10 Things That Never Happened (Material World #1)

by Alexis Hall

Claire is holding up a piece of paper. It says, Is he being a dick? I mouth yes obviously back at her, and she holds up another piece of paper saying sorry I can’t read lips.

I’m still not letting it go. “Okay, but level with me, lad to lad, is it actually out of your hands, or is it one of those things where you could get it sorted but it’ll be a lot of aggro at your end?” “It’ll be a lot of aggro at my end,” he admits, “and I don’t want a lot of aggro at my end.” I’m pretty sure I’ve got him. Apart from the Jonathan Forests of the world, most people won’t just tell you to your face that they’re making your life harder to make their life easier.

And I hope, then pray, then go back to hoping on account of being an atheist, that this doesn’t go disastrously wrong.

There was just something about his craggy, angry face and the unruly white streak in his otherwise carefully groomed hair that made you want him to do things to you. Or maybe for you to do things to him to see if you could get him to chill the fuck out.

“I think the fact that you consider your boss asking for a meeting to discuss your performance to be a”—he does actual fucking air quotes—“massive drama might be exactly what’s wrong with your management style.”

“Shit. Shit fuck shit fuck shit.”

“I do really appreciate what you’re doing here,” I tell him. I don’t, but kissing his arse is the only strategy I’ve got that’s not illegal, immoral, or embarrassing to try in front of a pyramidal display of Croydex Flexi-Fit Grosvenor Toilet Brushes. “A lot of bosses wouldn’t have given me this chance, like.” “Are you sucking up to me, Sam?” “Is it working?”

“He’s conscious,” she tells somebody I can’t focus on, “and responsive to pain but can’t answer simple questions.” My teachers used to say that in school as well.

It’s getting fuzzier, and with the throbbing in my head it feels best to just embrace the fuzzy. Feels best, probably isn’t best.

“I know I know you,” I try. “I’m your boss,” he explains. “Well,”—this might be pushing it, but I can’t resist—“you seem like a good one.” To his credit, Jonathan looks the teeniest bit ashamed. Because, when you get right down to it, a truly great boss doesn’t chase his employees into shower units and land them up in hospital. “I…” He seems genuinely at a loss. “Thank you.”

I’ve never given much thought to where Jonathan Forest lived. He’s like a schoolteacher in that way—you just imagine that he only exists at work and when you go home he stops existing unless he needs to ring you up to be disappointed.

He sorted me out a towel and toothbrush as well, so I’m pretty took care of, all things considered. I mean, I’m still living with my boss and I’ve somehow backed my way into full-on pretending to have amnesia, and I might still technically be fired, but my dad always used to say you’ve got to look on the bright side because no one else will look on it for you. He might have been talking out of his arse, but it worked for him.

The moment the carrier’s open, I dash over and try to cram Gollum in. It mostly goes okay, apart from the help-I’m-being-murdered noises, except he manages to get one paw sticking out the end like he’s in Jurassic Park and he’s just been dragged into the velociraptor enclosure. Eventually, I fold him back inside and slam the door, and he looks out with huge eyes that say “I will never forgive you for this. My descendants shall haunt your descendants to the end of time and their vengeance shall be legendary.”

I take a bite of my sandwich and I feel a bit weird that Jonathan Forest made it. Not bad weird, just weird weird. Because he’s about as domestic as a timber wolf, and I’d say about as nurturing but I reckon wolves take care of each other and shit.

What can I say? I like my men like I like my employment prospects: rough and hairy.

“Shut up and finish your chicken.” “Excuse me, I’m your boss.” “Shut up and finish your chicken, sir.”

“I was not.” Barbara Jane rounds defiantly on her brother. “I was eight. You’re just trying to make me look bad in front of Sam because you fancy him.” It’s a bit hard to tell in the dark but I think Jonathan’s gone bright red. “I do not. I don’t find Sam attractive at all.” “Oh thanks,” I say. This makes Jonathan even more flustered. “I don’t mean… I’m not saying you’re not… You work for me, Sam. It would not be appropriate to consider you on an attractiveness level.” “Oh thanks,” I say again.

Getting involved now is probably the worst decision I could possibly make. But since I’m faking amnesia to infiltrate my boss’s family Christmas in the hopes it’ll save my job, I think we can accept that good decisions aren’t really my thing. “Jonathan, do you not think—

“we’ll see what we can swing. How big a discount were you hoping for?” “Fifteenhundredquid,” I say very fast in the hope that it’ll bamboozle him into not noticing how unreasonable that is. “That’s”—I see him going for a calculator app and I cut him off. “Twenty-three-point-four percent,” I tell him. “I’m very good at mental arithmetic.” He gives me a sceptical look. “What’s eight times seven?” “Okay, I worked it out in advance.

“Jonathan, are trying to say that you’re into me?” “How can I not be?” He flops forward with his elbows on his knees and his brow against his fingertips. “You’ve come into my life like a beam of very annoying sunshine. You talk so much that I miss it when you’re not. You try to fix things I didn’t even realise were broken. You have a dreadful sense of humour to which I’ve somehow become habituated. You care about people so effortlessly it makes me able to put up with them. And then you kissed me and now I…” He lets his head slip further down into his hands. “…I don’t know how I’m supposed to go the rest of my life without being kissed by you again.”

And he carries on not saying anything more for a while. In desperation I resort to remarking on things I see out the window. “Ooh look,” I try, “cows.” “Yes.” “Do you reckon they’re Friesians?” At last, he risks turning his head, if only to check out the cattle. “Aren’t Friesians the black and white ones?” “Maybe. So what are the big beige ones?” “Jerseys?” “So what about the brown shaggy ones then?” “Steaks,” says Jonathan. Which makes me laugh. Which makes him laugh. “Are you really,” he asks, “going to make small talk about cows for”—he checks the clock on the dashboard—“the next four hours?” “I’ll admit,” I admit, “I am running low on cow banter.”

And now it’s less a glare and more—I’ve not got words for what it is. He’s looking at me as though if he stops he’ll turn to stone, like I’m some kind of reverse medusa. “I don’t want it if I can’t have it with you.”

For a moment, I can’t believe it’s Jonathan talking. Like I know we’ve shagged and that changes things, but I didn’t think my cock was the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“Look, can we not just take a moment to appreciate my incredible heroism in saving all your jobs at the expense of my own?” With a sigh, Claire rallies the team. “Fair enough. A big round of applause for Sam, who boldly got laid on our behalf.”

Because when it’s just you and the silence it’s easy to feel like you don’t exist, like you might as well have never existed. Like you’re nothing at all.

“I’m aware,” he says slowly, “that this is absurd because I only saw you this morning. But I miss you.” And then he rings off like something’s caught fire. He doesn’t even give me a chance to say I miss him too.

you were always really nice, but it always felt like you were nice because you knew that deep down the whole world was a joke with death as the punch line.”

The snow’s still coming down and it’s beginning to settle, turning the ground the same colour as the sky, and making Jonathan look like he’s the only real thing in the whole place.