Daryll Smyth looked up at the goods towering around him.  This was his secret time, the moment straight after the rabble of part-timers had left to get stoned or get drunk or whatever students get up to, leaving him alone to savour the privilege of locking up the warehouse.  All the noise and bustle of a cash and carry had been put to bed for now; the ear-piercing tannoy requests for staff members to work the handheld scanners (he loved the customer waiting suffix that the supervisors added to give a verbal boot up the ass); the rising whine of the fork-lift as it formed skyscrapers in Goods In; the clank of pump trucks as they were forced underneath wooden pallets; the satisfied but unsure mumble of customers as Daryll sold them another great deal.  It was the sound of success, the sound of business in motion, the sound of Daryll’s life.

He strolled down the wines and spirits aisle, not wanting to leave the place unattended (his proposal to create a flat within the warehouse and rent it to himself had gone unheeded), then he reluctantly went to his office to fetch his blazer.  He took the red B&P jacket out of its protective bag and put it on carefully.  It was a one-of-a-kind, and no doubt the envy of the rest of the staff.  A red B&P blazer?  Let the common staff have their approved blue blazers; he was special.

He went around the warehouse to check that the part-timers had completed their facing-up.  To Daryll, there was little that could give him the pure contentment of walking down a completely faced-up aisle.  It was satisfaction itself; two parallel walls of produce, all uniform in their presentation, flush with the edge of the shelf in a repetition of consumerism.  And yet, although it was almost impossible to resist taking one of the items, to do so was to ruin it.  He stopped at a case of juice that had a corner sticking out.  Part-timers.  They had no idea of their importance in his world.  He thumbed the corner back into place, made sure that it was flush, and then lapped the warehouse one additional time for good measure.  He then shut off the lights, locked the doors, then drew down the shutters and locked them too.  He associated that metallic screech with sadness, but cheered himself up with the thought that he had only seven hours to wait before he was opening up again.  He sat in the car park for an extra half-hour to make sure the place wasn’t going to be robbed as soon as his back was turned, then drove home.

He parked up and placed the B&P metallic badges on the doors of his car into the boot.  Some purists might argue that it wasn’t a company car, but the company gave him his wage, and he had used that wage to buy a car, so yes – it was a company car in his eyes.  Anyway, the rest of the staff was under the impression that he had a company car.  He opened his front door, hung up his blazer in another protective jacket, then made a cup of tea.  It was hard to imagine that his house had an occupant, for there was little on view to suggest that anyone lived there.  It took a special kind of care to keep a house in the same condition that it was purchased in.  It was a standard two bedroom semi-detached that had been the model home for the estate when it had been built, and two years later not one thing had changed about it.   He put the kettle on and popped a B&P teabag in his B&P mug.  It was his one vice, his one terrible secret that gave him butterflies whenever he thought about it.  He didn’t even know if it was legal to buy catering packs of produce if he didn’t have a catering business, but so far no-one had ever questioned why he would buy 1,000 bags of tea.  Even if they did ask, he had fabricated a whole backstory about his fictitious brother who had a burger wagon on the lay-by of the A34.  He’d done his research about the real owner of “Dirt-E Burger”, the owner’s family, their names and even where they holidayed, so it would stand up to some scrutiny.  He hoped it wouldn’t ever come to that.

He went to the living room and switched on the TV.  The sofa rustled as he sat down, the plastic covers ensuring that it was remain as good as new for a long, long time.  It was uncomfortable as hell though.  He switched over a few times, not knowing what he wanted to watch, and then decided on some generic detective show.  He sipped his drink and sighed.  Another good day.  He’d managed to shift a full pallet of cola to one of his regulars, who had been only too grateful to accept one of Daryll’s blessings.  If only they knew that he was making profit on the sale – they’d smack their heads in disbelief!  Then he’d managed to convince the part-timers to work an extra hour tomorrow night on the promise of a case of beer each.  In reality it was going to be a case of B&P beer-flavoured alcoholic drink which had gone end of life a week ago – shared between them.  He knew it was shady, but it was for the greater good.  He actually didn’t understand why he encountered such resistance when he needed people to work extra hours.  Again, another proposal to allow customers to work for B&P had gone unacknowledged.  Imagine having control over the staff and his customers!  He felt giddy from the thought.

