It all happened so fast that her head was spinning.
Just that morning, Petunia, having made sure she looked excellent and businesslike, sat at her typewriter in the small office, her long, dry fingers hammering out an intricate rhythm on the keys, and in time with that peculiar melody, text appeared on the snow-white sheet of paper.
The round clock on the wall, across from her workstation, slowly counted off seconds and minutes, and one by one, colleagues appeared in the office.
As the newest and youngest employee, Petunia was always impeccably punctual, arriving at the office half an hour before the workday began.
And by the time the others straggled in, she was already sitting at her typewriter, radiating a workmanlike atmosphere.
It was her little plan for building a reputation as a reliable and responsible employee.
The last one to arrive was always the boss.
Usually, he would dryly greet the empty air, which meant he’d greeted everyone, and then retreat to his office.
Petunia would immediately start brewing coffee, take it to his office, and emerge with a whole stack of papers and documents that needed retyping.
These assignments would keep her busy until the end of the day.
So today, having greeted her superiors, Petunia headed straight for the small kitchenette.
With all her diligence, she brewed the coffee, not deviating a jot from the boss’s favorite recipe, and then, having nicely arranged a small tray, made her way to his office.
That’s where everything went sideways.
Not according to the usual script.
Petunia set the coffee cup in front of the boss, added two cubes of sugar and a splash of cream, and was about to leave when his next words stopped her: “Miss Evans, hold a moment.” She was surprised, but quickly composed her face and sat down primly on the edge of the visitor’s chair.
For some reason, a feeling of unease settled in.
The boss took a sip of coffee, rustled his newspaper, but then set it aside, as if remembering he wasn’t alone in the office.
“Well then, Miss Evans,” he said in a tone as if continuing an already-begun conversation, “a new employee is to start work tomorrow, and we expect you to vacate your workstation by the end of the day.
Finish what you’re working on, and make sure all work tools are in order and your desk and chair are clean.
That will be all.” Having said this, the boss took another sip of coffee and stared back at his newspaper.
Petunia froze like a statue, trying to digest what she’d heard.
Finally, she opened her mouth and forced out: “Excuse me?” The boss glanced at her irritably over the top of his article.
“Is something unclear, Miss Evans?” She started trembling.
That tone of his… she felt something wrong in her gut, and a cold, clammy fear gripped her body.
“I don’t understand anything, sir.
What are you talking about?
What do you mean, ‘vacate your workstation’?” It seemed that the more words she forced out, the sooner she’d regain control of her body, which now felt like it wasn’t her own.
“Exactly what I said.
You’re fired, Miss Evans.
And drop this line of talk — we’ve already discussed this matter with you,” the boss snapped angrily and noisily finished his coffee.
The bottom of the cup clinked pitifully against the tabletop.
“This is the first I’m hearing of it, sir,” Petunia objected, barely hearing her own voice over the sudden ringing in her ears.
The boss looked at her again, paused, worked his lips as if remembering something, and then said in a completely matter-of-fact tone: “Indeed.
Well then, Miss Evans.
You’re fired.
And you may leave now.
Go on,” he waved his hand at her as if shooing away a bothersome fly, and buried himself in his documents, promptly forgetting about her.
That attitude hit her like a bucket of cold water.
Petunia pressed her lips together, holding back the sharp words that were useless now, stood up abruptly, and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
At the sound, her colleagues turned around, and their greedy curiosity was almost physically palpable.
Ugh, disgusting.
Petunia shuddered, shaking off that sticky attention, walked to her workstation, and irritably finished typing the document.
Maybe she’d have liked to smash the place up, but alas, that wasn’t Petunia Evans.
“Evans,” she turned at the voice.
In the doorway stood the HR lady who had hired her.
“Stop by my office when you’re done.” Nodding, Petunia pounded the keys with doubled force, ignoring her colleagues’ requests to type more quietly.
To the most insistent ones, she replied in an icy tone that she’d been instructed to finish this work “as quickly as possible,” and they left her alone.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a colleague whispering something to the one she’d so unflatteringly rebuffed, darting glances in her direction.
They all know, Petunia understood, and anger flared within her with triple force.
Only the sense of responsibility instilled in her from childhood toward any undertaking kept her from dropping everything and walking out.
But oh, how she wanted to!
She finished the retyping in record time, even by her own standards.
Putting an emphatic period and not bothering to pull the sheet from the typewriter, Petunia swept her things into her handbag and, wishing her former colleagues a “pleasant stay” in such a sharp voice that it was a miracle no one got cut, walked out.
In HR, they made her sign the payroll and handed her a résumé with a note about impeccable work and a thin stack of pounds.
Petunia pressed her lips together, estimating the cash at a glance — most likely not even enough to cover a month’s rent — and tucked it into her handbag under the sympathetic gaze of the HR lady.
“Sorry it turned out this way, Evans,” there were notes of regret in her usually even voice.
She poured Petunia a cup of strong black tea and pushed a small bowl of cookies toward her.
Petunia looked at her questioningly.
“There are no complaints about your work, don’t worry.
It’s just that someone urgently needed a workstation.
You were the only one who could be moved.” “Is that so,” was all Petunia said.
Finishing the tea in a few gulps, she politely said goodbye and, with her back proudly straight, walked out the office doors.
Taking a few steps with the steady gait of a confident person, she gradually slowed down until she stopped in complete bewilderment on the street corner.
The workday had only just begun, and numerous passersby hurried past her to their offices.
