Nothing like the present

William Jones sat at his desk, fingering the well-worn wallet of business cards for the last time.

    No more need for these, he thought as he leaned forward across the desk and attempted to throw the wallet into the waste bin on the other side of the room. His considerable paunch stuck painfully into the edge of the desk, disturbing his aim.  The wallet flopped off the grey wall next to the bin and onto the carpet to join the cardboard and wrapping paper from the brand-new laptop the company had given him as a leaving present. He sighed – he could see no need for spreadsheets in his uncertain future. Nor for the bright red poinsettia his secretary had given him as a memento of their years together.

    He ignored the mess on the floor and opened the single drawer of his desk.  Inside there were three bottles.  Several years ago, he had bought the first - an expensive auburn hair dye.  It had stemmed the advancing grey for a while, but as his hair thinned and receded, he resorted with increasing desperation, but decreasing success, to the second bottle – a preparation labelled ‘Harry’s Hirsute Hair Restorer’.  Realising eventually that was not going to work either, he had turned to the third bottle – indeed, one of many third bottles, mostly of cheap whiskey, but sometimes of vodka or even brandy when he could afford it.  He lifted this last bottle up to the light, but it was empty.  This disappointment was sufficiently deep to stir him into action, and he rose and walked to the filing cabinet.  Breathing hard, he bent over and rummaged in the bottom drawer, eventually locating a new but final, unopened bottle of whiskey.  He grunted with satisfaction. As he straightened up, his eye caught the already withering poinsettia on the top of the cabinet, and he realised how desperately they both needed a drink.

    Removing first the newspaper wrapping he had used to disguise the bottle when he had brought it into the building and then twisting the cap off, he returned to his desk and took a long swig. That hit’s the spot, he said, wondering who he was talking to. Maybe it was the poinsettia. Warming to his theme, he said: You get your own drink, buddy – we all have to look after ourselves in this God forsaken world. The poinsettia seemed to nod, its leaves drooping a little farther. After a couple more swigs he felt a little better. Not optimistic but at least interested enough to glance over the ads in the discarded newspaper wrappings. Maybe there would be something there that could fund his next bottle of whiskey. Fat chance, he thought as he ran his eye down a list of janitorial, burger flipping and shelf stacking opportunities. At the bottom of the page, one item caught his attention:

Get away with Murder:

Want to make millions by becoming a best-selling author? Want to write a murder mystery that will knock readers dead? Learn how to plot a murder most horrid and develop your writing to create maximum suspense. Free course for new talent – applicants must have no previous experience, but all course fees will be paid, plus a living bursary. To apply submit 1000 words of your own writing depicting the opening scene of a murder story.

    That sounded a lot more fun than stacking shelves in the local Tesco’s. He reached for the laptop. Perhaps it would be some use after all. After taking a couple more swigs, he started typing:

William Jones sat at his desk, fingering the well-worn wallet of business cards for the last time. No more need for these, he thought as he leaned forward across the desk and attempted to throw the wallet into the waste bin on the other side of the room. Soon he would be a free man. But he had one more thing to do before he could go home. He picked up the red poinsettia that had been a retirement present from his secretary and positioned himself behind the office door. The poinsettia's terracotta planter had a satisfying heft to it. He raised it above his head and called out:

    “Mrs Ponsonby, would you mind coming in here for one last dictation?”

[718 words]