeit gepriesen.Weil aber viele nochZu dieser ZeitAn fremdem JochAus Blindheit ziehen müssen,Ach! so erbarme dichAuch ihrer gnädiglich,Dass sie den rechten Weg erkennenUnd dich bloß ihren Mittler nennen.
5. Aria (Duetto) S BViolino I/II all' unisono, Continuo

Gott, ach Gott, verlass die DeinenNimmermehr!Laß dein Wort uns helle scheinen;Obgleich sehrWider uns die Feinde toben,So soll unser Mund dich loben.

LUNCH

I am tying up a large bundle of newspapers which will eventually be sent back, unsold to Lumoco Printers Ltd. I find the experience a cathartic one. I can drift off and think about other things. It's like tying up a big birthday present. I enjoy the feeling of the rough twine, running through my hands.

Pete is a few feet away, sitting on the work bench. He is eating a Pot Noodle. I am pleased to report that, because of the hypnotic effect of the twine and the bundle, I can barely hear his slurping and masticating. Barely. I have decided not to tell Pete about the phone call I received yesterday. CJ wants me to fire Pete. I am not so sure that this is a good idea.

With a deft movement, I turn the bundle over and finish off the final knot. We have a machine to do this now, but I prefer to use my hands. I feel my muscles tense against the weight. It pays to be strong in this job.

I do not get the chance to start eating my sandwich immediately because Janet from the Listergate Depot walks in. Everything stops. I feel uncofortable, embarrassed, but I can't move or speak. Though I'm not looking at him, I imagine Pete is in exactly the same position, mouth agape, a forkful of dripping noodles suspended above their container.

'Alex told me to pass you this,' she says. She is standing in the centre of the room, a bored look on her face. She passes me a delivery positioning chit. I am aware that my hand shakes slightly as I take it from her. Instantly regretting the involuntary action, I lick my lips.

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.

EYES

Pete's eyes are watching me as I type this. For twenty minutes, the room has been silent except for the sound of him turning the pages of Mayfair and the furious 180 w.p.m. beat of my typing. Now he is staring at me and the room is filled with oppression.

I will continue to type. I will ignore him. And yet, each time I pause, each time I think about what to write, I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my head. Out of the corner of my own eye, I can see his stupid wide face. His ridiculous beard.

I have worked with Pete for six months now and I imagine that I have witnessed pretty much all that his domed cranium has to offer.

I use him as my donkey, making him haul the bundles of papers and magazines to the appropriate bays of the warehouse. I take a special kind of pleasure in watching him load up the vans. This is what my years of knowledge and experience have given me: the right to order a massive fat twat about.

'Have a look at this, Rob,' he says. He hands me the magazine, a wide, dirty index finger pointing roughly towards the image he wants me to look at. I notice, without much emotion, that he has torn a page. The magazine will have to be discarded, placed on the spoilage list.

Next, I turn my attention to the picture. It is on the 'Readers' Wives' page. There is something vaguely familiar about her. I think it's the hair - a dirty blonde colour, hanging in thick trands, framing the pale vacancy of her face. I stare coldly at her dangling udders, at the unsavoury mess between her legs which she is displaying with such a lack of care. Her name at the top of the picture drives sparks of recognition into my brain.

'It's Janet from the Listergate Depot, isn't it?' Pete asks.

I look again, more closely, trying to imagine the eyes which are concealed behind the black bar covering her face. And I realise that Pete's right. It is her. It's definitely her.

Wordlessly, I pass him the magazine and turn back to the computer. Amid the sparks, I still continue to see the image of Janet's flaccid, fleshy body. It haunts me. I rub my eyes.