Lorraine Connection (6 page)

‘How much will you pay me to open it?’ There follows a howl of protest. ‘Just kidding. We’re entitled to, aren’t we? Today’s our big day.’

He takes a minute screwdriver from the inside pocket of his leather bomber jacket and inserts it into the lock, turning it
gently
with his fingers, listening for the slightest reaction. He locates the notch, twists, applies some pressure. The boot opens with a
grating sound and there, thrown in haphazardly are a computer and three boxes full of files. The game’s up. Nourredine, a man who’s never touched a drop of alcohol, feels intoxicated. Shapes sway around him.
If
you
take
one
step,
you’
ll
drop.
They’re
moving
the files out. A hush falls on the little crowd.
Haven’t
had
a
bite
to
eat
since
this
morning.
His blood pressure rockets then falls.
Want
to
puke.
Quignard’s frank, direct handshake:
Your
boss,
not
a
bad
guy,
huge
misunderstanding …
Bollocks,
yes.
And
what
about
you,
seeing
everything
through
rose-tinted
spectacles,
you
poor
bastard.
He
shakes
his
head
vigorously,
the
dizziness
over,
feels
only
rage.

Someone gives him a leg up and he climbs on to the car. All those faces turned towards him: Nourredine, the semi-skilled Arab worker, and beneath his feet, the Korean manager, cringing in his car. A surge of pride. The car rocks. Big smile.

‘Better not rock it too hard. Right, this is what’s happening. The Koreans are moving the files out in secret, to make it easier to close the factory down behind our backs. Are we going to let them get away with it?’

A hundred and fifty voices: ‘No way!’

‘I propose we occupy the admin section and confine the
managers
to their offices …’ The workers hold their breath. ‘… until our demand on the payment of our bonuses is met. There’s one solution to all this, just one. The warehouses are full. They sell the stocks under our control, and use the money to pay the agreed bonuses before they do anything else.’

The assembled workers discuss the idea, it offers something concrete at last. Selling the stocks is a good idea, they’re worth more than the total owed on bonuses. Maybe, but locking in the managers … ‘We need to check we have the backup.’ ‘Management leaves us no choice. It’s one provocation after another. Anyone would think they’re trying to …’ ‘That’s what worries me.’

‘Look, we’ve got to act fast and decisively. We all go there together, we lock them in: one night will be enough, tomorrow morning, they’ll cave in. Look at the Korean in his car.’ Gives a little kick to the roof which clangs. They all see the terrified face again, the car rocking, the power of concerted action. ‘They’re afraid of us. Let’s make the most of it. If we don’t get their respect today, then tomorrow, they’ll close down and we’ll be left with nothing. We lock them in now. All those in favour?’

There follows no more than an instant’s indecision. Étienne raises his hand along with the whole first shift from packaging. All the rest of the hands go up. Aisha finds it hard to believe, but she’s voting to lock the managers in. While four men retrieve the computer and the boxes of files from the boot (
nothing
that
belongs
to
the
company
must
leave
the
premises
without
our
con
sent
), the delegation re-forms and places itself at the head of the procession. The small troop starts to advance in a relatively ordered manner. The car lies abandoned on its side, facing the gate, the boot gaping. The Korean still hasn’t budged.

Park, his face sallow, is clamped to his phone.

‘They’re on their way, they plan to occupy the offices … There’s going to be trouble.’

‘What kind of a damned stupid thing have you gone and done? It’s a disaster. Explain what’s going on.’

‘When I started here, I set up a system of bogus invoices so as to pay the Korean managers a relocation allowance …’

A roar from the other end of the phone. Quignard leaps to his feet, knocking over his chair. He bangs his fist down on his desk, making the brandy glasses jump and knocking over a vase of chrysanthemums, soaking the files sitting on the desk. Maréchal grabs the glasses, puts them out of danger, and rights the vase.

‘Delete the lot, for fuck’s sake, what are you waiting for?’

Tell
him
they
tried
to
smuggle
the
computer
out
and
that
it’s
in
the
hands
of
the
strikers?
Better
to
die.

‘The bookkeeper who deals with it isn’t in today, we don’t know where the files are, we can’t delete all the accounts …’ Park squeals like a frightened rabbit, and the line goes dead.

The management block, a cube of reflective glass with two steps up to the main entrance, a rather unimpressive glorified hangar, is only a few minutes’ walk away, but it’s enough to give them all time to think about what they’re doing.
We’re
venturing
on
to
their
territory,
invading
their
space,
barricading
our
bosses
made
of
flesh
and
blood,
pushing
them
around,
locking
them
in
with
us,
talking
to
them
as
equals.
We’re
disrupting
the
social
order.
At
least
for
a
while.
So
each
step
counts,
we’ll
remember
each
step.
And they keep close together, in silent, closed ranks. The women bring up the rear, hanging back a little, anxious, hesitant – too
many men, too close together. Some discreetly slip away, through the factory and across the waste ground.

Amrouche marches despite himself, borne along by those behind him.
This
is
it,
now,
the
explosion,
the
anger,
my
years
of
dread,
the
other
side
is
so
much
stronger,
they’ve
always
won,
they’ll
always
win.
Lambs
to
the
slaughter.
He leans towards Hafed.

‘We’ve got to stop all this, it’s going to be a disaster.’

‘I don’t understand why the management scumbags haven’t already all gone home. What are they playing at? We can’t do a thing.’

