My psychological thriller Isolation (Crooked Cat Books) is released on the 24th January. To mark the release, I thought I'd write a little bit about the inspiration behind the novel itself. Like many writers, I often recycle ideas in both my shorter and longer fictional works. When writing Isolation, I revisited a story originally outlined years previous, drawing on a pretty harrowing employment experience. Like the novel's protagonist, Nigel Barrowman, I once held a low-ranking position in local government. Having never really seen myself working in an office, I found something very unsettling about that kind of environment, something almost Kafkaesque about filling a photocopier with fresh paper, dealing with all the different computerized systems, speaking to members of the public, team meetings, buzz words and management speak, interacting with reasonably vicious, perennially agitated colleagues. In what was one of my very first attempts at writing a novel, I tried to capture that sense of confusion, a young man thrown into a world of utmost normality which seems anything but normal to him. I wanted the main character in both books to be almost completely passive to his environment, the abuse he receives from irate members of the public, how he's lumbered with onerous tasks, passed over for promotions, treated like nothing more than a dog's-body.
Here's the first chapter from that long-forgotten
book:
Opening Chapter from Unpublished Novel The Clerk
1
R.'s early arrival infuriated the stout, grey-haired woman at the
main reception desk.
‘But your appointment isn’t scheduled for nearly
another hour!’
‘Sorry. I got the train here and, erm…came straight–’
‘Well, I don’t know, I’d better sign you in, I
s’pose. But let me tell you something for nothing, young man, June Forester is
a very busy lady, and you’ll just have to wait your turn.’
‘Oh, of course, I didn’t–’
‘Sign here.’ She pointed to a register open on her
desk. ‘And make sure you display this badge at all times.’ She handed him a
plastic visitor’s badge. ‘Room nineteen on the seventh floor.’
‘Thanks very much.’
She didn’t reply, just pointed in the direction of
the lifts.
As he walked away, R. heard her say to a colleague,
‘What a strange lad, Phyllis, coming in this early, I had a good mind to…’
After a slow clanking assent, the lift doors slid
open with a resounding ding. R. stepped out in to the harsh smell of
disinfectant. For the next few minutes, he wandered around the shiny-floored
corridors in confusion, as the room numbers seemed to stop at seventeen.
‘Excuse me,’ he called out to a skinny man in a
threadbare suit and bulky, orthopedic shoes.
‘Yes. How can I be of assistance?’
‘Sorry to bother you, but I was looking for room
nineteen.’
‘Ah, looking to get on the temporary register, eh?’
‘That’s right. But the room numbers seem to stop at–‘
‘Well, that’s because we have rooms inside rooms
here, you see.’
‘Rooms inside rooms?’
‘That’s right. If you take a seat over there.’ He
pointed to two chairs opposite a closed door. ‘Someone will be with you
shortly.’
‘Thanks very much for your help.’
‘No problem. And best of luck. Our June is good as
gold, you won’t go wrong with her.’
After a few minutes, the door to the room opposite
opened. A spotty girl in a gingham dress hurriedly exited, followed by a tall
woman with a severe bobbed haircut and who wore a navy-blue trouser suit, the
sharp lines of both delineating her businesslike, if somewhat agitated
demeanour.
‘Thanks for coming in,’ she shouted after the girl.
‘We’ll be in touch.’
The girl, head lowered, sucking back tears, vanished
around the corner in the direction of the lifts.
The tall woman turned and saw R. for the first time.
‘Who are you?’
‘R. I’ve got an appointment here this morning.’
‘R.! But I’m not expecting you for another three
quarters of an hour! I’ve got two more people down on my list before I see
you.’
‘Yes, sorry about that. I…the train and–’
‘We designate specific interview slots of a prearranged
duration toward effective management of our time. You early birds make a
mockery of the system.’ She scowled and put her hands on her hips. ‘Well,
you’re here now, so you’ll just have to sit through there and wait.’ She
pointed to an interior space–a room inside a room–and re-entered the adjoining
office, shaking her head.
As he took a seat, R. peered into the room directly
opposite. Through the half-open door he could see a man with a pony-tail, his
light-brown cowboy boots up on a desk. He had a large hunting knife in his hand
and was intently sharpening a pencil. On the desktop were hundreds of other
pencils, collected into neat piles.
Forty-five minutes later, June Forester poked her
head back inside the room inside a room.
‘Right, R. Chop-chop. We’re ready for you now.’
She ushered him into a small annexed space that
housed a table and chair, and laid two pieces of paper on the tabletop.
‘Did you bring your own writing materials?’ she
asked.
‘Er, no, sorry, I didn’t realize that–’
‘Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to lend you something
from my own personal stationery supplies.’ She handed him a black Biro. ‘Right.
You have thirty minutes to complete these two tests, nothing too taxing, I
assure you. Any questions before you begin?’
R. shook his head.
‘Okay, then, see you in half an
hour.’
Half an hour later, he walked out of the room.
‘Thanks very much for coming in,’ said June Forester.
‘We’ll be in touch.’
As he passed the other office, R. glimpsed the same
cowboy boots up on the table, and the same hunting knife in a hand still
sharpening pencils.
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