The worst part of the situation wasn’t the missing building, Stan realized.
It wasn’t even that his job – and all his workmates – had seemingly vanished with it into the unknown.
No, it was that everyone out here on the street was behaving as if nothing had happened. That was the really weirdthing.
Stan stared at the absence on the other side of the road. He’d only nipped out for lunch fifteen minutes ago. Now, Manchester One was gone, all 20 storeys of it. It just didn’t make any sense. How the hell was he going to explain this one? Screw that, who was he going to explain it to?
“Sorry I’m late, boss, only…” Yeah, right. He didn’t believe it either; not that the boss was in any position to complain.
Stan staggered towards the pedestrian crossing; eyes glued to the point in space where his particular workplace had once existed. He neglected to check the lights and stepped onto the road; a blaring horn hurled him back to the kerb. He stumbled, lost his balance, and landed on his arse. Somebody laughed in passing.
Warmth flooded Stan’s cheeks; his rump throbbed on the hard flagstones. Still on his backside, Stan watched people casually walk across what was still the foyer when he left the building earlier. The place was done up now like a little square, with planters and benches; a couple of office workers sat eating their lunch.
“You all right, mate?”
Stan blinked up at the speaker, a man in a suit and tie. What the hell was he supposed to say? “Y… eah… yeah, I’m good,” he lied. “Serves me right for daydreaming, I guess.”
He took the stranger’s offer of a helping hand and lurched to his feet.
“Thanks, mate. Er, I don’t suppose you know what’s happened to Manchester One?”
The man shrugged. “Never heard of it.”
“Sure.” Glum acceptance. “No worries. Take it easy.”
The man strolled off, completely unperturbed by the vanished building. Stan was left to his conundrum. The lights changed; he hurried across the road and stopped by the edge of the ‘square’.
“Somebody, beam me up,” he muttered, taking out his phone and thumbing the office speed dial.
Someone picked up. Maybe. Stan felt his gut clench. He thought he heard a voice garble a greeting, but it was buried deep in warbling distortion.
“Hello? Hello! It’s Stan. Can you hear me? Hello!”
A high-pitched whine. The signal stuttered and died. Stan muttered a curse; tried again. This time, nothing.
“This isn’t happening,” Stan moaned.
The old man happened to be wandering past at the wrong time. Stan could relate to that, but he couldn’t help himself from snapping at the poor sod: “Where’s Manchester One?”
The man looked at him funny. Well, Stan conceded, so would he if somebody spoke to him like that. He took a deep breath and tried again. “Sorry, mate, having a day out of the Twilight Zone. Do you know what’s happened to Manchester One?”
“Can’t say I do,” the old man said, warily polite. “Some fancy bar, is it?”
“No. It’s an office block. It was right there!”
“If you say so, son.” The old man shrugged and circled round to waddle up Portland Street; every so often he glanced back at Stan over his shoulder.
Stan felt his jaw clench in irritation. “Oy,” he called, “I’m not a nutter, you know!”
The old man hurried off. Stan watched him dissolve into the flurry of bodies hurtling their way through just another day. “I’m not,” he muttered, beginning to wonder if that was strictly true.
At a loss, Stan glanced up and down the street; come on, somebody just admit the whole thing’s an elaborate David Blaine wind-up, right? No such luck.
This was going nowhere. Suck it up, Stan. Shrinking back was not his style. The only way to fight the frantic tension was to dive into the fray: don’t think, just do. The sale was in the pitch. With a deep breath, he strode up the block and began to work the crowds.
“Excuse me,” he said, approaching a young woman power-dressed like a lawyer. She shook her head and kept walking. Stan shrugged it off.
Again, some bloke in construction gear: “’Scuse me, do you know Manchester One?”
“Don’t know it, sorry…”
Next, a youth, maybe a student, rapt in his mobile’s screen: “Hey, mate, do you know where I can find Manchester One?”
With an indifferent shrug, the youth walked on.
