Page 4 of The Wish
Ian clearly chooses not to notice the sarcasm. ‘I need you to go to the Children’s Hospital tomorrow at three. You’ll meet a social worker there named, um, um . . . what’s her name?’
‘I don’t know, Ian, how could I?’
‘Kelly, that’s it. Kelly something or other. I’m sure it doesn’t matter, there can only be one social worker named Kelly. Anyway, she’s got a kid there, a young girl, who wants her own video experience to be customised for her family. Apparently, she’s really sick.’
‘Whoa, wait up a minute, what are you talking about?’
‘You need to listen, enough joking around. Frank, the man who pays your wages—’
‘And yours,’ Alex throws in.
Alex’s words make Ian pause for a second. He hates being reminded that he’s the boss’s son-in-law, and Alex knows it.
‘Frank got a call from a pal of his who knows the head of the local Inspire a Wish Foundation, asking us to help this kid out with a one-off video experience. Well, as you can imagine, Frank sees the chance for some positive PR for a change, instead of all this whining about how we’re poisoning the minds of children. I got the word from Frank: make it happen and put your best designer on it. And Frank, not to mention my lovely wife, Cheryl, won’t be pleased if we let him down.’
‘Ah ha. So obviously you’re asking your best designer. The one with the biggest workload. Ask Steve, he’s got kids, he’ll be better at this.’
On the other side of the wall that divides their cubicles, Steve instinctively hunches down to make himself invisible. Alex registers this and sighs. It was worth a try.
‘Sadly, you and I, as well as every other designer here, know you’re the only one with full knowledge of 3D CGI. Frank wants the best; Frank asked for you. I told him that you would grumble every step of the way, but he wouldn’t listen. Case closed as far as he’s concerned. Three o’clock tomorrow. The Children’s Hospital. Social worker. I told you her name.’
‘And if I don’t do it?’
‘If you were bothered to look up occasionally from your millennial bubble, you’ll see that business has been tough lately – mess up an opportunity for good PR like this and you’re putting all your colleagues’ jobs at risk. But yours would probably be the first to go.’
Alex and Ian lock eyes for a moment. Alex breaks contact and looks around the room. One by one his colleagues silently nod at him before looking away. No pressure, mate, they’re all thinking. Take this one for the team. Everyone knows TriOptics needs a lucky break right now.
‘Three o’clock tomorrow,’ Ian repeats. ‘Don’t be late,’ he throws at Alex as he walks away.
Steve gets up slowly and walks around to Alex’s cubicle. He’s the father of two young children, and Alex is sure that the thought of a very ill young girl at the Children’s Hospital fills him with horror.
‘Sorry, mate, you know how he is when his father-in-law tells him to do something.’
‘Yeah, it’s “how high do you want me to jump, Frank, what can I do to please you, Frank”.’
‘I gotta say, that’s a tough gig . . .’ Steve shakes his head. ‘For a dad, a parent, that’s the kind of thing you hope you never have to deal with. Might be easier on you, you know . . .’
Alex sighs. He knows Steve means well, but it’s hard not to react to the underlying suggestion that he doesn’t have a family to care about.
‘We’ll all help out if you need it.’ Steve calls out to the others in the room, ‘Won’t we? People? Are you with me? We’ve got Alex’s back?’
The mutterings of support, eyes still firmly on screens, don’t fill Alex with confidence.
One by one, Alex’s co-workers power down their computers. Around the crowded room screens flicker as slowly, individually and in small groups, they leave for the evening, laughing and chatting, calling out goodnight to Alex and telling him – as they do every night – not to stay late. The last to leave flicks off the main overhead lights, leaving the windowless room in semi-darkness except for the myriad of screens that surround Alex, illuminating him and casting a colourful glow.
Finally, Alex stands, stretches and looks around, realising everyone has left, yet again. He’s been distracted all day, his focus gone since his conversation with Ian.
‘No point staying here,’ he says to himself.
Powering down his machines, he retrieves his motorbike helmet from under his desk, grabs his leather jacket from the back of his chair and struggles into it as he passes the helmet from one hand to the other. His mood is dark, his anger at being given an assignment out of the office hangs over him, and he hates the way that Ian chose to do it in front of everyone, making it impossible for him to say no. He’s never been keen on socialising, he likes the work he does, squirrelled away at the end of the long room where he can ignore others and be largely ignored in return.
As Alex leaves the basement car park he is surprised by the strong sunshine outside. He’s used to driving home much later, in the dark. His ride takes longer than usual, which doesn’t improve his mood as he’s driving through peak-hour traffic. Another reason to stay behind.
Turning into his street, a suburban cul-de-sac, his neighbours’ kids’ bikes and skateboards left outside in front gardens and basketball hoops sagging above garage doors, he slows down, never knowing when a child might run across the street on their way home for dinner after a play date. He arrives at his neat townhouse, the grass perfectly manicured from kerb to building, no flowers or bushes to worry about, the drive leading to the garage, where his ageing car waits for his bike to join it. He hits the remote, entering without needing to stop. His home is Alex’s one luxury – that and his motorbike. A Ducati Panigale he spent a year saving for, now his pride and joy.
He is paid very well at TriOptic Studios, something that leaves him more anxious than satisfied. This is the first time in his entire life that he’s had a proper home, a place that’s his, safe, where he can’t be moved on from at short notice. Everything in his home is as he likes it: minimalist, clean, and all his. Growing up in the foster system, passed from one home to another, drovehim to work and save, craving the security of a place of his own. The threat Ian made of him losing his job – and therefore his security – triggered Alex in a way that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. Alex’s childhood was far from picture-perfect. He was healthy, sure, but he was lonely, finding consolation and companionship in the games he played online, none of his carers pestered him with ‘too much screen time’, ‘you’ll get square eyes’ comments he’d heard other kids repeat from their parents. He wishes someone had cared about him the way people seem to be caring about this sick kid. That’s not her fault, he knows that. Still, it’s hard not to feel resentful of other people’s supportive families. Leaving his helmet on the bike seat, Alex enters the house from the internal door. Before he can call out, he is greeted by a large golden retriever who jumps up for his usual hug.
‘Hey, Max, how was your day, buddy? Same old, same old, huh? Me too. Well, not quite, I’ll tell you about it later.’
