The interview
3 April, 2008
David watched the headlights of the train reflecting off
the tunnel walls and streaming along the silver ribbons
leading out of the darkness. Although it was past
rush-hour, the platform filled as the rattling rumble of
the Victoria Line train become louder. David remembered a
piece in the paper about a man who was pushed in front of
an oncoming Tube train by a schizophrenic. He looked round
at the faces of the swelling crowd by his shoulder. What
does a schizophrenic look like? Anyone. He braced himself
against a push in the small of the back and hoped the
driver was paying attention.
The train stood at the platform for an age. No-one said
anything. Just shifting feet and the rustle of adjusted
clothes. A small cough and the turning pages of a free
paper. And nothing. Just waiting. The electric motors
powered down and suddenly there was the rumble of another
train to another place on a platform that seemed miles
away. The echo of another tannoy and footsteps. Must be a
man in business shoes. The speed and pitch of the notes
gave it away. Don’t look at anyone. They’ll think you are a
freak. Touched in the head. David could feel beads of sweat
forming at his hairline. Too many clothes. You always get
it wrong, you stupid idiot. When are you ever going to
remember the Tube is hot, Central London is hot, racing
through the crowds is hot? David dare not look at his
watch. The interview was in half an hour. Easy if the train
moves in the next five minutes. Should he jump out and
walk? Someone ran towards the train but slowed as he saw
the empty despondency in the passenger’s faces.
The train jittered into life. Sorry for the delay, ladies
and gentlemen. Apparently there was a problem with the
doors on the train in front of us. But we are on our way
now. Mind the closing doors.
Regent Street seemed wrong. Where were all the people? Of
course, a weekday. Mid-morning. No-one to shop. All earning
money to pay off the interest on their credit cards. David
tried to walk slowly but inadvertently quickened his step
as he thought about what he would say. What would he say?
God knows. He hadn’t had an interview for a job like
before. He knew a little about the company, and a little
more about himself. The idea that winging it makes it seem
more natural, is that right? Couldn’t it also make you look
more, well, idiotic, unprofessional, unprepared?
The door pushed unevenly after he spoke to the voice on the
intercom. Come up to the second floor. Thanks. Click,
already gone and the door buzzing. Fine. He climbed two
steps at a time and pushed open the glass door. How can I
help you? I am here for an interview. David checked the
clock above her head. Two minutes early. That’s good. We
don’t have any interviews today. He froze. You’re a day
early. Oh, I see. The bottom fell out of his stomach and
his heart shrivelled away.
David pushed open the uneven door and stood looking at the
pavement. He didn’t know what to think. It all seemed so
pointless. Always a failure. Always a failure. Eventually,
he looked up. The city lay before him, glowing light and
gold in the coming sun. Regent Street curving down towards
endless opportunities. Tower blocks and palaces. It’s all
there. He took a step forward and smiled.