by Andrew Seccombe

* * *

Corn kernels. Baby carrots. Asparagus. Beetroot. That was going to be it. Adam’s see-through eyebrows curled as he scanned the shelves for gaps. That’d be the week then.

He plodded down aisle four, his second home. Good health in a can. He moved toward the swing doors which housed the shitty sanctuary of the employee lounge.

He knew those squeaks.

Adam turned round to see Manager Mark’s elevated soles crunching against the glacial linoleum spread. Molecules of disinfectant were screaming underfoot.

“Adam?”

“Yeah?” And an eye-brow raise. He was feeling generous.

Mark managed not to move his top lip at all when speaking. It was very discomforting.

“A few minutes please?”

Ed was sitting inside the office, looking all too ready to rat on his teammates. Adam sat down next to him, not bothering to fish for an eye contact explanation.

“You know why you’re in here?”

New lines please. We are all creators.

“Okay. Well it’s because I’m loosing stock. Confectionery mainly. Stuff’s basically disappearing every week. So, the area manager calls me up. He says what’s going on? I say I dunno. And he says sort it out. Or you’re out.”

Adam was willing that top lip to move even a little. Give us a sign.

“So, I’m not sure that you’ve noticed but I’ve been doing random stocktakes. I know what’s going missing and when. Therefore, it hasn’t been so hard to track down what staff might be involved.”

“But Mark, it could just as likely be customers ripping the stuff off. We’ve had plenty of shoplifters in the last few months.” Ed always had something to say. For better or for worse, always something.

As every employer relishes, Mark had the lead role. The play was in his hands.

“No, Edward.”

Dramatic pause.