He put his ideas of world domination on hold and turned his thoughts to the upcoming stock take.  He could hardly contain his excitement; the stock take was one of the retail sector’s most sacred traditions.  An opportunity to start early and work late in an effort to count every piece of inventory whilst trying to maintain a normal working day.  It was a show of strength, if performed successfully.  There were a lot of challenges though, like juggling resources between the stock take and business-as-usual activities, and trying to get people to work overtime.  He’d already stowed a couple of cases of out of date beer-flavoured alcoholic drinks to get the part-timers to comply.

He suddenly noticed a familiar, and hated, symbol on the screen, and unmuted the TV. It was an advert for Tascos.

Three for two on all beers and ciders this weekend! Treat the family with our range of burgers and sausages. Buy one get one free on our tasty treat range. Tascos. We’re here for you.

The cup bounced off the sofa and showered tea across the carpet.  “How dare they,” he muttered, then reached for his phone. “How dare they!” He pressed and held the number 1, and waited.

“Hello?”

“Hello Mrs Vynne. Could I talk to James please?”

“Certainly. Who is it?”

“It’s Daryll Smyth.” There was a pause. “B&P Newquay store. We’ve spoken before?”

“Yes I remember.” She sounded frosty, no doubt aware of the Tascos advert. Of course – James would be formulating a response already.  “I am afraid James is unavailable at the moment,” she said, “could you call back tomorrow, preferably at a more sensible time?”

“There is no such thing as a sensible time, not when Tasco’s is concerned.”

“I’m sorry?”

She definitely knew how to play it cool. She was no doubt trained to feign ignorance about all matters B&P. It was definitely a “need to know” situation. Daryll felt a pang of jealousy; did Mrs Vynne truly appreciate her place in history? “Mrs Vynne, may I call you Mary?”

“My name is Susan.”

“Mary, there’s no need to pretend that nothing has happened, I am fully aware of what has transpired and its potential impact on us all.  I assure you that James will want to include me in the response. I guarantee it. CouId I speak to him, please? It is of the most upmost importance, obviously.”

There was a sigh. “One moment.”

It took a full minute for James to come to the phone. Daryll imagined that he had been drafting up a public response, maybe even arranging a press conference first-thing in the morning. It would be difficult to arrange at such short-notice, but who would be able to refuse a request from such a prominent and powerful person as James Vynne?  “Good evening Daryll, what can I do for you?”

Despite himself, Daryll could not help himself gushing. “Mr Vynne, such a pleasure and honour to talk to you! How are you?”

“I was OK, but not so much now.”

“I totally understand.  This Tascos offensive is so, well, offensive!”  It was so reassuring that Mr Vynne’s feelings matched those of Daryll’s.  “I cannot believe that they would do such a thing, especially during our own TFT event.”

A pause. “Yes.”

Daryll paced as he spoke, tea soaking into his socks. “This is exactly the same as the BOGOF campaign of winter 2013. Remember our buy one get one free on tampons, and Tascos had exactly the same offer? Can you remember Mr Vynne?”

“Yes.”

“Well they won’t get away with it, not this time! It’s an insult, that’s what it is, and we’ll put them back in their place.” He realised that he was breathless. “What is our response going to be, sir?”

“Well Daryll,” said James softly and carefully, “I’m not sure that we do anything.”

“What? No counter-advert, press conference, or prime-time talk show appearances? Nothing at all?” Was James losing his mind from the pressures of leadership? “Sir, I must insist that we respond, otherwise we will look weak!”

“Oh of course, of course, but consider this. If we respond, then we’re accepting that we are on their level. If we ignore it though, then we can rise above it. Our response will be the higher ground Mr Smyth. Does that make sense to you?”

Daryll couldn’t resist a smile. This was a genius at work, and he couldn’t help but be in awe. “Totally Mr Vynne. Why, it’s sublime.  You have my total support and assistance if you ever need it. Have a good night.”

