A Strange Turn

Toby Peecock

M

ark Baker entered reception at ‘London Weekend Television’.

“…’ Afternoon Mark.”

“Hi, Cathy, anything for me?”

“Post’s already gone up. They’ve moved it by the way.”

“Moved what?”

“Your office. It’s still on the third floor I think.”

“Shit!” he was not a little put out - the fourth time in as many weeks. Mark pressed Three. As the elevator took him up through the floors, he felt odd - as if his head was going to burst. Stress? Since Martha left a couple of months ago he’d been struggling, but until today he’d managed (just) to hold things together. The lift approached the third floor; the pressure in his head eased and he regained composure. The doors opened and he walked slap into his producer, Beryl.

“Mark, great, let me introduce your new minder.”

“My minder?”

“Minder, PA, gofer, whatever: his name’s Zeus.”

“What, as in the god?” Mark, caught off guard, forgot to kick up a fuss about the room.

“No, not ‘as in’ - he really is, Zeus.”

“Oh, Ok.” He surprised himself at how readily he accepted this absurd notion. They passed down the corridor to a room with a crudely fashioned thunderbolt made out of card stapled to the door. Beryl knocked. “Zeus, darling, I’ve brought someone to see you.”

“Hang on.” The voice was flustered, “I’m all at sixes and sevens in here.” There was a sloshing sound from behind the door, like someone sweeping flood water from a yard.

“Ok, come in, excuse the mess.” The door opened.

“Jesus!” said Beryl.

“Yes - quite. Had a bit of weather in here, I’m afraid. I’m just looking for a nice warm ‘Mistral’ to dry it out a bit.”

“Riiiight. Well, this is Mark, Mark Baker.”

Mark offered a hand which Zeus shook enthusiastically.

“Anything you want, dear boy; anything at all, just ask.”

“Thank you, but I’m alright for now; I’ll just get settled into my new room.”

“I’ll show you,” said Beryl and took Mark back down the corridor. “Best leave him to clear up. I’ll have a word later.”

“Ok. Don’t be too hard though, he seems a nice chap. By the way, was that Thierry Henry I saw in the corridor?”

“Yeah.”

“So why was he wearing a tutu?”

“Huh, don’t ask.”

In the quiet of his new room, Mark went about re-arranging the few possessions that the Estates people had left in a cardboard box: a photo of Martha, herbal teabags, one of those snowstorms that Martha had given him after their first date, and yet another photo of Martha: clearly he wasn’t over her. He didn’t feel bitter though; he owed her. She’d saved him really: calmed him down, curbed his drinking and drug taking, taught him dress sense and improved his diet. But - that done, off she went, found someone more exciting.

When Mark was happy with the new set-up, he boiled the kettle and made a cup of raspberry and echinacea tea. Just as he was settling down to go through his post, a knock.

“Hello, it’s me, Zeus. Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Sorry about earlier. Beryl’s given me a right bollocking.”

“She shouldn’t have - it’s perfectly fine. I’m intrigued though - you know - the water.”

Zeus flopped into a chair and ran his hands through his long grey hair, “Oh, gawd,” he said, “I seem to be loosing the plot right now.”

“To be honest, -erm - you don’t seem to – to quite have the self-confidence one expects from a god. You are the god of war, aren’t you?”

“Oh no, the supreme god: god of gods supposedly - with a special interest in the weather, hence the little accident in my room.” Zeus knitted his eyebrows as if in deep thought. “I can’t use the old thunderbolts any more, and it kind of emasculates a chap.”

“Mmmm, I know what you mean - but why can’t you?”

“Lambeth Council.”

“What!”

“I hit the sub-station by mistake and the whole borough lost power for two days.”

“I see.” In the absence of something re-assuring to say, Mark changed the subject. “Why’s Thierry Henry wearing a tutu?”

“Oh, I don’t know, but he and Beryl have been at it hammer and tongs. She says he has to wear the full Arsenal strip and he says he’ll wear the shirt, but if he can’t wear the tutu then he’s off.”

“Blimey,” said Mark, instantly regretting it. But a sideways glance established that Zeus wasn’t about to thrust daggers into his eyes.

“Look,” said Mark, “I’d love to stop and chat but I must get over to make-up. It’s not a big deal, just something to take the shine off. They overdid it last week though, made me look like Orla bloody Guerin.”

Zeus cracked a smile for the first time that day, “can I come with you; at least make it look like I’m earning my keep?”

“Sure. Come on.”

“Zeus, do you ever go out?” Asked Mark, as they waited for the lift.

“Well, not since – you know – the thunderbolt thing.”

“Look, just because you’re persona non grata in Lambeth, doesn’t….”

“Hold it!” Zeus rallied “You’re not trying to impress an old Greek with Latin are you?

“Sorry.”

Zeus licked a finger and drew a line in the air; a victory it seemed. His self esteem must have been low, thought Mark.

After make-up, Zeus sloped off to the refectory and Mark got back to his room with half an hour to chill. He slid down the big leather chair so his back was on the edge of the seat and his legs stretched out across the room - perfectly relaxed. It had been a strange day so far, but he was sensing a gentle return to normality. His thoughts dropped to Martha and he felt that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to turn the corner. He floated, drifting in and out of sleep.

Bang! A rap at the door and he sprung to his feet in one movement, like a gazelle startled by a lioness.

“Mark! Mark! It’s time - you’re on air in five minutes.”

“Oh, fuck! Hang on.”

It wasn’t Zeus who had knocked but Beryl. They marched down the corridor and into Studio Nine. Thierry Henry was there in a grey suit, no tutu to be seen; or Arsenal strip come to that. Beryl shared a private joke with him as she passed and Henry grinned broadly. Clearly no tension between them now.

“Right. Mark. Ready?”

“Yup.” Business as usual and he was back in control.

“Ok. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six,” Beryl did the rest of the count on her fingers: five, four, three, two, one. The auto-queue flickered and did its stuff. Mark was in his element; sanity had prevailed. Zeus wasn’t in sight. He took a deep breath and faced the camera.

“Good evening. This is Mark Baker with Sky News. Later in the programme there will be an interview with Arsenal striker Thierry Henry, but first, we are going to the Big brother house where the member of parliament for Bethnal green and Bow, George Galloway has been pretending to be a cat.”