Equal Opportunities

‘Welcome to Spa-Gate’ proclaims the sign at the top of Poundquick Hill.  Proudly, like bars on a medal, numerous awards are pinned: ‘World Heritage Site’, ‘Winner of Blooming Britain’ and ‘Twinned with Ville-Sucre". Oblivious to the greetings, a black Bentley soared past at incalculable speed.  Lying hidden in the unkempt grass verge, a litter of discarded hypodermic needles fluttered randomly in the slipstream of the passing phantom.

Finally slowing down, KLY H20 turned impatiently into Greenway drive to begin its long rapid descent into the Georgian dream of Spa-Gate; thereby abandoning the poor relations at the top of the hill, as quickly as possible.  Reaching a viewpoint, the impatient man decided to stop for a cigarette; the combination of nicotine and the Olympian view gave Klytus Bohr – Special Controller for Spa-Gate Special Projects, immense pleasure. Laid out below him like a Roman banquet: succulent necklaces of shimmering white and yellow stones encircled the fine stems of beautiful trees and fresh green reaches.  Against a backdrop of soft rolling hills, the classical set piece, with a sparkling silver thread at its heart, was baking to perfection in the bright autumn light under a canopy of deepest azure.  Bohr inhaled deeply, the Major Project rescue plan and the Bold New Vision for Spa-Gate’s future had all been masterminded by him - he had made it all possible.  And there, stretched out deliciously before him, as far as the eye could see; the fruits of his ambition and guile - It could not have been any easier.  "The bloody fools!"  He thought, as a crooked smile began to etch sideways across his long face. 

Not wishing to be too late, Bohr ditched his cigarette and resumed his landing manoeuvres. Annoyingly, the car park at Spa-Gate Hall was completely full, forcing Bohr to reverse back onto the Lemon Circle and re-join the flow of traffic. Now in tow behind a Council van; the hitched pair carried on past Spa-Gate Abbey, then on to Spa-Gate Hall, around the block passing the Establishment Hotel and Simon’s Restaurant, heading on towards the river. Following the tag line: ‘Improvement at the Highest Level’ brought an ironic smile to the lips of the self satisfied Bohr. The vehicles turned tightly onto a slip road and eased down the tarmac slope, soon they were both crawling under the Spa-Gate Sports Centre. Bohr quickly found an empty space, but the scruffy Construction Services van continued, skilfully navigating the full course of concrete columns, flashing its side panels at the curious Bohr, before driving  past a white door in the far wall; and disappearing into the complete darkness of the opposite corner of the under-croft. Bohr had not heard of ‘Construction Services’ before and he made a ‘note to self’ to find out more about their business.

In the submarine offices concealed behind the distant brick wall, tears of laughter rolled down Lena Modelle’s delicately sculpted cheek bones. ‘He looks like a chocolate pig!’ she screamed. ‘It can’t possibly be Billy, can it?’

‘It is…it is! Her sister Lola answered.  Sensing the commotion, Felicity Middlemiss appeared from her office, to learn more. ‘What’s going on?’ she laughed.

‘It’s Billy…Billy the chocolate pig!’ Lena howled.

‘Let me see that lena’ smiled Felicity.  Giggling uncontrollably, Lena offered her the Turkish travel brochure that she had been clutching.

‘Look at the picture…the picture of the man in the mud bath…do you recognise?’ Lena broke off.  Felicity was staring at an image of a portly man with a moon like face partly submerged and smothered in glossy brown mud. Then suddenly the recognition, even without his customary glasses.

‘Oh my God it’s him! It’s Billy’ shrieked Felicity. At which point, Billy Spakey – Electrical Foreman, returned from the Workshop to hoots of derisory laughter.

‘Billy, it’s you!’ they all shouted in unison.

‘What is it?’ Replied the confectionary traveller, innocently.

‘Billy this is you, isn’t it? I mean…how did you end up in this photo?’ asked Felicity, barely containing her laughter.

‘Let me see.’ said an unphased Billy. Felicity handed him the brochure. ‘I was on holiday in Turkey last year and…’ The phone rudely interrupted his flow.

Still recovering from the outbreak of hysteria, Lena answered the call: ‘Good afternoon, Construction Services’. There was a pause in her diction and then a diligent delivery: ‘Yes, of course. I understand. Immediately, I’ll get somebody round straight away.’