He hung up and fetched a cloth to mop up the rest of his tea. He was at peace now, knowing that his beloved B&P had a response to the threat. “Next time though,” he said to the droplets of tea on the treated carpet, “you will not survive the wrath of Mr Vynne. Tascos will be destroyed.”

***

“As you are aware, Tascos are attempting to provoke us,” he thumped the table for emphasis, which made the assembled staff jump, “but it will not work. I held a strategy meeting last night with Mr Vynne, late into the night,” technically true, since he’d spent the night writing this Defcon meeting after his telephone conversation with Mr Vynne, “and we have decided, between us, that we are a bigger company, and to respond will be an admittance that they are on our level. They are not. If any member of the press contacts you for a statement, please direct them to myself in the first instance. Any questions?”

The staff looked in every direction but his, and he was about to dismiss them when Dave held up his hand. Obviously Dave would have questions. Out of all the staff, Dave was the only one who “got it”, he cared for the company almost as much as Daryll, and worried about such things like facing up and proper stock rotation. “What do we tell the customers if they ask?”

“Reassure them,” replied Daryll, “and tell them about our own TFT offers. They won’t find a better deal, especially not at Tascos.”

Another hand, this time from Wayne, the unofficial leader of the part-timers. Annoyingly he was popular with both the staff and the customers, a “cheeky chappie” that could get away with doing and saying anything. “I’m scared Mr Smyth.  Hold me.” There was laughter.

“You should be scared Wayne,” replied Daryll, not knowing whether it was sarcasm or not, “because if Tascos are successful in poaching the customers of our customers, then we will have to make redundancies.” Only Dave gasped.

“Let’s hope not,” said Wayne, “but I hear Tascos are hiring.”

That was the problem with the part timers, thought Daryll as he wandered back to his office, they were not loyal.  Sure, a few may make the transition from part-time to full-time, but most left the company when they finished college or university.  Daryll couldn’t understand higher education; why would they bother with 3 years of study and debt when there were high-flying careers at B&P right under their noses?  He felt that this was proof that the part-timers were a little simple.  He barely managed to sit before Mark of Best Nights Off-Licence appeared at his door.  Daryll waved him in.  “Good morning Mark.”

“Alright Daryll.  I need an extension of credit.  Is that OK?”

It was time to do a deal.  Daryll brought up Best Nights Off-Licence onto the terminal screen.  “You are at your limit I’m afraid.  B&P cannot extend you any more credit.”

“It’s just until the end of the month.  Cash flow and all that.”

“Maybe if I help you out, you help me out.”  Daryll leaned back in his chair, feeling the thrill of control.  “I need to shift three pallets of beans this month to hit the branch target.”

Mark grimaced.  “Three pallets?  That’s about a thousand cans!  I can’t sell that much, let-alone store it!”

Wayne entered the office without knocking and went to the tractor-feed printer, which began printing off a report.  “Wayne, please knock before you enter next time.  We are involved in a complicated negotiation.”

“They probably don’t knock on doors at Tascos.”

Daryll felt his blood boil and ignored him.  “Anyway Mark of Best Nights Off-Licence, I can extend you credit for your purchases this month plus three pallets of beans.  Is that OK?”

Mark huffed.  “I get it.  If I don’t take the beans, I can’t have the credit.”

Daryll smiled.  “It would certainly help me out.”

“Actually,” said Wayne, report in hand and nodding, “take the beans Mark, honestly.  It’s a good deal.”

Mark stared at Wayne, then nodded too.  “OK.  I’ll take the beans.”

“Great!”  Daryll tapped the new credit limit into the computer and shook Mark’s hand.  “Thank you for your custom.”

“No problem.”  Wayne followed Mark of Best Nights Off-Licence out of the office, leaving Daryll to the warm glow of victory.  He would be a legend on the monthly stats – a thousand cans in one month!  It was unheard of.  He could imagine James Vynne’s eyes going wide at the monthly report, a wry smile at Daryll’s name against the stat.  Of course it was Daryll, that son of a gun!  Hell, he might even call Daryll personally to congratulate him.

