LITMIR.BIZ

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then have sat through the usual summary of the work being done in each section (except by the special project director).

      “Brian is free,” Peaches said, “to see Alan about that other matter.”

      Alan flinched. Why would his first assistant secretary - or any first assistant secretary, for that matter – want to see him?

      The lavatory encounter between Quist and Hemingway, even if promptly reported by one or both, couldn’t already be known of by such a senior officer. After all, there were protocols to be complied with and procedures to be worked through.

      And, anyway, Quist surely wouldn’t have acted so precipitately to place his reputation at further risk … and Hemingway couldn’t have recanted so quickly his decision to not notify the appropriate authorities. But even if one or both had decided to bring their version(s) of the incident to the attention of Personnel and/or a Sexual Harassment Contact Officer, how could the matter have been reported, and then been discussed by Miserable and Brian Gulliver, in the brief time between Quist making good his escape and the commencement of the section heads’ meeting?

      Still further, why would anyone want to involve him, bearing in mind that he hadn’t actually seen anything, other than the aftermath of the alleged fracas?

      What, accordingly, could the first assistant secretary – who’d once been Alan’s (not very satisfactory) graduate assistant – want from him? None of the work done by Alan, in his capacity as a mere assistant director would normally have warranted discussion with anybody above the rank of assistant secretary, at best. And the catering arrangements for Gulliver’s annual “Senior Executive Only” Christmas party were usually communicated to Alan by an executive assistant; they hadn’t necessitated the direct involvement of the host, himself, for years.

      Maybe, though, Alan’s section was to be secretly quarantined from retrenchments, and Brian didn’t want the rest of the branch – meaning the journalists, with their ignorance of the filing essentials – to know. But if that was the case, surely Miserable, who evidently knew something about the reason for Alan’s summons, could have kept him back after the directors’ gathering to give him the news (and not have taken up Gulliver’s valuable time with such a trivial matter).

      Then a startling thought occurred to him: one so bizarre that he almost dismissed it from further consideration. He flipped it gently away to the periphery of his consciousness, as many as three additional times, before he accepted that resistance was futile and that he had no option but to think it possible that, in his final days – and as a way of softening the blow of early retirement – he was to be granted his heart’s most secret and cherished wish: he was, at last, to receive the Public Service Medal he’d so long thought himself deserving of.

      And hadn’t stranger things happened? Hadn’t so many of the unworthy been rewarded before him? Common sense told him, however, that the various approvals could not have been obtained in such a short time and that Gulliver’s reasons for seeing him were unlikely to be altruistic. Indeed, he was more likely to have been summoned so the first assistant secretary could witness the pain he (Alan) felt at the prospect of redundancy and at the orphaning of his committee. If that wasn't the case, his presence was probably required in the hope that he would shame himself by breaking down and begging for his job.

      “Yes, Alan,” said Miserable, “Brian requires your help with a little task.”

      Alan smiled wanly.

      “Off you go.”

      “You won’t be coming with me?” said Alan.

      Officers in the lower ranks, if involved in meetings with first assistant secretaries, were invariably silent onlookers or note takers, and never unchaperoned.

      “No, I’ve been fully briefed,” said Miserable, pointing towards the door. “Don’t keep Brian waiting.”

      All eyes were on Alan as he rose from the table. He left much as a junior boarder, summoned unexpectedly to the headmaster’s study at afternoon tea time, did i.e. with hopes of reward (perhaps a cup of tea and a Chelsea bun) but more realistic expectations of punishment (at least detention and certainly a thrashing).

      The directors watched him go and not one of them wished him – as someone momentarily in the spotlight – any good fortune.

      Chapter 7

      He stopped by the lavatories on his way to the lifts and was thankful not to encounter anyone seeking secrets or sympathy. Two floors above, he wasn’t required to wait. The executive assistant showed him straight into Brian Gulliver’s office, where Alan’s always sensitive nose detected the citrus and spicy lavender notes of Eau Savage.

      “Have a seat,” said the first assistant secretary, gesturing grandly towards a pair of chairs in front of a desk considerably larger than Marcus Mecklenburg’s.

      While Gulliver read something on his screen, Alan looked at the diplomas, awards and photographs on the walls and thought about the embarrassingly ordinary training certificates he’d have been forced to arrange around his lone testamur if promoted to high office.

      The fact that he’d not been awarded any secretary’s commendations for individual achievement, had never received team awards for completing important projects and hadn’t been seconded to elite task forces of any sort (let alone to foreign civil services or international administrative bodies) caused him to conclude with certainty that he wasn’t about to be quizzed about his readiness for honours.

      The undeniable truth – that he’d never been photographed receiving a plaque or a statuette from a dignitary, had never been granted a departmental scholarship for post-graduate study and had never been invited by relevant institutes or think tanks to share his thoughts on the future of public administration – also dashed his hopes of mercy measures to spare him redundancy.

      “All of that’s just ephemera,” said Gulliver, dropping into the chair beside Alan and peering through his horn-rimmed bifocals at a younger, blonder version of himself receiving something framed from a very important personage. “It’s relationships that are the crucial things.”

      “I suppose so,” said Alan, wondering whether Gulliver’s remark had been about the importance of family and friendships, or about the need for mentors, networks and alliances in the struggle for advancement. Either way, it seemed to him that he had precious little to boast about.

      “Anyway, how are you?” said the division head, flicking something invisible off one of his shoes.

      Alan wondered whether it was appropriate to admit his fears about the future. “I’m shaken, of course, by this morning’s announcements,” he replied.

      “You’ll find something to do with yourself, if matters can’t be fixed.”

      It was now clear to Alan that no special arrangements were to be made for him.

      “And not everything can be fixed. You know that.”

      “Yes,” said Alan.

      “And this is a great opportunity to rethink your life, find something you’re more suited for and take on new challenges.”

      Alan wanted to remind his one-time subordinate that public administration, as practised at the lower levels, was awash with challenges… and that, even at the outset of his career (with a second-class honours degree in classics and no ideas of his own) there was nothing he was more suited to or for. “I suppose so,” he said.

      “Truth be known, I envy you the opportunity to clear the decks and start afresh. I’d swap with you tomorrow.”

      But tomorrow, Alan mused, was always a day away.

      “And if, as I understand is the case, there have been changes to your domestic arrangements …”

      How news of the Monst’s escape had come to the attention of Gulliver was a mystery to Alan. First assistant secretaries were usually too busy for frivolous talk, other than with other senior officers or ministers and ministerial

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