Transformed back into her role as the efficient Construction Services Receptionist, Lena swung around to face the huge marzipan owl. ‘Is there anybody in the Workshop who could go to Spa-Gate Hall? That was Beau Cash’s Assistant - the toilets on the top floor are blocked and near to overflowing. And there is a very important meeting below in the Executive’s office, this Afternoon! It’s an emergency Billy!’

‘Mick and Paul are out there having a cuppa.’ he answered I’ll ask them to go.’ he responded. The pair were the perfect choice: what Paul and Mick did not know about the innards of Spa-Gate’s Civic buildings was not worth knowing.  After finishing their teas in the Workshop, the unlikely couple retrieved their tools from the van, which they had parked in the shadows earlier, and headed off to Spa-Gate Hall; stopping only briefly to ponder the ownership of the hugely expensive car, parked uncomfortably in their midst.

A Victorian statue of a Roman Centurion with the inscription: ‘Qui Custodiet Custodiens’ (Who will guard the guardians?) carved at its feet, overlooked the unseeing Bohr as he pushed open the impressive glass doors below and entered the grand foyer of Spa-Gate Hall.  The classical expanse of the polished white marble floor reinforced his sense of order and purpose. Feted by his bold reflection in the mirrored walls; Bohr made his way to the staircase and elevated himself up the majestic flight to the newly re-named ‘Cash Suites’ on the floor above. Fashionably late, automatic doors opened at the higher level to reveal Klytus Bohr to his audience. He was in seriously good form.

Barely noticed by the operators of the ever watchful Spa-Gate CCTV cameras, Paul opened the door for Mick and the two workmen entered Spa-Gate Hall through The tradesman’s entrance at the rear of the building. A narrow timber staircase offered them access to the highest level of Spa-Gate Hall, directly above the ‘Cash Suites’. The warm day had not been helpful. Upon reaching the top floor Mick and Paul started to feel nauseous; and as they approached the staff toilets; the permeation of unmistakeable stench intensified unbearably.  It was expected of them to perform their functions without question, however; the gory details of this unsavoury part of the work were missing from their job descriptions. ‘Phwoar…bloody unbelievable!’ exhaled Paul.

‘Klytus, how wonderful to see you…and I mean that most sincerely.’ Exclaimed Beau Cash. ‘I think you know everybody here.’

The ‘Ville-Sucre' State Room is the centre piece of the ‘Cash Suites’ at Spa-Gate Hall.  Crowned by an impressive domed ceiling and an exquisite, priceless cut glass chandelier; adorned with rich red carpets and splendid oil paintings depicting scenes of the ancient world, on loan from Spa-Gate Art Gallery’s collection; this was the perfect venue for agreeing terms of engagement.  One canvas portrays Julius Caesar addressing the Roman Senate: “Veni, Vidi, Vici” (I came, I saw, I conquered). But this day the works of art were barely visible; hidden almost, behind a barrage of crudely assembled graphics boards illustrating the bold new glass and steel architectural vision for the future of Spa-Gate; and announcing some very peculiar marriages:

“Familia Financial and Poly Inphilla: Working in Partnership with Spa-Gate Council”

“Brownfield Developments and Spa-Gate – Thinking Together”

“Bleedsem & Dryson: Devoted to Spa-Gate’s Future”

“Fleece: A Helping Hand for Spa-Gate”

And everywhere the Spa-Gate Council Tag Line:

“Improvement at the Highest Level”

And the all new:

“Equal Opportunities for Partners of Spa-Gate”.

Studiously gathered around a large scale model of the futuristic vision for the City of Spa-Gate and the surrounding countryside, like generals surveying a battlefield on the morning of the dreadful day, a handful of heads lifted and turned, simultaneously nodding in recognition. Silver hair crowned a regal head with piercing blue eyes and grey steel lips.  Wearing an immaculate Italian charcoal pin-stripe suit, with a glamorous red, black and gold silk tie, like an insignia hoisted high against a backdrop of the finest white linen; the leader of the strategic alliance eased towards them magnificently, in his highly polished black Gucci shoes. Mounting a small podium overlooking the model, Klytus Bohr – Special Controller of Special Projects for Spa-Gate began his address to the converted. With the congregation now seated, the day was his.

‘Good afternoon to you all. On behalf of Beau Cash, Janus Austen, Persilla Pound and myself I would like to thank you all for taking the time to attend our ‘Special Equal Opportunities Open Day’.'

A tall shadowy figure: Janus Austen – Information controller, motioned to the two burly security guards. Obeying instructions; the guards left the room with the sound of the doors being firmly locked, following closely on their heels.

Unfortunately, matters had not been flowing quite so smoothly on the floor above:

‘It just won’t clear in this one…it’s a right…I’ve got my hand right round...’