He left his office and went for a coffee, noticing the three pallets of beans queued up at the tills.  Wayne was busy scanning them through while talking to Mark from Best Nights Off-Licence.  Daryll nodded in Wayne’s direction; maybe Wayne wasn’t a rebellious liability after all.  He’d have to re-evaluate Wayne’s place in his plans, at the least give him a cursory mention to James Vynne during his congratulatory phone call.  He got to the canteen, scared a couple of part-timers back to the shop floor, and made his way back to his office with his beverage.  He stopped Wayne who was pulling one of the pallets of beans back into the store.  “What are you doing?”

Wayne smiled.  “Taking these beans back to Goods In.”

“Why?  Mark from Best Nights Off-Licence bought them, didn’t he?”

“He did,” replied Wayne, “but then decided he didn’t want them, so I gave him a credit note.”

Daryll’s dreams of greatness disappeared.  “Why did you do that?!”

“Store policy Mr Smyth.  Customers can return goods as long as they are unopened, undamaged, and they have their receipt.”  Wayne ran his hand over the top of the beans.  “They’re in perfect condition you’ll notice!”  The beans and Wayne disappeared up an aisle, leaving Daryll to fume in silence.

***

It was the end of yet another day, and Daryll was performing a security check of the part-timer’s bags.  They were the least committed to the company, and therefore the most untrustworthy, so Daryll made it his personal duty to check their belongings each day.  So far he’d found nothing, but it was an effective deterrent.  He reached for the next bag and found Wayne smiling at him.  “Wotcha Daryll!”

“Hello Wayne,” he replied gruffly and opened the satchel.  Inside were a dozen tins of B&P beans.  “What is this?”

“Just a little something for my tea.  It’s bean a long day.”  There was laughter from the part-timers.  “Did you want a can?”

“Have you paid for these?”

Wayne gave him a receipt.  “Sure have, although I was thinking about returning them.”

Daryll zippered the bag and shoved it in Wayne’s direction.  “Good night Wayne.”  He locked the main door and went to his office.  A thousand can sale, written-off just like that.  Wayne had followed company policy, but what worried Daryll was whether Mark from Best Nights Off-Licence had come up with the idea to return the beans, or had Wayne?  He paused; Wayne had also mentioned that Tascos had job openings.  How did Wayne know that?  His blood ran cold – no, could it be?  Could Wayne be a corporate spy?  It would explain the rebellious behaviour, his disregard for B&P policies, and also his lack of respect for Daryll.  He took out a screwdriver from his desk and sprinted up to the canteen; he needed to confirm his suspicions.  The lockers were sturdy enough but didn’t hold up against a flat-headed screwdriver for long, and within seconds Daryll had forced Wayne’s locker open.  Inside was a B&P uniform screwed up into a ball, a pair of beaten B&P boots, and half an apple.  Daryll took out the items as carefully as possible and examined the uniform pockets, but they were empty.  Damn!  He began to put Wayne’s stuff back in when he noticed several balled-up pieces of paper at the back of the locker.  He brought them out and unfolded them one by one.  Receipts, from various shops, across different days.  Aha!  The last receipt was for Tascos, dated almost three months prior!  “I have you now!”  Daryll placed the receipts back in the locker and closed the locker as best he could, which was difficult due to the busted mechanism and his trembling hands.  He needed to raise the alarm, and raise it immediately.

***

“I assume you that this is of paramount importance!  The future of B&P is at stake!”  He really needed to get James’ direct mobile number so that he could bypass Mary/Susan.  He understood that Mrs Vynne was the first line of defence against the wave of paparazzi that must try to get access to him on a daily basis, but Daryll was on the inside, and therefore needed an insider’s route to the man.

“I am afraid James is not available,” replied Mrs Vynne, “I will get him to call you back tomorrow.”

“But this won’t wait until tomorrow!  We are being infiltrated!”  He could feel himself panicking and forced himself to breathe.  “Mary or Susan, please go get Mr Vynne so I can alert him to this very real threat against the company.”

She huffed, but thankfully went to get her husband.  “Daryll?”

First name terms!  “Mr Vynne.  James.  Thank you for speaking to me.  We have a problem.”

“Do you.”

