The Cold Spot

Part 2

Miller stole a glance at his watch as he walked clumsily up the concrete steps which lead to the lobby.

10:32 am.

Shit, late again! Could have been a whole lot worse though.

He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and grimaced, wishing he'd had time to brush his teeth. At least he had changed into some relatively clean clothes.

He waved at the receptionist as he crossed the plush carpeted floor and paused outside the door to the design department.

Okay, get a grip now, he thought as he tried to focus on the silver doorknob.

Even though his head throbbed, his hands were shaking and his stomach felt like it was about to expel last night's chicken curry, he forced himself to smile.

Just keep up appearances Johnny boy!

He reached for the knob and entered.

Heads turned and everyone grinned as Miller walked through. He smiled and waved to the other six people in the office as he strode over to his desk with an exaggerated swagger. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled like a brewery, but he always walked tall when he entered the office in the morning. He was, after all, something of a legend. There wasn't a single person at KCR Designs who didn't know about John – "Johnny Boy" – Miller. He drank like a fish and never got a hangover.

Oh, if only they knew the price of fame.

At the age of forty-five, it was getting harder to carry the act with each passing year. He reached his desk and sat down with a heavy sigh. At the adjoining desk, Mike Gale smirked over the steaming cup of coffee he held to his lips.

"Hard night John?"

"Too right!" Miller said, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

"You'd better watch out, old King's on the warpath this morning."

Miller leaned back and stroked his hand over his morning stubble. "Bollocks to him," he said. It wasn't bravado – he really meant it, and everyone knew it. Christopher King would never sack him; he was the best-damned designer KCR had. No matter that he rarely did a stroke of work before eleven-thirty, the fact was that half a day's work from "Johnny Boy" Miller was worth more than a day of anyone else's.

Miller fished in his pocket for a pound coin and tossed it over to Gale.

"Get us a coffee Mike, my mouth feels like the bottom of a bird cage."

"What's the matter," asked Gale in mock indignation, "no bones in your legs?

"You don't know how right you are."

"Okay, you poor old sod," grinned Gale, "just this once."

Miller reached down to the drive unit sitting under his desk and turned his P.C. on. He supposed he'd better at least look as if he was working. By the time the computer had started up Gale had returned with the coffee.

"Oh, thanks, Mike," said Miller, taking the cup from the other man.

The two of them sat in silence for a while, then a hazy memory came back to Miller.

"Mike?"

"Yeah?" said Gale, not taking his eyes away from his own monitor.

"What's another word for something impossible – ending in 'ism'?"

"Donno... How many letters?"

"No, it's not a crossword. It's... well, er... never mind." He considered for a moment. "Well, there's something strange happening in my house."

"Yeah, I'm sure there is."

"No, really. No matter how high I turn up the heating, the living room always seems to be cold. In one corner it's freezing, it's driving me nuts."

Gale pulled a face. "Just sounds like a draught to me mate."

"No, I've checked for that. I've sealed the air vent, put draught excluders around the doors. I've even put cling film over the windows – and it's still cold."

Gale took a thoughtful sip from his cup. "Is it?" he asked. "Perhaps it just seems cold."

"What the fu..."

"No, hear me out, Johnny. You know as well as I do that an electric fan doesn't cool air down – it actually heats it up. It only feels cold because the breeze evaporates the moisture on your skin. That's probably what's in your front room; some kind of air current."

Miller still felt muzzy headed and he knew that it was going to be hard to argue back with any conviction.

"No Mike," he said. "There are no currents, no nothing. It's just cold."

"Well, there is one way you can work it out."

"How?"

"Go and see Dickson down in the lab. Ask to borrow that temperature measuring gadget he has. It's far better than any thermometer."

"Yeah, I think I'll do that." Miller looked up at the office wall-clock and made a mental calculation. "Fancy a pint at lunchtime, Mike?"

Gale smirked, shook his head ruefully and went back to work.

That's the way. Keep up appearances. Miller smiled and focused on his own monitor.

"Solipsism?" Miller whispered idly to himself.

"Say what?"

"Nothing, never mind."