Looking back on it, it surprises me how long it took me to realise that the only solution was to kill Overchurch. It was uncharacteristic of me not to have thought of it sooner. However, once the idea had presented itself, it wasn't long before I came to regard it as entirely sensible, logical and - to be frank - necessary. To me (and I assumed the rest of the company) he represented nothing more than a waste of sixty or seventy K a year (to say nothing of national insurance, pension contributions and so on), and roughly forty square metres of premium office space. I really could not imagine that anyone would miss him. The only question was the practical one of how to get rid of him.
This is not to say that I hadn't explored the other alternatives. Anyone who has played the game of office politics at all seriously knows that it is almost as easy to fire someone from below as it is from above, and for some time I had been conducting an assiduous campaign against Overchurch. I did all the usual things: assuming his role whilst he was away, and continuing to report to his boss even when he came back, developing complex new management systems that he was incapable of understanding, and writing subtle, well-targeted little memoranda illustrating how I was solving all his problems for him as well as my own, whilst all the time giving him as little real assistance as possible. Even by my own standards, it was a bravura performance. But still, after nearly eighteen months, the man remained in his job. My job.
That was the worst of it. Everyone knew I was after Overchurch's job. From time to time, I would come in to my office early in the morning to find that some smart-arse had replaced my standard-issue swivel chair with his expensive leather-backed recliner. Once or twice I came close to leaving it there - Goddamit, I deserved it. Sales in my area were up threefold, productivity was soaring, and the forecasts were heading into orbit ... Jesus, I was supporting the whole of the division single-handed. But no-one upstairs seemed to realise, and I just couldn't understand why.
After I had reached my decision, I felt an enormous sense of relief, because I felt that I was at last taking control of the situation. The intense frustration eased, and I began to relax a little. I even made some efforts to be friendly with Overchurch, despite the fact that I found him pompous, humourless and unbelievably dull. The tedium of having to deal with this slob on a regular basis was, after all, somewhat leavened by the knowledge that I was in possession of his most intimate secret (one so intimate that even he was unaware of it) - his imminent demise. I suppose that I was deriving the same pleasure from the situation as a cat playing with a mouse, savouring power over another living thing before delivering the coup de grace.
This went on for a month or so, until in late February an opportunity presented itself. There was a particularly cold snap, and the cold water pipes froze. This tended to happen on a fairly regular basis (largely because the cold water tank on the roof was rather poorly lagged) and it caused intense annoyance to the staff working in the building. Rather than call in the plumbers straight away, however, I suggested to Overchurch that we should go up on the roof ourselves and take a good look at the tank and see if we could sort out a more permanent fix this time. As I had expected, this idea appealed to him - he was the sort of man who reckoned he knew a thing or two about practical matters, and was fond of telling us all about his most recent DIY exploits over and over again.
The roof was usefully icy, and a chill wind whipped around us as we stood examining the tank. Once we had decided that there wasn't much, after all, that could be done, I shouted to Overchurch,
"Bet the view's good from up here!"
My intention, of course, was to entice him to stroll with me to the edge of the roof and then give him a slight nudge - sufficient to topple him off the building, but not so much as to cause him to grab onto me as he did so. As I had anticipated, he agreed and headed off towards the edge immediately, without any further encouragement. Unfortunately, as I hurried after him, I slipped and fell myself, but recovered quickly enough to see that he was standing on the edge, peering over, with one foot resting on a loose pile of rope that had something to do with the window-cleaning cradle. He turned round, and seeing me sprawled on the deck, called out:
"Enjoy the trip! Send us a postcard!"
This was a typically fatuous Overchurch remark, and served the purpose of focusing my anger on him. I realised that I could just about reach the rope from where I was lying, so I grabbed it and gave a sharp yank. It was perfect. Overchurch wobbled slightly, frantically jammed his foot into the pile of rope, struggled to disentangle it, and then gently toppled over the side. The rope shot off after him, but then caught on something behind me and held fast. I heard a cry and then a smash of glass from a window below. I hadn't bargained on this.
I had to move fast. I staggered to my feet, raced back into the building and hared down one flight of stairs, then another, and then ...
"Would you mind stepping in here for a moment?"
It was the MD. I froze in my tracks, turned and mutely followed him into the boardroom. An awful thought struck me as I walked through the door - an awful thought that was immediately transmuted into reality, as I saw Overchurch there in front of me. At least I assumed that it was Overchurch, because the state of his face rendered him completely unrecognisable. He was impaled on the jagged edge of the hole in the window, with his upper torso in the room, whilst the rest of his body swung wildly about on the end of the rope outside it. Various members of the board were clustered around him, regarding him with some curiosity. I was relieved to observe that he appeared to be completely lifeless, but the sight of him still took my breath away for a moment.
"Good Lord," I remarked.
"Hmmm," remarked the MD significantly. "Do sit down", he said, motioning me to a chair in front of a video screen. He pressed a button, and a picture appeared. It was Overchurch, standing on the edge of the building. In the foreground, I could see myself, lying on the roof after my tumble on the ice. We watched in silence as my image on the security camera grabbed the rope and tugged it, resulting in Overchurch's disappearance over the side. The MD pressed another button, and the picture faded.
"Hmmm," he remarked again, looking me full in the face. There then followed the longest silence of my life, during which I gradually became aware that every single member of the board was looking at me. Behind them, Overchurch's absurd body continued to sway backwards and forwards, whilst the cold air wafted in through the broken window.
Eventually, the Head of Marketing broke the silence.
"We were wondering how you were going to do it," she said.
"We'd almost given you up," said the Finance Director.
The MD nodded in agreement, "One was beginning to feel ... disappointed in you. As if you hadn't got ... well, one hates to put it so crudely ... the killer instinct." He smiled briefly at me, and then shrugged. "Well, it's nice to be proved wrong after all. I suppose congratulations are in order." He glanced around at his fellow board members, who proceeded to give me a round of applause. In the background, I thought I could hear the siren of a police car approaching at speed.
The MD seemed to hear this too, for he reached down to the video machine, removed the tape and walked over to the wall, where he pulled back a picture to reveal a safe. He twirled the combination lock, opened the door, threw in the tape, closed the door again and spun the lock before replacing the picture. It was all done in one easy, well-practised movement.
"It is the only copy," he reassured me, before adding, "One hopes that we can rely on your absolute commitment to the company in your new role?"
The siren was getting closer now. I nodded fervently.
"Hmmm," said the MD. "Well then ... Dreadful accident, eh?"
"Dreadful," I agreed.
© Jonathan M. Pinnock, 1993