“Yes.  I have discovered that one of my staff is a corporate spy, for none other than Tascos!”  He waited for the shock, the gasp, maybe even an expletive.  “Hello?”

“Yes I am still here.  Is that all?”

“One of the part-timers, Wayne his name is, is a secret agent.  What should I do?”

“Daryll, why would Tascos go to the trouble of placing a secret agent in our company?  We’re not exactly building nuclear weapons or anything!  We’re a cash and carry.”

Daryll couldn’t speak for a few seconds.  “But sir, we’re the leading cash and carry based on turnover in 2017 excluding June July August September and December!  Tascos are obviously after our secret strategy and sales technique.”

There was silence, then James spoke again.  “OK Daryll, what evidence have you got?”

“A receipt from Tascos for three sandwiches and a bottle of water, together with a disrespectful attitude towards me.”

“Daryll, I’m going to bed.”

“Wait, what should I do?”

“You should go to bed too.  Goodnight Daryll.”  James hung up.

“You don’t believe me,” Daryll said into the muted line, “because you can’t see the bigger picture sir.  I’ll show you.  I’ll prove to you that B&P is under attack, and I will save it.  You’ll have to apologise to me.  You’ll have to put me in the quarterly newsletter, a full page apology!  Yes, and make me your deputy!”  He finally put the handset down, tears of rage rolling down his face.

***

“Daryll, I need to report a crime.”

Daryll almost laughed in Wayne’s face.  “You of all people, reporting a crime?”

Wayne smiled.  “Yes.  Someone broke into my locker last night, and moved my clothes around.  Call the police.”

Daryll lowered his voice.  “Believe me, I should call the police Wayne.  I should call the police and tell them everything that I know.”

Wayne’s eye widened.  “Why, what do you know?”

“I can’t tell, not yet, but I’ll have all the evidence I need before long, and then I’ll call the police.”

“But you don’t have any evidence,” replied Wayne, and then walked away.

Daryll spent the rest of the day keeping track of Wayne’s activities via the CCTV system.  He watched him pick goods from the shelves, take them to Goods In and through the fire exit, load them into customer’s cars, exchange some paperwork – it looked like money, which was impossible since all transactions had to be settled at the Cashiers Office – then bring the trolley back in, and repeat the process.  Daryll felt surprised at this; he didn’t know that Wayne could work that fast.  He’d cleared almost fifteen trolleys of items within an hour.  A reminder popped up on Daryll’s computer – ah yes, it was the beginning of the stock-take tomorrow.  To Daryll it was barely a secondary concern now, but it needed to be done.

***

Daryll grabbed Wayne’s bag and upended it onto the table.  Nothing but clothes, and yet Daryll went through them feverishly.  “Good thing I’m not wearing them,” said Wayne, “otherwise we’d have to get married.”

Daryll sneered and pulled a pair of trousers inside-out.  “I’ll find what I need eventually,” he muttered so only Wayne could hear, “and then we’ll see whether that smart mouth of yours can get you out of trouble.”

“Yeah good luck with that, I’m as innocent as they come,” he said, but Daryll could see the tiny give-away signs of guilt; a furtive glance to the left, not making eye-contact, shuffling from foot-to-foot.

“Oh you are guilty, and I know it.  All I need is the evidence,” he pushed Wayne’s bag and clothes at him, “and then you’ll have to go away.”

Wayne looked around him, then lowered his head towards Daryll.  “Fine, so you know what I’m up to.  What do you want?  A cut of the action?”

Daryll actually felt himself go weak.  “No, absolutely not!  I’d never turn coat, unlike you.  No, I want you to sign a confession, and then leave this store, forever.”

“A confession?  You’ll take that to the police I assume?”

Daryll shook his head.  “No, to Mr Vynne himself, to show him that I was correct.”  He pointed to the logo on his breast.  “Your confession will confirm that you’re a spy for Tascos, and that I was correct!”

“A spy for Tascos?  That’s what this is all about?”  Wayne processed this.  “What if I don’t confess?”

“I’ll be watching you forever.  I’ll wait until you slip-up, and then I’ll have you.  I will go to the police, and to the papers, and I’ll be there, laughing, as Tascos is dragged through the dirt!”