Rinse; repeat. Stan didn’t break his stride, like cold-calling potential clients. He bounced from one query to the next, zig-zagging his way to the corner with Chorlton Street, the same denials and blank stares.
Eventually, even the most hardened sales guy had to call it a busted flush, but Stan just couldn’t let it go. What, go home like nothing had happened – and what was he going to tell his girlfriend, Gem? No, screw that, what was he going to tell ‘em down the dole?
“Now what?” Stan muttered, bewildered. It had gone well past lunch hour. The crowds were thinned out; shoppers and students, tourists and layabouts, the latter swanned into the pub for an afternoon shooting the breeze. He swallowed the urge to nip in for a stiff one himself. Day like this, he might not stop at just the one.
Then a familiar face caught his attention. A break at last. Susan strolled across the road, carrying a take-out from the café opposite. She worked reception in Manchester One; she’d know the score. Bound to. Yeah, like she’d really know why a sodding great office block had just vanished behind her back.
Ignoring the nagging voice of reason, Stan scurried over to head her off. “Hiya,” he said, ever the optimist.
Susan glanced his way. There was no recognition in her eyes. The blank gaze sucked the surety out of Stan’s mind.
“Um,” his tongue stumbled, “don’t suppose you know what’s happened to Manchester One?”
“Sorry, mate, never heard of it. What street’s it on?”
“This one!” Stan bit down a curse. “Come on, Susan, this isn’t funny. I’m late for work.”
Susan frowned. “How do you know my name? Have we met before?”
“Oh, come on! You know me. It’s Stan. We were having a good natter yesterday. You’re off to Miami next month with your girlfriend.”
“How do you know that?” Susan hurried her pace.
“You told me! While I was waiting for the bloody lifts in Manchester-sodding-One!”
“I told you. The company hasn’t got a building called that. Now leave me alone.”
“Susan, will you stop messing about and listen to me? You’re right. It’s disappeared. Just like that. I nip out for lunch and when I get back it’s like it’s never been. Will you stop and listen to me?”
Grabbing her arm was a mistake. The woman knew how to throw a punch; he’d give her that. Stan staggered back a pace and massaged his jaw.
“Susan, come on. Please. It’s me – Stan – you know me!”
He tried to step closer, but she shouted: “Get AWAY from me!”
The day was going from bad to worse, impossible as it seemed. Stan felt the crowds crystallize around him; suddenly he had an audience.
A young woman in a red hijab pushed in front of him. She glared, no nonsense expression on her face. “You need to back off,” she said. “Now!”
Stan flapped his mouth, cheeks burning red. Shuffling his shame, he complied and stammered a lame apology.
An old man – the old man – appeared from the crowd. He gave Stan a sour glance then he put a grandfatherly hand on Susan’s shoulder. “You all right, luv? Do you want to report this to the police?”
Susan shook her head, but plenty of people were flourishing their phones. Stan felt something cold gurgle into his bowels; he clenched just in time. Any one of these ‘concerned citizens’ might be on to the cops right now. Or worse, uploading his shame to Twitter. That didn’t bear thinking about.
“Come on, guys,” he said, “I’m having a bad day here...”
The woman in the hijab snorted. “Doesn’t give you the right to take it out on her.”
“I’m not!” Stan threw his arms in the air, and then grabbed the top of his head in exasperation. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. She knows me. She really does. I don’t know why she’s saying otherwise. We work in the same building. I nipped out for lunch and now the whole place is gone. I just want to know what the fuck is going on.”
No sympathy; no comprehension. A black guy in the crowd, arm around the waist of a skinny blond bloke, stared with disdain and said: “Coke lunch, was it?”
Automatically, Stan wiped his nose. “No, I’m straight.”
“Aren’t you just,” the blond said.
Stan just flapped his mouth. This was getting to be a habit.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Susan said.
“Give it a rest...” Stan stopped and stared. The old man was gone. There was no sign of him anywhere.
“Expect us to believe that bullshit story,” the black guy added. There was no sign of his partner.
“Er, where did your fella go?”
“My ‘fella’? Good job I’m out and proud, pal. My partner’s at work.”