‘I’ll have a go with this one!’ interrupted Paul.

‘It’s no good! And there are no roding eyes anywhere! I’ve been on about this to Mel Gordon for years…every time we get a call out to fix these toilets. He’s a right numpty!  I think the soil pipe goes across the building and straight out and into the stack; we’ll have to clear it from that end? Go down the corridor to the other side and Hava gander out the window will ya mate?’ Mick asked.

A grubby Spa-Gate green top, shouldering an impish grin, appeared from a top storey window. Adjusting his thick glasses; Paul could now see that the soil pipe passed straight through the outside wall and joined into a cast iron pipe that ran down the rear elevation of Spa-Gate Hall, just as Mick had recalled.

‘I can get to the joint from the fire escape. We can open it up and rod it from there like last time. Remember?’ Paul shouted back along the corridor.

‘Hold it Paul! The internal joints of these old soil pipes are very fragile mate. We’ve got to be careful. There’s an access hatch over here. Give me a few minutes to get through before you start. Okay? I’ll keep an eye on the pipe. I’ve got me torch and bucket.’ Mick instructed loudly.

With that they moved away from each other’s view. Paul opened up the fire door and stepped out onto the landing and waited with the rods. Mick opened up the small hatch at the side of the toilet cubicles and entered the void above the dome.

The pitch black was pierced by a single headlight. Mick was reminded of last year’s trip to Florida; the ride inside the ‘Space Mountain’ at Disney World had been just like this. Pin points of light scattered about the darkness, emulating stars and nestling there in the eclipse, a vast Saturn formed from lathes and plaster, supported on a large circular timber ring beam at its base, with timeless horizons merging into the ether. A narrow boarded walkway lead across the inner space to the upper pole of this lost world.

Suspended from the main roof structure by long threaded bars and bracketry, the soil pipe followed the causeway faithfully. Mick began his journey, inching his way along the fragile catwalk on his hands and knees. The four inch plastic pipe was sound in itself but Mick wanted to check the central joint above the zenith of the dome, and place a precautionary bucket under the point of weakness, before Paul started to disturb the pipe on the outside. Suddenly, in mid-flight Mick stopped abruptly. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. He could hear a voice from above. Mick prided himself on not believing in anything ‘Parrynormal’ but the strident clear oratory continued. Truly terrified, Mick broke out in a clammy sweat.

‘Special Equal Opportunities Day!’ the booming voice came again.

Clearly, this was to be no ordinary haunting. Frozen with fear, Mick could only listen:

‘I would like to start by thanking ‘Fleece’ for their unstinting support throughout these last few difficult months. Without their project management skills and financial expertise, we could not be where we are today. And now we can all look forward, with complete confidence, to the successful completion and opening of the Spa-Gate Major Project in the Spring. A cause for real celebration; we are all extremely grateful to Max Prophet and his Team. Truly, a wonderful Partnership!’

With the sound of applause Mick started to thaw, as a steady realisation dawned: like the 'whispering gallery' high up in the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, the apparent direction and proximity of the speech was an illusion. Merely reflected, it had emanated directly from below.

‘And it is the future that I am here to talk about. A bright future full of special and equal opportunities for all our new partners.’ the Teutonic tone continued after the clamour settled down.

A loud crack and a whiff of the unnatural brought Mick fully round from the spell of the supernatural. He had lost all sense of time, and Paul had started to agitate the soil pipe ahead of his mate’s arrival.  Confident that his mate was looking after things inside: Paul gave the pipe another fierce tug, in order to open up the joint to the outside stack fully but Mick was still some distance away from the joint above the dome  Shining his torch towards the centre of the dome Mick saw, to his horror that the central joint was damaged and leaking, badly all over the summit of the secret planet. It was now only a matter of time.

‘Bloody hell!’ Mick uttered, pushing the bucket in front of him as fast as he could. Several litres of fermented effluent had already discharged onto the ceiling by the time he arrived. Manoeuvring desperately to get his bucket underneath the flow, Mick lost his balance and fell forward. Instinctively he reached out and grabed the failing pipe to steady himself, but the joint came apart in the process.  In a frantic attempt to reinstate the pipe he put his foot onto the softened ceiling but his foot went through and his weight came onto the pipe directly, forcing it downwards and allowing the wretched contents to empty through the hole. Down and down onto the flood plain of the immaculate realisation of Spa-Gate below, then splashing over the new Messiah and his assembled flock who were stunned into complete silence.