Twist Short Story Competition - Runner Up

It’s the little things that bother Ray. Like the mugs. How come no one else ever washes them up? And who is it keeps taking his?
The big things bother him too, of course. Ten years and he’s never had so much as a sniff of promotion. All those early starts and late nights. All those long hours hunched at his desk while the rest of the office is out drinking and flirting and living. And how come he’s expected to contribute to every one else’s birthday, wedding and retirement presents, while no one’s ever organised so much as a card for him?
Three years it’s been since Ray’s wife died. Off work for one lousy fortnight and then back to an overflowing in-tray and a dirty mug. No flowers. No card. Not even an e-mail.  He feels like the poor schmuck in that film – the guy who works in the office twenty-seven years and no one even knows his name until he boils over and shoots them all dead. One gun, one office full of idiots. How hard can it be? Actually Ray’s not sure he’s ever seen that film but there’s one very like it playing over and over in his head on mornings like this.
    “Ah, there you are Roy,” says his line manager, as if he’s surprised to find him sitting at his workstation.
    “It’s Ray.”
    “Listen, Jackie’s split up with her fiancé and I’ve had to give her the day off. So I’ll need you to sort through her case load for me, a.s.a.p.”
    “I’m a bit snowed under at the moment,” Ray tells him. “You might be better off asking one of the others.”
    “Good man, good man,” says his manager, tossing a pile of paperwork down on Ray’s desk. “Oh, and I thought we’d send her some flowers. Can you organise a collection for me?”
    “But…”
    “Excellent. Keep up the good work.”  
Ray stares at his screensaver, watching the slow crawl of orange letters across the screen: MY NAME IS RAY MY NAME IS RAY, until the words blend and blur, each letter bleeding into the next.  
It looks like it’s going to be another late one tonight. Good job he’s got no wife to go home to anymore.  
You’re late, she used to say. Never hi darling, how was your day? Once, just once, he’d have liked a little more. But you’re late was as good as it got.
It takes him all of two hours to sort through the mess Jackie’s left. If there’s one thing Ray’s good at it’s clearing up other people’s mess: untidy accounts, mis-filed documents, dirty mugs… and worse. He thinks about the mess in the men’s toilets after the office party.  He remembers that last long hour with his wife, the vomit-clogged clothes and the carpet it took him a whole day to clean. There’s still a bit of a stain in the corner but the armchair hides it pretty well. Who’s going to see it anyway?

