Page 45 of Don't Point at the Moon

“Of course. And you both have more important things. Give him my best when you see him.”

“I’ll let him know you called.”

“Thank you. And take care.”

After ending the call, he took a few breaths, squeezed his eyes shut and leant back into Helen’s plush chair. People close to himhad worse problems than his own. Even though he felt no better, he decided to finish and leave the office. Closing the spreadsheet file and folder, he shut down the computer and left Pauline’s keyboard, mousemat and calendar squared off how she liked things.

As an observer in meetings with her, he had learnt that there was no point arguing a critical decision she had made. In some elemental way, he felt a sense of closure, and was no longer tethered by the inertia of living under the illusion or hope that he might be asked to remain. At least now he knew the truth and could finally plan his future.

His phone buzzed with a message.

Zane:Super dope group. Two hours to go. Finish by six-ish. Taking us for drinks and snacks after. Wanna come join?

Mitchell felt sure he would not be good company. And he did not want to spoil Zane’s fun.

Mitchell:Best decline. Feeling a little tired. But you go. Can you find your own way home?

Zane:Of course. Sure you won’t come? Tommy’s here.

Mitchell:Not today. Takeout food okay tonight? Pizza, maybe? My treat.

Zane:Cool.

After running through permutations of the tone of Zane’s last word in his head, he began feeding sheets of confidential papers into the industrial-sized shredder. The final thing Pauline had asked him to do was to unplug and hide away her coffee machine in a cupboard. She preached clear desks to her staff, and having the machine on display sent the wrong message. Most likely she didn’t want anyone else being tempted to use the device while she was away. The unit wasn’t hefty, but he first knelt onthe floor and opened the cupboard doors beneath the device to check for space.

Apart from the perfect area to store the machine, all manner of colourful bottles of spirits, wines, beers and mixers filled the cupboard. Peppered in a light coating of dust, many looked like they had never seen the light of day. On the rare occasion when the department had done something exceptional or the bank had performed above expectation, she would invite staff to her office for an hour of after-work drinks and stilted conversations. He could count those occasions on one hand, which was why he had forgotten about her stockpile. After fitting the coffee machine into place, he began to close the doors.

And stopped.

Sensible Mitchell would have left things alone, locked up and headed home. But reasonable Mitchell had gone to a quiet corner of his head for a well-earned sulk.

Didn’t he deserve a consoling drink after sacrificing his afternoon and learning about his worth to the company? Nobody would be any the wiser, would they? And who would even know, especially if he took something from the back of the cupboard?

Crouching down, he reached in and brought out an opened bottle of something called Baxter Whisky—surely a sign. The label announced a twenty-five-year-old malt, whatever that meant. He was not a whisky drinker. But his brother-in-law drank the stuff and swore that anyone who added ice or any kind of mixer to a malt whisky should immediately have their drink confiscated—along with a list of other punishments too painful to mention.

After staring at the amber contents for a few seconds, he leant over, grabbed the empty shop-bought cardboard coffee cup from the waste bin, popped off the lid and poured in the remains of the whisky almost to the top.

What harm could one drink do?

Chapter Twelve

At the end of rehearsals, when the first live performance date was in sight, those participating rarely rushed to go home. Tommy had seen the effect countless times. Adrenaline, combined with excitement, had everyone buzzed. A little like when his school soccer team won a challenging game against another school.

But the gym needed clearing and to be made ready for the school day, so he and Shelly put their teacher’s hats on and instructed everyone to stop chatting and help put things away. After that, they decided to head to Tommy’s regular haunt on Wyndham Street, the café where he’d met Devon and Aaron the day before. Had the weather remained rough, they’d have phoned for taxis, but the rains had finally stopped, and even with the pavements steaming in the cloying humidity, they chose to walk.

“Your boy’s a star,” said Shelly as they strolled arm in arm down the hill towards the entertainment district. “Not only likeable, but he knows his way around a stage.”

“He’s not my boy—he’s the nephew of a friend—but I know what you mean,” he said. Ahead of them, Zane chatted to a small group, two boys and one girl around his age, occasionally laughing together.

“Is he into one of them?”

“No idea. He’s only just met them.”

“Only takes a minute. Young love. Melts the heart, doesn’t it?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“Have you never been in love?”

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