Nourredine, pushed forward by his comrades, stands in front of the door: locked. Tries to slide it open: jammed. He doesn’t have time to turn around before a surge from the back of the group, gathering momentum from row to row, lifts the men at the front off the ground and flings them against the glass door which gives way and shatters. A moment’s pause as Amrouche stumbles before ending up spreadeagled on the blue carpet amid shards of glass. Nourredine, his nose fractured and his face cut and bleeding, finds himself alone face to face with the Korean CEO who’s standing in the middle of the lobby, rigid and pale. A voice shouts: ‘Let’s drag them out of their hiding places and bring them down here.’ The men rush forward, trampling Amrouche
underfoot
, and disperse through the offices, flinging open doors,
pulling
the occupants out of their seats, half carrying them down to the lobby which gradually fills with panic-stricken suits. Winded, Amrouche has got to his feet and pushes the CEO towards the boardroom. He knows this room well, so many useless,
never-ending
discussions, those arseholes who never listen, and now … Hafed, slightly groggy, joins him. They bring the executives in one by one: ‘No, not all the workers, there isn’t room. Only the shop stewards, but we’ll keep the door open. Immediate payment of the bonuses, everyone knows why we’re here. We won’t allow anyone to leave until our demands are met, but let’s all calm down, we’re not hooligans.’

Nourredine is sitting on a chair in the lobby, leaning forward, trying to plug his bleeding nose with a roll of toilet paper. His eyes are closed, his hands covered in blood, his brain sluggish and his thoughts confused. Hafed crouches beside him.

‘Amrouche and I will deal with the management in the
boardroom
. You must get up to the offices. Do you hear me?’ Groan.
‘It’s important. Organise the occupation. Pickets on the doors, patrols in the factory and the offices. OK?’ Nourredine silently nods. Give the guys something to do. Then he repeats: ‘It’s
important
,’ and goes back inside the boardroom.

Quignard tilts his chair back into the upright position, sits down, eyes closed and makes himself breathe slowly, regularly,
exhaling
through his mouth, his large hands placed flat on the desk. Maréchal has picked up his glass and is taking little sips to
disguise
his urge to laugh while waiting for Quignard to regain his composure.

‘So now what’s he done, your pyromaniac firefighter?’

‘This is a nightmare, Antoine. I left them less than an hour ago. They were setting up a meeting to start negotiations, only now the workers are invading the managers’ offices.’

‘It’s already happened to other bosses, and it didn’t kill them.’

‘Maybe, but Park takes the opportunity to tell me that he’s siphoning off money via a system of bogus invoices to pay his gang of useless Korean managers bonuses. And to make matters worse, the evidence is there for all to see in the company’s accounts … If some bright spark decides to snoop around … The factory has to be evacuated.’ Quignard reaches for the telephone. ‘I’m calling the superintendent …’

Maréchal halts his hand in mid-air.

‘Don’t do that. You’ll end up with a massive fight, and the cops won’t have the resources to deal with it. It takes time to get the riot police out, and you have to be able to give good reasons.’

The two men drink in silence. Quignard broods.

‘Pyromaniac firefighter you said. That’s an idea, the fire brigade. A fire breaks out and everyone’s evacuated.’ Renewed silence. The two men drink. Quignard mutters to himself: ‘Especially as there’s no danger of those shit-stirrers from the insurance
company
poking their noses in.’ Then Maréchal, who’s finished his drink, gets up.

‘Karim Bouziane has set up a barbecue on the waste ground behind the factory. With the strike on, he must have been doing a roaring trade throughout the afternoon. Right, I’ll let you get on, I’m going home. Thanks for the brandy.’

A farewell wave and the door slams.

Think,
fast.
A
brandy.
Tomaso,
the
right
man
for
the
job?
Quignard thinks back to their first meeting. A business contact had taken him to the Oiseau Bleu in Nancy. A very special place, he’d been told. A restaurant, the best in Nancy. The boss, Tomaso, had come to greet him. Behind the tall elegant form Quignard had sensed a relentless hardness, a blue-tinged
steeliness
that had immediately appealed to him. After the succulent dinner, they went downstairs to the nightclub in the basement of the restaurant, known for its whores, the best Nancy had to offer. He had become a regular at the Oiseau Bleu where he spent a lot more time than he did at home, and a friend of Tomaso’s, who’d opened up to him a little. He was an old warhorse in the process of adjusting to civilian life, still bearing the scars of the battles and injuries that Quignard had dreamed of as a youth during his brief stint in the OAS, fighting underground in the doomed bid to maintain French rule in Algeria. Nostalgia, nostalgia. Besides Tomaso was forty. He could almost be his son, the son he’d never had. So Quignard had ensured that his security firm was awarded certain contracts, including that of Daewoo Pondange, and was very glad he had. Whether dirty tricks against troublesome
trade-unionists
, the transfer of suitcases full of cash, a spot of financial espionage – Tomaso had never turned down an assignment. On the contrary, he operated with the utmost efficiency and
discretion
. Of course he was the right man for the job of starting a
dustbin
fire in a factory under occupation.

Around twenty workers have gathered in the doorway, trying to see inside. Amrouche’s voice can be heard opening the meeting in solemn tones.

While Nourredine sits there dazed, his head in his hands,
finding
it hard to breathe, the rest of them disperse among the offices, taking possession of the premises with obvious pleasure. The fitted carpets, walls, clean, furniture, tidy, soft pastel colours, a well-ventilated space, reveals another world to that inside the
factory
. They want to play around, sit in the swivel chairs, put their feet on the desks, use the metal filing cabinets as instruments for a novel kind of drum kit, set all the internal phone lines
ringing
. They’re at home, or rather, they’re acting as though they’re at home. Then, tired of messing around, they come across a
bottle
of whisky in a drawer, which they serve in coffee cups. They telephone friends overseas, and a few trifles – electronic diaries,
mobile phones, coloured felt-tip pens, souvenirs for the kids, a Montblanc fountain pen – vanish into anonymous pockets. Two men help themselves to a state-of-the-art computer and all its gadgets through a window overlooking the factory floor.