Down The Hatch

April 2041.

Shepherd’s Bush, West London.

When Gemma was feeling low, she’d wander into an upmarket chain pub near her flat. But this was rock bottom. For this, it was back-to-basics time. For this, she needed The Fox on Uxbridge Road. Her old Shepherd’s Bush haunt, proud home of £3.75 pints and a local reputation for being “a bit stabby.” Not exactly where you’d expect to find a semi-powerful executive at one of London’s biggest record labels. But the good news was, she wasn’t that anymore.

She was leaning against the wall, all of five foot ten in her flats, and back in her shimmering and leather. This time she’d added a cigarette to complete the ensemble. It was a strong vibe to send first thing in the morning. When the bartender turned up at 11 a.m. he had glanced over briefly, saying nothing. What a treat for him when she followed him right inside.

“Excuse me ma’am, you can’t smoke in here, and we don’t actually open until noon.” He looked early 20s, white T-shirt, tight jeans, real “Rebel Without a Cause” energy. And just a smidge taller than her, too. She chuckled and flicked her cigarette out the door.

“You’re American? It’s the accent. I have an ear for these things.”

“Correct.” He didn’t seem impressed.

“You a student?” She stood at the end of the bar and watched as he pulled chairs off of tabletops. He let it hang there for a second and finally looked up.

“Ma’am, I’m serious. I’d be happy to serve you at noon, when our licence says we’re allowed to serve. You can’t be in here. You’re old enough to smoke, you should know that.” He swivelled in place as she walked past him and began also pulling chairs off of tables.

“Relax, James Dean, you’re not going to get in trouble. Just shut the door and lock it behind us. The police aren’t going to kick it down at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday.” He was visibly flustered, and clearly not sure what happened next, or what he should say. He threw his hands up and went to lock the door.

“Fine, fine. I appreciate you helping with the chairs, at any rate.”

“So. Student? Yes?” She leaned on the bar and looked at the taps. “Mind if I…?”

“Ma’am no, you can’t, it won’t, I need to engage the keg couplers before anything will pour.” She let out a cackle.

“Gosh, the keg couplers. No no, you’re absolutely right, I’m sure.” She popped around behind the bar, finding the nearest fridge and taking out a pint can of Carling. He swung round from his dutiful chair-flipping as he heard it crack open.

“Hey!”

“Sorry, I’m being a lot right now. You’ll have to forgive me, my entire life has recently collapsed. I’m Gemma Thomson, and you are?” She popped up on a stool at the end of the bar. He sighed.

“I’m Kevin. Yes, I’m a student at the University of West London.”

“Ooh, UWL, nice nice. Freddie Mercury went there, you know.”

“Who? Do you want a glass for that, by the way?”

“No I don’t want a bloody glass from some child who doesn’t know who Freddie Mercury is, thanks.” She waved her hand dismissively.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, I have better things to do than sit around studying who was famous back when your generation were destroying my future.”

She shook her head and sputtered at him. “Kevin! I’m bantering with you. No need for these personal attacks. And Freddie Mercury was the lead singer of a band called Queen, and he died tragically of AIDS, and I’ve never gotten over it honestly. Even though it happened before I was born.” Kevin flashed a polite smile as he pulled cling-wrap off of beer taps. She looked at him and felt a bit anxious. “You know, I will take that glass.” He rolled his eyes, grabbed a glass and put it on the bar in front of her. She stared at it, then pointed. “A Carling glass, obviously. You’ve served me a Carling, dear.”

He switched the glass in spite of her. “I didn’t serve you at all.”

“Well, for the best. Licence restrictions and all that.”

“Gemma, is it?”

“It is!”

“What brings you into The Fox at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday, dressed like you’re out for the night?”

“I’m not sure, if I’m honest, I just sort of appeared outside. You must’ve seen me in a magazine, thought ‘oh she’s fit, I’d do her’ and wished really hard.”

“Something about your entire life collapsing?” He continued doing loads of prep behind the bar, but she’d given up helping and was focused on pouring her Carling at the perfect angle.

“Right, I did say that didn’t I? And thank you for the compliment on my outfit.” She waved her hands down her sides dramatically, showing off her sequin blouse and leather skirt. “Too much makeup you think for a Tuesday?”

“No, you look good.”

“Kevin! You’ve made my day.”

“You’d have made mine if you had let me pour that for you.” He was right. Her pour was rubbish. Nevertheless, she persisted. “So, the life?”

“Dear, if I wanted to talk about that, I’d have taken you up on it the last time you asked. Shall we move on?”

He laughed and shook his head. “No can do, ma’am. See, I’m an annoying Yank, and us Yanks use our bartenders like therapists, which means as the bartender, I’m your therapist. So, you know. I really can’t let it go.”

“Against your ethical code?”

“Who told you about the code?” Kevin had mercifully lightened up, against all odds. “Listen. Sometimes the lids on these things get real stuck, so you gotta loosen em.”

She tilted her head. “Pardon?” He plopped two shot glasses on the counter, then turned around and clapped his hands. “Okay! Shot, shot, shot… ah, here we go.” He picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels. She recoiled.

“Christ! Please God, anything but that. I’ll talk, I’ll talk. You’ve tortured it out of me.” But he was already pouring.

“You had your chance, Gemma Thomson. Down the hatch, here we go.” He picked up his shot and gave her the eyes. She tutted.

“Let’s get this swill down then, shall we?” She picked up her glass, they gave each other a cheers, bumped them back down on the bar, and shot. Gemma coughed and wheezed. “Shit. What the fuck?” Kevin was laughing his ass off.

“Tennessee Honey flavored. That’ll wake you up!” Gemma was flabbergasted.

