The chances of what happened this afternoon happening again are so slim that they defy calculation. The perfect temperature, perfect humidity, perfect wind speed and a far from perfect screw-up by a badly trained crane operator. Fucking idiot, he let his mind wander at just the wrong time. A couple of seconds daydreaming and he'd lost the whole bloody lot. A miscalculation and an overcompensation and the crane was on its side in the mud. The white-suited workers gathered around the base of the machine scattered in every direction when they saw the gash in the pipe. Even over the confusion and panic and driving rain and through their breathing apparatus they could hear the hiss of the gas spitting up into the air. If you looked at it you could see it too. A translucent blue-green cloud of exhaust fumes billowing up and up into the dirty grey sky. And were the workers bothered? Other than for their own personal safety no, not unduly. They were protected and at first that was all that mattered. No-one really thought about the spreading clouds of gas until they were back inside. They were more concerned with working out the reasons why it hadn't been their fault and why someone else should take the rap. Selfish, spineless bastards. But if we were in that position then most of us would do the same.
        The conditions had been bad, granted. The light was poor and there were dark black clouds gathering overhead. The heavy rain had started just before the accident and it was falling with such force that each drop seemed to bounce back six inches off the muddy ground. A blustery wind whipped across the scene, carrying the storm and the clouds tainted with escaping gas out across the sky with remarkable speed. The wind moved from north to south and, gradually, much of the country was contaminated.
        In the middle of a cold, bad-tempered and unsuspecting city, countless shoppers, office workers, children dodging school and thousands of others caught out in the open were soaked through with polluted rain.
        At the end of the main street, standing tall and imposing against the grey-black sky and looking down over the rest of the city, stood the MacLennan building. Home to the offices of several major multinational companies, a relentless stream of grey-suited workers trooped away from the shops, bars and restaurants and back towards their offices and desks. Tightly packed but ferociously silent and insular, their stony faces spoke volumes without any of them needing to say a word. Given the choice, none of them would have been anywhere near the city centre.
        Once inside the building the workers removed hats, took off coats and shook umbrellas and waited in huddled melancholy bunches for lifts to arrive. Still little conversation, just the sound of constant, dragging footsteps on the cold marble floor. The security guard, old and uninterested, didn't bother to lift his head from the tabloid newspaper he'd already read three times since his shift began an hour and a half ago.
        The rain entered the building through literally hundreds of ducts, gaps, cracks, crevices and half-open windows and vents. Trickling steadily into the air conditioning and heating systems, within a remarkably short period of time traces of the chemical could be found in every office on every floor. And even if the odourless and tasteless chemical went unnoticed, its side-effects certainly did not.


        Inside a well-appointed top-floor boardroom, fifteen men and women sat in expensive leather chairs around a large wooden table. Despite the relative luxury and comfort of the office, the grey-suits gathered there were anything but relaxed. Jack Williams, the Managing Director was leading the regular Monday afternoon meeting using the same tried and tested management tool with which he lead the struggling company itself - fear. Overweight and red-faced, he spat cynical question after question at the assembled yes-men and women who each looked down at the table and their notes in front of them, doing all that they could to avoid eye-contact. Mark Lucas had the worst seat in the house - directly opposite Williams. He anxiously watched the conversation dance around the table, hanging onto every word and trying his damnedest to remain involved in the meeting whilst taking as little a part in proceedings as possible.
        Christ, I've seen Williams mad before, but never like this. He's fucking livid. I can't wait to get out of this room. I hate that bastard. Bloody hell, just listen to him.
        'It's like I've always said,' he moans, 'you lot aren't getting enough out of the staff. There's no fucking excuse. I want to know why you let it happen, and I want to know what you're going to do about it...'
        Silence. Everyone's looking down at the table again. Steve Turner, sitting two places down to my right, is clearing his throat. I can sense that he's going to say something. He's either brave or stupid.
        'Look, Mr Williams,' he says. 'The problem is leadership. The staff take their lead from us and we take our lead from you. And let's face it, you're just not a good leader, are you?'
        Bloody hell. What is he doing? I've heard of Williams firing people for less than that. I can't bear to look. Much as I want to stand up for Turner and give him a round of applause, he's taking one hell of a chance.
        'What?' says Williams. Like the rest of us he can't believe what he's hearing.
        'I've got to be honest,' Turner continues unaware of the danger, 'you're the worst manager I've worked for. Personally I can't stand you.'
        Williams looks at John Smart to his left for an explanation. Smart is Williams' right-hand man. He's made a career for himself out of sucking up to the MD. He's fidgeting in his seat. He's duty-bound to say something.
        'He's right, Jack,' Smart stammers incredibly. 'You're supposed to be a figurehead for this company, someone we can all look up to. But who in their right mind is going to look up to a overweight, alcoholic liar who's been cheating on his wife for the last year and a half?'
        Williams looks like he's been kicked in the balls. His mouth is forming silent words and for a few seconds he can't speak.
        'Who the hell do you people think you are?' he eventually spits. 'What the hell's got into you...'
        'Maybe you should just shut up and listen...' Smart begins to say before Williams is up and at him. He grabs hold of Smart's scrawny neck with his left hand and punches him square in the face with his right. Smart flies out of his seat and drops to the ground, lying in a crumpled heap on the cream carpet and sobbing like a baby. There's blood pouring out of his nose and down his shirt. Williams stands over him, ready for the kill.
        'Who the hell do you think you are?' He hisses, seething. 'I know you're right, everything you say is true, but who are you to say that to me...?'
        Williams is shaking. Christ, I'm shaking. He looks like he's about to have a heart attack. He falls back into his chair and, sensing that he can escape, Smart drags himself up onto his feet and turns and barges his way through the double doors and out into the main office.


