Dermot Ford was a good worker. He never put salt in the coffee machine; in fact he disliked those who did. He was forty-two now, and reasonably successful he thought. Unmarried, no children and his parents were long deceased; Dermot thought these were totally insignificant things to worry about. Sitting in his Escort, waiting impatiently for the electronic gates to open, he pulled down the plastic flap of the cars sun-shield and checked to see if his nostril-hair needed another trim. He could see the skinny faced man he had become in the non-flattering reflection. His nostril-hair was in order but then he noticed that silver hairs were beginning to sprout on his scalp. “I don’t want to dye again, that bloody stuff gave me a rash the last time” he said in an upset tone.
Dermot worked for Pierce and Pierce, a successful consulting company, for fifteen years. He dreamed of running the place someday. He was his employer’s favourite accountant, well at least he thought so, and Dermot was always right. He was only wrong once when he misspelled resistor as ‘resister’ in a crossword he was completing. He could not believe thirteen-across got the better of him. The gates were now almost open wide enough to allow the car through. He glanced in his rear-view mirror; he once again lifted his chin and checked his nostril-hair before driving into the car park. The security officer gave a little wave, and while chuckling lightly he said, “If you came in any earlier it’d be yesterday Ford”. Dermot raised his eyes and sighed. “Why cant people just say good morning” he said aloud to himself, not for the first time.
On this particular day; the day that Dermot Ford will remember more so than any other, it was a frost-bitten morning. The grass crunched noisily under his feet as he walked from his car. The heatless glow of sunrise was so strong he raised his hand to cover his brow. He had been told by his chief executive to come in a little early to get a start on the company’s books. “They asked me because I’m their favourite” Dermot thought delightfully. “Unlike Van Patten and his school-boy antics” he added scornfully.
Dermot stepped out of the elevator onto the fourth floor. It had a large atrium at the front and each aisle was separated by columns of offices on either side. At the front on the near left side was the office with the letters ‘D. Ford’ embossed on the door. He walked in and sat in his expensive office chair. In and around the desk lay post-its to remind Dermot of his to-do’s. He lifted his glasses and peered down at the assembly of reminders. They read; Pay overdraft in video store, apologise to Van Patten for eating his sandwich by accident, clean car back window(those bloody kids), remind the boss about getting new water bottles(the other water is making me queasy), get a start on balancing the company’s books. Dermot finished reading the reminders and leaned back and tried to get comfortable in his chair. He suddenly stopped, looking curious. There was a white envelope on his desk with his name scribbled on it. “That’s strange” he said. Dermot had been the last to leave on the previous night and first to come in that morning. He was visibly baffled by the appearance of the envelope. He opened it with a small blade he kept near his desk and emptied its contents. Dermot quickly gasped and stood up. Inside was a cheque with his name on it in the amount of 100,000 dollars, and a letter. He nervously picked up the letter and read it slowly to himself;
Dermot,
Van Patten has been up to no good. He is attempting to gain promotion as chief executive. We all know this can’t be allowed to happen. I want you to balance the books with plenty of room for error on his earnings.
Consider the cheque a bonus for your good work.
Burn this letter when you have finished reading it.
Don’t let me down Ford.
Chief Executive Pierce.
Dermot swallowed hard. He had no idea how just how corrupt his colleague’s had been. “I can’t do this…I…can’t” he said quietly to himself. He rushed over to the water cooler and took a drink then spat it back out with a look of disgust. “Ugh, I hate this bloody stuff” he said. He paced briskly around the room, breathing heavily and running his silver tie through his fingers. He ruled out the fact it might be a joke, judging by the legitimate looking signature on the cheque, which he had double and triple checked. His mind was racing madly; Van Patten. Pierce. Frame him? For money? What about my job? Why is it still cold outside? Van Patten. I ate his sandwich. The water is so disgusting. I must decide. My job. If he’s gone I could eventually become chief executive. For money? Fuck it. I’ll do it. Fuck him and his sandwich. Burn the letter.
And just like that Dermot Ford forgot about the right thing and balanced the books falsely to ensure the termination of Van Patten’s contract as an employee of Pierce and Pierce. He had felt there was no other option.
On the other side of the building on the third floor, Van Patten was sitting nervously at his desk in his office. He was balancing the Pierce and Pierce books with an extra zero after Dermot Ford’s salary. He reached inside his pocket, took out his lighter and burned a letter in his hand.