“No. No.” Stan felt dizzy. “He was right there. You had your arm around him. He was blond, skinny.”
“What are you trying to say, pal? He ain’t blond. And if I’m honest he’s got a bit of a gut, but, hey, I still love him.”
“This is nuts,” Stan muttered, turning full circle to take in the flurry of faces. Back to the woman in the hijab; she was still there but… A wail started low in his throat, eventually evolving into words, but only just. “Wh... where’s S-Susan?”
The woman looked baffled. “Who?”
“Susan.” Stan pointed, his finger waving erratic. “She was right there behind you!”
“You’re on something, mate.”
“Stop messing with my head!” Stan felt his fists clench. He sucked in air; it didn’t cool the fear smoldering under his ribs. “Where’s Susan? Where is she? Where’s Manchester One?”
“Take it easy,” the woman added, backing away.
The crowd gave him space. It didn’t help. A howl was building up in his throat; he swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut. A voice brought him back from the brink.
“Now then, what seems to be the problem?”
Stan opened his eyes. A copper, that was all he needed. Even his fast talking had its limits.
The policeman was standing at a deceptive ease, his hands tucked casually into his stab vest. Nearby his colleague, a policewoman, copied his stance, but she was clearly sizing him up.
Stan looked from one to the other, desperate: “I... I can’t... find the office.”
“And what office would that be, sir?”
“Manchester One.”
“Can’t say I know it; what’s the address?”
“Portland Street!” Stan sniffed, pointing towards the newborn square. “It was right there!”
The cop’s face was unreadable, but he nodded to someone over Stan’s shoulder. “I think you should come with us, sir. We can work this out together down at the station.”
“What... but...”
Two more coppers emerged from behind Stan, one on either side; they took hold of his arms, and with a practiced motion, they quickly cuffed him before he could even think to protest. The crowds parted as he was frogmarched in disgrace to a nearby patrol car.
“Wait,” Stan said, “come on...”
“Take is easy, Sir,” said the officer holding onto his arm.
The other copper, the woman, opened the door and then forced his head down, none too gently, so he wouldn’t bang it clambering into the car. Meekly, Stan complied and shuffled into place as best he could with his arms behind his back. The door slammed. Moments later the locks clunked.
Head down, Stan stared at his feet, a lead weight in his guts. Seconds became minutes, while the cops did their thing. He wished they’d hurry; he just wanted to get this over with. Even so, this was a mess; how was he going to talk his way out of this? What was Gem going to say?
He felt his eyes welling up. The tears made his nose run in sympathy; sniffing hard, he sucked up snot. “Fuckssake!”
The car lurched. Stan felt a moment of gut-shivering freefall followed by impact. His head slammed into the back of the passenger seat, then he almost slid into the footwell when he rebounded and fell across the back seat. He’d bitten his tongue: blood tasted bitter in his mouth; there was a dull ache in his neck. Whatthehell?
Somehow, he struggled back into a seated position – easier said than done with his cuffed arms. There was nothing to be seen through the windscreen. The glass was frosted from the impact. He turned his head and peered through the rear passenger window. Immediately, he wished he’d kept his head down.
Stan pressed his face to the glass and stared at the impossible view. All he could see was a wild landscape of trees and moorland. There was no sign of Portland Street. Hell, there was no sign of Manchester.
“Hey!” He shouted. “Hello! Anyone there?”
Of course, nobody answered. Why would they, he was in the middle of fucking nowhere. He tried to reach the door handle with his bound hands, twisting in the seat to try and gain purchase, but he couldn’t manage it. Then he remembered they were locked anyway. Shit! He shoulder-barged the door. All it did was hurt.
“Is there anybody out there?”
Nothing.
“Come on!” Frantic.
“Please! Anybody...”
Mark Cantrell is a UK writer and journalist currently taking a career break to care for a parent with dementia, but still chasing the literary dream. He is the author of the novels Citizen Zero (2017) and Silas Morlock (2013), published by Inspired Quill.
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