        Smart's sudden appearance in the office caused all work to stop. When they heard the noise the staff looked up from their computers and paperwork in unison and watched as the battered executive half-tripped and half-ran through the office, covering his bleeding nose with a bloodstained handkerchief.
        Seconds later and the all-consuming silence that had suddenly descended was replaced by the sound of countless inquisitive conversations which quickly sprung up across the entire floor.
        More interested in getting out of the building for lunch, Julia Grey (a young and well-dressed middle-manager) pulled on her coat and picked up her bag. For a second she watched Smart's silhouette pacing up and down behind the frosted glass of his office door before making her way to the lift. Two minutes of waiting followed by twenty seconds of rapid descent and she had reached the ground floor. Fighting to get out against the steady tide of workers still trying to fight their way back in, she pushed her way out into the open.
        Outside was cold, wet and grey but that didn't matter. It was outside.
        It's one of those sudden storms that appears out of nowhere and plunges the world into a murky yellow-black darkness. The rain is heavy and I know that if I stay outside for too long I'll be soaked through. I could have stayed at my desk but I had to get out. I'll need to eat and I've got to pick up a few things but finding shelter is more important at the moment. Three shops down from here is Red. It's a decent boutique. I buy a lot of clothes there.
        Inside the shop's not particularly busy. There are a few people looking around and a couple waiting by the till. I need shoes, and they're at the far end by the changing rooms. I can see the curtains twitching. There's a girl coming out. Christ, what does she look like? Much as I'm trying not to, I can't help but stare. She's about four sizes too big for the dress she's tried on. The zip is straining to keep her bulk held in. A shop assistant is looking her up and down. She's smiling and nodding at the customer but her eyes are giving the game away. Her eyes are saying 'no way'. Her eyes are saying 'get that bloody dress off before someone sees you.'
        'So what do you think?' asks the customer, admiring herself in the full-length mirror. 'Is it me?'
        The assistant chews thoughtfully on her lip before answering.
        'No.'
        The customer looks up and scowls, not sure if she's heard right. I'm not sure if I've heard right.
        'What?'
        'Sorry, love, it's just not you.'
        The customer's face has dropped. She looks crestfallen.
        'What do you mean?' she asks, hurt.
        'You're just too fat for it, love. You look ridiculous. You'll be turning heads in this, but for the wrong reasons.'
        'You bitch!' snaps the customer. 'How dare you? I didn't come here to be insulted...'
        The assistant looks surprised and offended.
        'Look, you asked me and I told you. If you didn't want my opinion, you shouldn't have asked...'
        'But...' she stammers. 'I... I... Just get me the manager.'
        The manager is already close. She's picked up on the argument and mounting tension and is on her way to the scene. She looks just like the assistant - same size, same uniform, virtually the same hairstyle. The customer is as big as the other two ladies put together.
        'What seems to be the problem, madam?' she whines, creeping pitifully and doing her best to keep a plastic smile fixed on her over-made-up face.
        'She says I look fat in this,' the customer says angrily, pointing at the assistant. The manager looks her up and down.
        'You do,' she agrees. 'This outfit doesn't do anything for you. You need something looser and more flowing. The cut of this dress really emphasises the size of your hips. Look, you've got rolls of fat here and...'
        The brutal honesty of the two saleswomen is beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. The customer is sobbing pathetically and that makes me feel awkward and embarrassed that I've been watching her public humiliation. She lifts up her head and looks into the mirror again. She has tears stained by smudged make-up rolling down her chubby cheeks.
        'I know you're right,' she mumbles. 'But what else can I do? I've got to have this dress. If I don't wear the right thing then the rest of the girls won't be seen out with me. I know I'll look stupid, but I'd rather look stupid with them than be stuck in on my own on Saturday night...'


