"Daryl is Sick" by Gavin Turner

It was down to me to make the announcement. I took a deep breath and then cleared my throat to get the attention of the office. Heads popped out from behind pod screens like comical gophers.

     “Daryl is really sick guys, I think we should arrange to send him something, a card or flowers maybe?”

There was a stony silence. A chat notification pinged on my phone.

‘You have been added to a new chat’.

Re: Daryl Sick Lol - send flowers

Jenna: Do you send flowers to a guy when they are sick? 

There were numerous head shakes and shrug emojis. What happened to conversation? 

Donny: Not sure of the protocol. Don’t want to send him anything that would compound the issues, or embarrass him.

Zara (HR): Also we don’t want him to feel that he has been less favourably treated than someone of a different gender in the same position. 

Jenna: Perhaps we should send him a cactus then, it’s a more masculine flower isn’t it? 

Donny: Yes (Cactus emoji) (Donny deleted this message) replace message with a simple ‘Yes’

IT Tony: And it has longevity. They can survive without water for many months at a time.

Marcia (Finance): Venmo below - I will collect - who wants to take it round IRL?

Gwen (currently on mat leave) Who is Daryl please?

Donny: Can’t tonight, got a thing

Jenna: Nursery pick up

Zara (HR): It was Jess’ idea, nominate Jess

Numerous thumbs up emojis. Not from me I might add.

I returned to my desk. I don’t know why people can’t talk to each other properly anymore, they just don’t. It had been months since I actually had a real conversation with these people. I replied in the chat to say I would go. I knew this would happen. In fact, I relied on it. Perhaps they were all just as frightened of him as I was. Especially after that night with the broken spoke umbrella. It was raining hard. His words slurred over me, stinging my eyes.

“I will make it good for you at work if you want," he said. “All you have to do is step into my apartment for a while”. The office party seemed a thousand miles from this place. This moment seemed thousands of miles from anywhere.

I tightened my grip on the umbrella. It was beginning to tear. There was a storm coming in. I could feel it in the cold tips of my fingers, the dark space behind my eyes. Daryl’s hair was plastering against his face. His yellowing teeth flashed a grin under the streetlight. Just for a moment, I saw the ugliness beneath his ugliness.

“That’s all I have to do is it?” I replied. We both knew that was not the end of the conversation or the request, and that further requests would almost certainly follow, once inside, then demands. This was how Daryl was at work so why would he be any different now. The unnecessary lingering gazes, accidental, implied words. I wondered why he had chosen this moment. Perhaps he thought I was a little drunk on this particular evening. I guess he had thought about me more than was healthy. Maybe that was how he spent his time when he wasn’t merging, or acquiring? It hurt that the only reason he could see for promoting me was the notion of some fumbling fringe benefits he might get from it, a sordid acquisition, perhaps a merger. I was good at my job, and Daryl was sick, for sure. Just not in the way Jenna and the rest of them thought he was. The storm was really raging now, boiling down from the skies as we stepped through the doorway. I thought about crossing that threshold a lot. Was this me? If I crossed this line, this marker in the sand, what other lines was I prepared to cross? That was a week ago. I don’t want to talk about what happened that night. I am not proud of myself. Actually, I am a bit. Not for what I did, but for getting what I want for once.

It’s funny. That mention of a cactus having longevity, being able to survive without sustenance for such a long time, no water, little nutrition. If they were people, it would surely drive them insane before they eventually withered and shrank back to dust. Perhaps masculinity really is toxic, a poison in the blood that chokes the good out of a person.

It was just turning dark when I took the cactus round to his apartment. The florist had insisted on wrapping it in cellophane and practically forced me to complete the ‘Get well soon’ card.  

I wrote:

Dear Daryl, Hopefully, you get better

Sincerely - All at the office

The assistant at the shop gave me a funny look. I didn’t care. No one reads the card anyway. I let myself into Daryl’s apartment with his key. The curtains let in a little of the streetlight, the same streetlight. I switched on the table lamp and placed the stupid cactus on the dining table, disturbing a thin layer of dust. In retrospect it may have been better to have bought flowers. Something pungent, like lilies or gardenia. It was my responsibility, my duty, especially as I was now covering for his absence. I am still ambitious, and I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. That was the advantage I had over the others. I could see the opportunity, the potential.  I don’t suppose they would be able to see past the broken umbrella, the overbearing silence or the stink of the corpse in the bedroom. It was a nice apartment, nicer than mine. I poured a glass of champagne from the fridge and celebrated my temporary promotion, soon to become permanent. Daryl was sick, I saw it underneath his fake charm and his good suit. But I suppose I was pretty sick too. When I look in the mirror, when the lighting is right, I can see that dark space, just behind my eyes. I can feel the edge of the storm. Turns out Daryl was right though; he did make it good for me at work. All I had to do was step into that apartment.

Gavin Turner is a writer from the UK. He has published two poetry collections and is working on a novella. His short fiction has been published with Dark Horses, Punk Noir, Voidspace and Roi Fainéant Press.