Cars honked and revved, traffic lights blinked, a police officer nearby was scolding some pedestrians.
Not knowing where to rest her gaze, Petunia looked at the people around her without focusing on anyone for more than a few seconds.
Her gaze drifted of its own accord to a shiny new car that had stopped at a red light.
The young man behind the wheel — sturdy and fair-haired — seemed familiar to her for some reason, though Petunia couldn’t figure out where she knew him from.
This impression grew stronger when he, as if sensing her gaze, turned his head, and their eyes met.
The eye contact lasted only a moment, after which Petunia hastily looked away, cursing herself for such carelessness, while her stomach felt heavy and queasy for some reason.
She didn’t see that the man looked at her a bit longer, with a similarly puzzled expression of someone who keeps trying and failing to remember something very important, but then the traffic light changed, other drivers honked at him, hurrying him along, and he quickly drove off.
Out of the corner of her ear, Petunia heard a thin ringing, as if a guitar string had snapped nearby, but she chalked it up to street noise and soon forgot about it.
Still, wallowing in gloom for long wasn’t in Petunia Evans’s character.
She gawked around a bit more, finally filled with the desire to do something, and hurried to the nearest newsstand.
The plan that formed in her head was simple.
Buy a newspaper, look for suitable vacancies, and go to interviews.
Her goal was to get a new job as quickly as possible.
Surely there wasn’t a single office in London that didn’t need a typist.
Especially since the month was drawing to a close, and the amount of pounds in her handbag definitely wouldn’t be enough when the landlady came for the rent.
Paying a few pence for a fresh newspaper, Petunia settled down at a bus stop and rustled through the pages.
But if just a few minutes ago she’d been filled with enthusiasm, it soon evaporated completely.
According to the press, today in London they needed waiters and laborers, as well as governesses and maids.
Petunia dismissed all these offers immediately.
She wasn’t desperate enough yet to grab at them, and besides, shouldn’t she get the maximum benefit from her typing courses?
Surely her skills could find some use.
Filled with the most serious intentions, she reviewed the job section again, very carefully, reading even the smallest print.
But no.
All the same.
Except for a salesgirl position in the women’s clothing section of a newly opened department store.
Petunia had heard her former colleagues discussing it over tea and had quietly envied them.
Unlike them, Petunia couldn’t afford to spend money on expensive stores, and diligently counted every penny.
She sighed and looked through the job offers page again, now diagonally.
No miracle occurred.
Well, she decided, she could work in the store for now, while simultaneously looking for a more decent position.
The newspaper went into her handbag, and a map of London appeared.
Petunia gave the map several minutes of close attention.
Her research showed that the store wasn’t too far away, and she could easily walk there instead of spending precious money on the bus.
No sooner said than done.
Putting away the map, Petunia adjusted her coat and scarf and stepped out from under the bus stop onto the street.
Spotting a landmark — a tall building on the opposite corner — she bravely set off.
Checking street names and building numbers, she moved from one street to another, firmly convinced she was approaching her destination, and only after passing the same building a second time did she realize she was lost.
Petunia sighed and unfolded the map again.
A quick look around confirmed that she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
So which way did she need to turn to get to where she wanted to go?
It seemed there was a printing error in this part of the map, she admitted.
The alley she needed to turn into was on the map but didn’t exist in reality.
Petunia deliberately walked several dozen steps forward without lifting her nose from the map and ran into a dead end.
She sighed again, feeling completely helpless, and looked around.
If you don’t know where to go, you can always ask passersby.
But, as if on purpose, right now she was completely alone on the street.
“Mystical,” she muttered under her breath.
Mystical, because not magical.
Petunia had no use for magic.
Continuing to look around, she accidentally noticed a small sign off to the side.
Maybe, if this establishment was open, they could point her in the right direction.
Buoyed by hope, she hurried over.
A staircase with three chipped steps led down to a semi-basement, to a door whose gloomy appearance reminded her of monasteries or dungeons.
On the door, slightly askew, hung a sign.
“Helping Hand,” the sign read.
The sign was old, darkened by time, but the letters, rendered in intricate cursive, were clearly legible.
A bit lower, in a more regular font, it said: bar, hours — whenever help is needed.
That informal sign design screamed “weirdos” from a mile away, and Petunia hesitated about whether to enter.
For a long several minutes she stood, examining the sign, clutching her handbag so hard her fingers hurt.
Finally, necessity overcame aversion, and with wooden steps she crossed the distance to the door and stared at the doorknob.
Instead of being a normal doorknob, it was a hand extended in an invitation to shake — large but graceful, with long aristocratic fingers, male by the size.
Not that Petunia was an expert on men’s hands, but when, after a moment’s hesitation, she shifted her handbag from her right hand to her left and carefully placed her hand in the bronze one extended to her, the improvised handshake turned out almost perfect.
The moment she cautiously clasped the palm, the bronze fingers closed tightly around her hand.
Petunia shrieked and jerked in a futile attempt to free herself.
Behind the door, some mechanism ground threateningly, invisible gears clicked, and the door panel plunged into the darkness, dragging the hapless visitor along with it.
In the cold morning air, only a piercing scream remained, which soon faded, mingling with the other sounds of the waking city.
But even so, it didn’t disturb the strange calm of the alley’s residents.
Not a single shutter flew open, not a single gap appeared in any curtain for peeking.
No one paid attention to the scream or to how the dark bar door dissolved into the air, leaving behind only old brickwork.