        Amanda Fulbrook and Scott Carter were stood a few feet away from the scene, paying at the till. Carter took his plastic card and receipt from the woman behind the counter (who was obviously far more interested in what was going on with the overweight customer than she was the couple in front of her) and ushered Amanda towards the door.
        There's a fight across the road. And there's another breaking out in a shop doorway behind us. Suddenly there's tension in the air - almost panic - and I don't know why or where it's come from. There's anger on many of the faces around us. I pull Mandy closer to me because I want to protect her. Wish I knew what from.
        Outside a bank two policemen are kicking hell out of each other. I saw the older one of the two push the other against the window of the building. The junior copper retaliated with real venom and spite. He took out his truncheon and began to beat his sergeant like he was an armed criminal.
        It's not safe here out on the street. I drag Mandy through the nearest doorway and suddenly we find ourselves in the dry warmth and relative quiet of an electrical superstore. It's an oasis of calm compared to the inexplicable mayhem outside. Instinctively we walk towards the back of the shop. The other people in the building seem oblivious to whatever it is that's happening out on the streets. They're going about their business with reassuring normality.


        Carter led Amanda down through the shop towards a huge bank of television screens. They passed Billy Kumar - a young, confident and brash sales assistant who was busy demonstrating a range of stereo systems to Mr Simpson. Mr Simpson, at almost three times Kumar's age, was looking for something to play his CDs on.
        'So, Mr Simpson,' the lad says to me, 'how many speakers are you after?'
        Stupid question.
        'Two, why?'
        'Just two?'
        'Well my lounge isn't that big and...'
        The lad leans towards me and whispers in my ear.
        'Look,' he says, 'I'm going to level with you, I'm on commission here and it's not worth my while if you walk out of here with anything less than one of the new models with five speakers.'
        I don't know how to take that. He didn't really say that, did he?
        'What about this one?' I ask, pointing at a smaller machine at the one end of the display. It looks all right. It would fit nicely on the cabinet in the living room. The salesman just shakes his head and tuts under his breath.
        'No,' he sighs, 'not expensive enough. Now what about this one?' He's pointing right to the other end of the display where the prices are twice as high as the machines I'm looking at. Maybe we could meet somewhere in the middle? 'This one's got a ten CD autochanger,' he continues. I've got to admire his enthusiasm.
        'I've only got six CDs,' I tell him.
        'It's got minidisc.'
        'What's minidisc?'
        He sighs again.
        'Mr Simpson,' he says, putting his hand on my shoulder, 'you really don't need any of the features that this unit's got, but I want you to buy it. Look, I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll give you twelve month's interest free credit and I'll throw in a five year warranty if you take this one. How's that sound?'
        'Five years?' I ask. Now I'm beginning to get interested.
        'Okay, so the warranty's not really worth the paper it's printed on and there are more get-out clauses for the company than there are protection clauses for you, but that's the deal...'


        Carter and Amanda stood together in front of the bank of TV screens. Carter reached out and pressed a button on an illuminated display just slightly to his right. The picture on all of the screens changed simultaneously. The couple watched each channel for a few dumbstruck seconds.
        On the first channel the latest manufactured pop band finished miming to their new single on the set of a bland daytime television programme. An equally bland presenter walked across the studio floor and into shot, clapping.
        'Absolute rubbish,' the presenter said with an artificial grin fixed on his face. 'That was dull, monotonous and instantly forgettable. Bloody awful! Did you write it?'
        The lead singer looked shocked and glanced at his band mates for support. Deadpan, he answered.
        'Write it? Christ, mate, I didn't even sing on it!'


        On the second channel a celebrity chef added the finishing garnish to a savoury dish. Poised expectantly with a fork, an overexcited member of the public stood nearby, ready to taste the food. The chef gave her the word and she attacked the dish. In a split-second the excitement had disappeared from the middle-aged woman's face. She chewed slowly and forced the food down.
        'So what do you think?' asked the chef.
        She put down her fork.
        'Don't like it,' she mumbled.


        A third channel was broadcasting live from a high-profile fashion show. Tall and willowy models swaggered down the catwalk, illuminated by a constant barrage of hundreds of camera flashes. At the end of the runway the models stopped, pouted, and then turned on their heels and swaggered back.
        'And this is Salter Johnson's new autumn collection,' the disembodied voice of a commentator explained. 'This year Johnson has chosen to mix exotic silks with rough hessians...' There was a pregnant pause before the commentator spoke again. 'Good God,' the disenchanted voice said, 'what do they look like? Who the hell would wear something like that...?'