“It was fucking flavoured! You tit. Unbelievable! Now I am truly at rock bottom. Drinking flavoured Jack Daniels before mid-day.” She chased it down with her extremely heady Carling, covering her nose and lips with foam that she quickly wiped off. “Fucking state of this morning.”

“So, Gemma Thomson. Did we loosen the top on you? Of the jar, my jar metaphor.”

She shook her head. “Charming. No, but you’ve tried so bloody hard I’ll ‘spill the tea’ anyway as we used to say. But first.” She tapped the empty Carling can, he swapped it for another, and she started in.

Gemma covered it all: how she’d been at the BRITs, woke up to the news her company had been acquired, got laid off, and how one of her last acts as an executive wound up ruining the music at Underground Coffee near her flat. That last part she seemed to be the most upset about. Kevin listened intently.

“So now, my dear Kevin, sweet Kevin, you find me here. At rock bottom. Served with this.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a letter, still sealed. But people had come to recognise the envelope’s distinct, understated style.

“What’s that?” Except Kevin, of course.

“What’s thi—right, American. Student. New here. This, Kevin, is a letter from His Majesty’s bloody Government.” She held it up and tapped the corner: HM Employment & Public Works. “You get one of these when you’re made redundant now. You see, in their infinite wisdom, the bloody Tories have figured out a way out of our growing unemployment crisis. They’ve simply outlawed being unemployed! Isn’t that wonderful? Thanks, we’re cured.”

Kevin laughed anxiously, clearly unsure what she was talking about. He pulled her another pint of IPA and swapped it for her empty glass. She immediately picked it up and took a sip.

“See Kevin, inside this envelope, is gonna be 3 pieces of paper. The first one will tell me I get free money. Some tiny fucking amount of free money, but it’s free fucking money. Great British Pounds, right in the account. But in order to get it, I have to look for a job. Provably. Fucking provably look for one.”

She was very animated now, waving the envelope around in one hand, and going at her pint with the other. “But they know I won’t fucking find one, because there aren’t any. So there will be a second piece of paper. And on that piece of paper, will be a job offer. They will offer me a job. On some fucking government-funded project somewhere in the middle of nowhere, no doubt. And I can tick the box saying I want it, or I can tick the box saying I reject it. And then there will be a third piece of paper, where I can tick a box telling them I’m fucking rich, and therefore they can get fucked.” Kevin grimaced and nodded.

“Ma’am, that sounds very intense. I do not understand how the government works here. That is not the sort of thing they’d do in the USA, I can tell you that much.”

“Oh, it’s all such a fucking joke,” she said with a cackle. “I barely understand politics in this country, but this shit has been hard to not know about. I watched a documentary called The Envelope on fucking iPlayer. Tragic.” She leaned over the bar and play-whispered in Kevin’s ear: “I don’t even pay my council tax, Kevin. They’ve never come after me for it.”

Kevin had a vague look of concern. “So, what will it be then?”

“Jack and Coke. You’ve turned me.”

“No, no, I mean which of the three? Look for a job, take their job, or are you rich?” She sighed and slugged back the rest of her pint.

“No, Kevin. I am not rich. I have pissed away my fortune in pubs like your fine establishment here, on luxury fucking flats, on too many black cabs, on subscriptions to Linkup Platinum.”

“Well sure, but okay, so you find a job. You’re like, a powerful executive in her 50s. Confident, attractive, you’ll get a job anywhere, I’m sure.” Gemma pointed at him.

“Oh, Kevin, you sly fox, you said so many nice things we’ll overlook the 50s remark. But, you know, I’ve been thinking.” She slid her finger under the flap of the envelope and tore it open. “I’ve been thinking what life might be like, if I gave it all up. The flat, the music, the executive-ness.” She pulled out the papers and shuffled to the second page. “I think I could really see myself as a…” She stared at him, the page in her hand hovering above the bar. She said nothing. He looked at her, then looked down at the⁠—

“Don’t look at it, Kevin. Christ. I can’t look. I can’t I can’t I can’t”—

“Oh—”

“Fuck, shit. Okay. No no, it’s fine, it’s fine. Because you’ll look.”

“I will?”

“You will. And you’ll tell me.”

“Okay, ma’am.” He looked down, then started to open his—she put her finger straight on his lips.

“Shhh, Kevin. Shhhh. You mustn’t tell me.” He stared at her. She stared back. An older man at the end of the bar shook his head and took a sip of his lager.

“Mmphfh.” Kevin aptly feigned not being able to speak. Gemma really appreciated his commitment to the bit. She took her finger off his lips.

“Kevin? I’m scared. I’m scared you’re never going to pour me that Jack and Diet.”

“Ma’am, I⁠—”

“Okay fucking fine, Kevin, I’m scared of what it says. Okay. Just! Just tell me.” He looked down at the page. She closed her eyes.

“Shift Supervisor, Nights, 11 p.m. to 7 a.m., at … Traw… suh… fine… dund…” Gemma popped her eyes open and shot a look down.

“Is that fucking Welsh?!” She squinted. The paper read:

ASSIGNMENT OFFER:

SHIFT SUPERVISOR, NIGHTS (2300-0700)

MAGENTA ENERGY

TRAWSFYNYDD, CYMRU

HOUSING / 3X DAILY MEAL PROVIDED

PAY GRADE 2

Her head landed swiftly on the bar. She banged it on there a few times for good measure. Kevin was studiously reading the pamphlet that had also been in the envelope.

“It says here that you can reject this but request another assignment, but that this one is likely to be the ‘most generous in terms of pay and accommodation’ and was ‘specially selected to fit your skillset as known to the UK Government’.” Kevin nodded sagely as he read. Gemma let out a massive sigh. The man at the end of the bar chuckled to himself.