Behind a door marked Henry Kilshaw the cold warmed an office of functional design. Ignoring its task of illuminating the interior the heatless April morning sunlight brought only contrast, a bright, sickly, slanted rectangle creeping across the floor through a forest of darkly polished wood furniture, shadows of worked trees.
Behind his large desk, a battle field dotted with the function and only the function of his daily battle he sat, two piles of files in front of him, one left one right, opposing forces awaiting the general’s attention. The first folder to hand slides off the top of the right-hand stack, lands in the empty space in front of him, and opens with ease, causally he glances down at the notes and numbers inside, raises his black ink pen, ticks a box, and in the appropriate place, signs; a complex fluid signature, finished by a decisive underline. His ego takes great pleasure in highlighting his signature, his mark, his stylised underline – exaggerating it as much as he dare within the boundaries of his controlled, concise, practiced, clinical routine. The process repeats it’s self , a routine in a life of routine. Everything is smooth – his movements, his pace, his decisions, even his breathing is timed to blend into routine.
Nearing the end of his task with the right pile almost dissolved into the left his rhythm is unexpectedly halted by an unusual discovery, by hand written notes that explain detail but not reason. His eyes widen as fear drives them down the page, a fear that is realised on discovering that the area intended for his signature has already been filled by another mark. ‘VOID’ it barks at him, challenges him, repeated four times, in red ink, from a hard-pressed stamp. Fear turns to anger nibbling at his controlled facade.
Moments pass; Kilshaw exhales slowly, leans across the desk, pulling forward a telephone, and in his ordered fashion dials a well-rehearsed number. The call is answered as though the recipient were waiting.
“Yes?”
“We have an exception.”
A pause from the other end is followed by a muffled reply:
“Do you have any options?”
“No, not here.”
“Very well. We shall have to deal with it directly. What is his name?”
Henry looks down again at the folder, and an uncharacteristic look of shocked fear takes his face. He answers quietly.
“It’s a woman.”
“A woman!” choked the voice as near to silence as a voice could be and still be audible.
“YES, yes” he said closer to regaining composure ”A woman and with a void stamp” What was worst, her being a her, or the fact that he could not control her entry into what he saw as his club. Time froze as both caller and answerer listened to the static of the wordless connection.
“We have no choice” they both agreed as he moved the folder to the done pile.
She, the centre of all the upstairs interest had just nodded to the doorman, downstairs; the very same doorman that Mr Kilshaw acknowledged without seeing every morning.
Leading a whiff of fine perfume she strode, bolder than usual towards the reception. A hello smile eased over her face as she saw Jane, her long term friend, her confidant and till recently Mr Kilshaws boss.