        And the fourth channel filled the screens with images of a grey-suited politician, standing behind a plinth centre-stage at his party's annual conference. The party faithful listened to his impassioned speech with intent, hanging on his every word.
        'I stand here before you today at the beginning of a new term, and the beginning of another four years of pointless and relentless slander, bickering and back-stabbing. Through the days and months ahead I undertake to you all never to lose sight of my personal election claims and promises...'
        He took a deep breath and looked around the hall before continuing, oblivious to the reaction of the crowd to his words. The television camera focussed tightly on his face.
        'I undertake to abuse my position at every available opportunity. I undertake to dismiss the views of my colleagues in opposition, even if they are obviously sensible and correct. I will represent the views and standards of our party only when it suits me to do so. I will ensure that my personal business interests are properly protected and improperly disclosed and I will willingly compromise any previously stated value or moral standing to preserve my position and increase my influence and power...'
        The silence in the conference hall was deafening. The politician rocked back on his feet and continued unabated.
        'Today I should be thanking each of you for the part you have played in this election victory, but instead there is only one person I wish to thank. That person is my latest mistress, Pamela Barr, who in the last eight months has given me more pleasure, satisfaction and sexual gratification than my wife Diane has in fifteen long and uneventful years of marriage...'


        A loud crash and the sound of ringing alarms filled the electrical store. Carter looked up and saw that a car had been driven into the front of the shop. Frightened shoppers scattered in all directions. Taking hold of Amanda's hand, he led her out through the wreckage and back to the street.
        Christ, it's like a bloody war-zone out here now. The traffic's all backed up and there are people shouting and fighting everywhere. Other people have got their heads down and they're ignoring everything. Sensible.
        There's building works going on in town. It's a massive redevelopment that's taking months to finish. We're running past the edge of the site and, just outside the protective barriers, there are two men. One looks like a foreman, the other a labourer. They've both taken off their hard hats and they're kissing each other. And this isn't just a peck on the cheek...
        I push Mandy down a side road. On the corner two cars have collided. The drivers are standing face-to-face. We keep moving but I can hear them screaming at each other. The second car has driven into the back of the first. It can only just have happened.
        'You bloody idiot!' shouts the first driver. 'What the hell were you doing?'
        The second driver sounds as angry as the first.
        'It's my fault,' he yells. 'You didn't do anything wrong. I just wasn't watching the road...'
        Their voices become quieter as we run away from the city centre and back towards the car park. I need to know what's happening. I want to get out of the city.
        The car park is just ahead. We push through the heavy doors and climb the twisting staircase to level three. The car's halfway along the level. Two spaces further down is a silver sports car. The driver's door is hanging open. As we get closer I can see that there's a man sitting on the wall in front of the car with his legs hanging out over the edge. Christ, it's got to be a thirty foot drop at least from up here. And it's down onto concrete. He'll kill himself if he falls.
        We stop running.


        George Tyler glanced back over his shoulder as the sound of footsteps approached. He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his designer jacket and turned back to look out over the city and the drop below.
        'That's all I want, you know,' I say, just loud enough for the couple to hear. 'All I want is what you two have got.'
        I don't expect them to understand. I don't even expect them to be interested. No-one else is. I shuffle a fraction forward and hold on tightly to the wall. The wind is threatening to blow me off and down into the street. I can hear the man behind me. He's getting closer. He doesn't know what to do. Guess he thinks he should just try and do something.
        'You can keep the money,' I tell him, 'I don't want it anymore.'
        'Come on,' he says. 'Is it that bad?'
        'You can keep the flat and the cars and the golf club membership,' I continue, not really bothered if they're listening. 'You can keep the drugs and the designer labels and the night life... I don't want any of it.'
        And I'm right, I really don't. Sitting here up high and looking out over the city, I feel so fucking insignificant and unimportant. See I've always thought that people thought I was something special. I got a bit of money behind me and I thought that made everything all right. But when it comes down to it, I'm on my own in this. I can't even remember the names of half of the women I've slept with in the last year, and I expect that they can't remember me.
        'I just want someone to look after me,' I explain, not really caring if the couple are still there. 'All I want is someone who's going to hold me because they want to hold me and not because I'm paying them to or because they think they're going to get something out of me for doing it. I'm sick of the fucking flies buzzing round me because of the size of my wallet. It hurts.'
        'Come on,' the man says again.
        'I'm lonely, that's all.'
        There you go. I said it. Before today I couldn't even bring myself to admit it. But there it is, that's the truth.
        I'm not going to jump, and I think this couple know it. They'll be gone in a couple of minutes. Off home together. That's what I'd like. Someone to watch TV with. Someone to eat my dinner with. Someone to go to sleep and wake up with. That's all...
        The rain's stopping.
        Sun's coming out.


        Within an hour the chemicals in the air had faded away.
        Within an hour the ability to cheat, deceive, con, manipulate, betray, mislead and lie had returned.
        Normality began to be restored.