                        #

Coffee time. Ray stands by the sink in the office kitchen, willing them to notice him.  
    “Caught the wife checking my phone last night,” says Sean, brushing biscuit crumbs off his trousers. “Good job I deleted that photo.”
    “My wife’s dead,” Ray tells him.
    “You’re playing with fire there, mate,” James takes a slurp out of Ray’s mug. “You’re a married man now, remember.”
Sean sighs. “Tell me about it.”
    “It’s been three years now,” says Ray. “I still think about her every day.”
    “You won’t catch me walking up the aisle anytime soon,” pipes up Paul.
    “That’s because you haven’t met that special someone yet…” says Dan.
    “That’s because you’re a loser,” suggests Ray. But no one’s listening.  
Sean sighs again. “Better get back to it, I guess. Boss’ll have my balls for breakfast if I don’t get this report in on time.”
Ray coughs politely. “He’ll have to find them first.”
Sean turns towards him.  
This is it, thinks Ray, excitement pooling in the pit of his stomach. He’s going to hit me.  He’s going to pull back that cheating fat fist of his and wallop me one.
    “Water,” says Sean, reaching over to the sink and turning the tap on full blast, spraying a cascade of fat droplets over Ray’s shirtsleeve. “That’s what I need. Got a head like a rhino’s backside this morning.”
Ray shuffles out of his way. What was it his mother used to tell him?  You’ll never amount to anything, Raymond, if you let them walk all over you. Do you want to be a nobody all your life? Or maybe it wasn’t his mother. Maybe it was his wife. Sounds like the sort of thing she’d say. You’re late, you’re late, you’re late.
The others file back into the office while Ray washes up the mugs and then heads to the gents to dry his sleeve. He stares at the raised red bumps on the inside of his wrist, hot air blasting through the thin material of his shirt, scorching his skin. He’s been getting a lot of rashes lately, all over his hands and arms and down one side of his back. Stress related, the doctor says, which makes Ray wonder why the rest of the office isn’t walking round covered in red welts too.  Is he really the only one who feels it? The only one who’s ever taken the lift to the top floor; ever climbed over the safety rail at the edge of the roof to contemplate the view? From seventeen floors up you get an altogether different picture of the pavement.  
Of course Ray’s not really the jumping type. Reckless and messy isn’t his style. But still, sometimes he gets to wondering. What must they feel like, those last few freefalling moments?  He thinks about the rush of wind against his face; the dizzying blur of colour and sound; the world screaming up to meet him. But then he thinks about the landing; the dreadful inevitability of it all; the crush of the ground against the softness of his red welted body. He thinks about his mug sitting unwashed by the framed photograph of someone else’s kids, while his own desk sinks slowly beneath an ocean of unfinished work. Would anyone even notice he was gone?
By lunchtime Ray’s collected a grand total of three pounds for Jackie’s flower fund, two of which he put in himself to get the ball rolling.
    “I’m collecting for Jackie,” he tells Sean, who’s busy whispering down the phone to a woman who’s not his wife.
    “Later, Gorgeous, got to go,” says Sean. “Hey Paul,” he yells across the office. “You decided on a club for Dan’s stag night yet?”
    “She’s split up with her fiancé ,” Ray explains. “We’re going to send her a bouquet.”
    “We should try that new place down by the docks.”
    “If you just want to pop a couple of pounds in the envelope...”
    “They’re running a special offer on cocktails this month.”
Ray leaves the envelope on Ellie, the new secretary’s desk, with a note asking her to organise the collection instead. Maybe she’ll have more luck.  
Ten minutes later the office is buzzing.  
    “Did you hear about Jackie?”
    “I know. She must be devastated.”
    “Jackie and Kev have split up? I don’t believe it.”
    “Hey,” says Ellie as she approaches Ray’s desk. “We’re doing a collection for Jackie. For some flowers.”
He empties out his pockets, handing over another fistful of change.
    “Thanks er…  I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
    “It’s Ray,” he tells her. “My name’s Ray.” But she’s already walking away.  
    Ray opens up a new e-mail window and selects the company-wide recipient list from his address book.  
MY NAME IS RAY GRAY, he writes.
I’VE BEEN WORKING HERE FOR TEN YEARS.  
SOMETIMES I THINK ABOUT KILLING MYSELF.  
SOMETIMES I THINK ABOUT KILLING YOU INSTEAD.
He thinks about that long walk from his desk to the door, flanked by a pair of burly security guards. Oh yes. All his belongings piled into a cardboard box and every single eye in the place fixed on him. There’ll be pointing and whispering. It’s Ray, they’ll say. That psycho guy, Ray Gray. His name on every tongue. He thinks about that poor schmuck in the film and smiles.  He doesn’t need the gun, the bloodbath. Too messy. Ray likes this new film a whole lot more. He’s still grinning as his finger hits ‘send’.
Afterwards, he swivels round in his chair to watch. He can already picture the looks on their faces. This is going to be fun.
Ray’s monitor beeps twice as the message returns, unsent. Something to do with mail filters and an unrecognised sender address. The movie shudders to a halt. He presses an empty stapler into the fat pad of his thumb until the pain turns to white numbness.    
Back in the kitchen, he sets about getting himself a fresh coffee. It’ll have to be one of the nasty chipped mugs out of the cupboard because someone’s taken his. He makes four more cups while he’s at it – one for Sean, James, Paul and Dan. They’ll all be in soon enough. He takes a bottle of drain cleaner from the cupboard under the sink and unscrews the child-proof cap. Carefully, of course – it’s dangerous stuff. Fatal even, in the right measures.
Tempting as it might seem on days like today, Ray doesn’t want a death on his hands.  Too messy by half. Too complicated. It’s a fantasy, that’s all – something to get him through the afternoon. You’ll never amount to anything, Raymond, if you let them walk all over you. Do you want to be a nobody all your life? Death’s definitely off the agenda, but a healthy dose of pain and discomfort? That’s a different matter.  
Sometimes it pays to be invisible, he thinks, slipping a precise measure into their waiting coffee cups. Not too much now. Got to get it just right. Look what happened to his wife.