Once again, Bernice's indecision meant that the matter would be decided for her.
During the week after her meeting with Martin she had sent Dave up to a press conference in an attempt to snap him out of his obsession with his story - which he claimed he had nearly cracked. The press conference was at one of the usual five-star hotels in town, and was attended by the usual inmates of such conferences, including Gervase, the editor of Business Monthly. Mowley disliked press conferences in general and the small talk that went on at them even more, so he was not delighted when the latter's huge moon face hoved into view by the table where they were serving coffee.
"Why," he began, "I do believe we have here a rare sighting of the Lesser Spotted Mowley bird - what a red letter day this is. I must remember to put something in my diary - not from Wright's I'm afraid, Dave." Dave looked at him with barely disguised contempt.
"Not very talkative, eh?" said Gervase, rather spurred on by this. "Probably worried about the future - as indeed you should be." What's the smug bastard talking about? wondered Dave, who still said nothing.
"What I would do if I were you," said Gervase in the oiliest of tones, "is to take a good handful of sugar packets...you're going to be needing them."
"Yeah, yeah," said Dave finally, tired of all these insinuations, "why's that? In case you haven't noticed we're taking a hell of a lot of your advertisers."
"Pah!" said Gervase, "I don't concern myself with advertising, I leave that to the hired hands who go out and prostitute themselves - which reminds me, I must find a PR girlie in a minute. No, I concentrate on the real issues - exclusives, that kind of thing, you know?" he said with a sickening smile. "As a matter of fact, we've got one coming up soon. Sorry I can't say more - but it's a bit of a stinker, though I say so myself. I think you'll find it particularly interesting since it's so, shall we say, close to home. In fact being such a soft-hearted old soul, I will give you a little sneak preview in the form of some advice: perhaps you had better start sleeping with another Editor," and he laughed with a horrible little giggle at this subtle witticism.
"What?" said Dave, suddenly serious.
"Yes," said Gervase, who though not really malicious enjoyed winding people up, and seeing that he had found the right button for Dave, continued to push it merrily. "Isn't that the way you doing it at your place? The Wright Way: promotion by emotion. But take my word for it, your Ms Stuart may be a pretty little thing, but once our exclusive hits the streets you'll be looking around for another casting couch."
That was enough. Dave had not been listening to the last part of Gervase's little speech. Instead he had been watching the rage grow within himself, almost abstractly, as if it belonged to someone else. And then, just as abstractly, he noted how his right arm was pulled back and then swung round into that huge waiting moon face. It was not a very professional punch, he also noted, but enough to send Gervase sprawling among hundreds of coffee cups and spoons and packets of sugar as the trestle tables which held them collapsed under his bulk.
And then somehow Dave found himself on top of Gervase, pummelling madly, his fists flailing without real intent to do damage, more in an attempt to shake off the despair he felt. For he had understood at last what he had been puzzling over for the last month or so; and he understood what Gervase's exclusive was, and why it would indeed destroy them.
But now he was being pulled off the writhing form of Gervase by waiters and porters. A ring of curious journalists had gathered around all this excitement, doing nothing except to stare: it was practically unheard of for journalists to get so physically engaged with something. Then Dave was led away to an office where the hotel's General Manager was calling Wright's - Dave's badge helpfully told them who he was and where he was from. Dave heard the distant voice of Martin bawling at him, telling him to return to Southdon immediately and to report to him when he got there.
Which he now did, still dishevelled from his tumble with Gervase, still numb with anger, still weak with the knowledge of what was going to happen to them all.
"You're bloody lucky," said Martin once he had sat down, "I've talked with the manager of the hotel, paid for the damage and promised to look favourably on their facilities for future presentations. I've also had a word with the publisher of Business Monthly - grovel would have been a better description - and they've agreed to let the matter drop." As soon as he heard what had happened he had phoned his rival and had a publisher-to-publisher chat to 'resolve things'. He hated being put in such a humiliating position as he explained to Bernice when he called her in to break the news and to wait for Mowley's return. She felt a strange kind of calmness; she knew what was going to happen, and felt relieved that the decision and the responsibility had been taken from her. But she also knew that in some sense she had failed by not taking that decision on her own.
"Have you got anything to say for yourself?" Martin said, hoping at least for an apology. But instead Dave just looked around the office, as if exploring an interesting new environment. He glanced at the vase of dead and drying flowers, a testament to Cristina's former presence and current absence, the poster with the aerial view of that strange, aquatic city - which he recognised immediately, smiling to himself - and finally noted the huge charts Martin had left pinned prominently to the wall. These showed the launch schedules for The Business: Martin had 'forgotten' to take these down: in fact he was so proud of his launch that he liked to be reminded of it - and to remind his visitors.
"Well?" said Martin.
"Why don't you use project management software for your launches?" was all Dave said.
"What??" asked Martin.
"On your micro, you could get software to do all this - " Dave waved at the sheets of paper.
"Yeah?" asked Martin, momentarily diverted from his task.
"Anyway, to return to the matter in hand, have you anything to say in your defence?"
Dave looked at Martin, then at Bernice, who felt unable to say anything.
"There's no point, is there?" Mowley said at last. "You've decided what you're going to do, just get it over with." His passivity was so frustrating, Bernice felt.
"OK," said Martin, "in that case you leave me no choice but to formally dismiss you summarily for gross misconduct." In some ways Martin hated this role of judge and executioner: he had such an affirmative view of his role that playing Mr Nasty was rather distasteful. But if he was being honest he also secretly enjoyed the flood of adrenaline he felt, as he exercised the power of corporate life or death. "I will have to ask you to empty your desk immediately and then to leave the building. Personnel will send you the relevant documents tidying up any loose ends."
Bernice knew that theoretically Mowley could ask to see the Father of Chapel, but with the facts of the case so clear-cut, and with Dave unwilling even to defend himself, there seemed little point.
"I'm really sorry, David, that your career at Wright's has ended like this, it's tragic, it really is," said Martin. Bernice thought that this was laying it on a bit thick, especially since she knew that he had suggested firing Dave just last week.
"You're all just a bunch of emotional cripples," he said quietly, as if to himself. "You think this work is so important, but just look at you all: you just use work to fill the vacuum inside you."
"Dave," Bernice said.
He looked at her. "I'm sorry," he said simply, "but you'll see, you'll understand soon enough." Then he got up, as if he had decided the interview had gone on long enough, and that he was tired of all these games. Bernice rose too, and they both left Martin's office. Bernice tried to talk to Dave, but he was not interested. He just walked silently along the corridor, like a man being led to his execution.
When they got to the office, a deadly hush descended. Bernice calmly announced the news, and said how sorry she was that he was going. Meanwhile Dave was stuffing all his papers into two huge dustbin liners. Even more than Pete leaving, Dave's departure signalled the end of something for them all. He had been a unique part of the office. Even if his contribution in terms of words had been relatively small, he had given enormously in other ways. Bernice knew that she would miss him, and that The Business would be the poorer for his going.
After what seemed an unbearably long time, during which everyone sat there as if shocked into silence, Dave slammed the last drawer shut, swept off a few more papers from his desk, said "Bye," and walked to the door without looking back. As Bernice watched it close behind him, she felt that it was the end of an era.