“Watching me, huh?”  Wayne slumped his shoulders.  “Fine, I admit it.  Let’s go write that confession, and then I’ll leave here forever.”

Daryll did a little dance to his office, booted up his PC and let Wayne sit at it.  “Print out your confession,” he ordered, “and we’ll both sign and date it.”

“Fair enough.”  It took about half-an-hour for Wayne to write his confession, and it was almost a page’s worth.  “Once we both sign it,” he said, brandishing the paper, “could I have a copy?  I’d like to frame it to remind me how you got the better of me.”

Daryll nodded.  “That would be acceptable, if only to keep you in your station.  Sorry kid,” he added, “nothing personal, it’s just that in this cut and thrust business, there are winners and losers, and you’re simply small fry.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Wayne, and handed Daryll the page.  “Is this acceptable?”

“It’s a little elaborate,” replied Daryll, “but it is acceptable.”  Wayne had covered quite a lot of his spying operation – his “handler”, his call sign, his rota, but it was all there, and with it Daryll’s justification.  He gave it back to Wayne, who put his signature on the first line at the bottom, then handed it to Daryll.  Once both marks were on there, Wayne took it and rammed it into the photocopier.  “I hope you can forgive me in time,” he said, watching the photocopier spit out its copy, “but you have to understand that I earned a lot of money over all of this.”

“Dirty blood money you mean,” retorted Daryll.  “I don’t know how you can sleep at night.”

“I don’t” replied Wayne, then gave Daryll the confession and put his own copy in his pocket.  “Goodbye Daryll, let’s hope we don’t meet each other again anytime soon.”

“Let’s hope not.  You’re fired,” he added for good measure, and watched Wayne leave the building.  The others had left already, obviously tired of waiting for Daryll to release them.  He didn’t care, he was victorious, and nothing could take that away from him.  He locked the doors, went to the canteen, got himself a tea, and went back to his office.  He played out the upcoming conversation with Mr Vynne in his mind, and wondered what would be offered to him as a reward.  Regional Manager?  It was an exciting prospect.

He sat at his desk and sighed contentedly.  He could go get himself a bottle of B&P whiskey and have a real drink.  Reluctantly he declined himself the pleasure, not because of any rule or personal belief against alcohol, but because B&P whiskey was just rebadged paint stripper with an alcoholic content, just to capture the lower end of the market (read terminal alcoholics).  He opened up the letter to re-read the confession, and to bask in his victory once again.  However, he started to panic after the first sentence, had to stand up after the third, and was dizzy by the end.  He looked on both sides of the sheet, rushed to the photocopier and searched it, then ran to the doors.  Wayne had no doubt left the grounds already, but he fumbled the keys into the lock and ran into the pitch-black car park.  “Wayne!”

He returned into the building, almost sobbing, and slumped into his seat.  How had he done it?  Daryll called up the computer’s writing application.  Strangely, it displayed the confession which Daryll had originally read, admitting Wayne’s affiliation with Tascos.  With growing dread, Daryll scrolled down to the next page, which contained the confession that Daryll now held a signed copy of.  Wayne had written and printed a double-sided document, one side containing an unsigned confession from Wayne detailing his affiliation with Tascos, the other a signed confession from Daryll detailing his theft of thousands of pounds of goods over a three month period.  He glared at the page, willing this reality to disappear and return to the one where he was the victor, but nothing happened.  He continued to stare at the page long into the night, and wondered how bad the stock take would be.

***

On one hand the stock take had gone incredibly well, taking less than a day to complete because of the little stock they actually had.  Financially though, the stock take was a disaster.  Around £157,000 was unaccounted for.  Daryll could go to the police and tell them the truth, but the only evidence he had was low-resolution CCTV images of Wayne working, and a signed confession from himself admitting to the crime, witnessed by the person who had actually done it.  He could go to James Vynne, but again he had little evidence that didn’t point to himself.  In the end, the solution presented itself by embracing his fears.  The day before he had to submit the final stock figures, he locked up for the night, went home and slept until 2am, then drove back to the store and rammed his car into the front entrance.  Whether the police would believe that £157,000 of stock could be taken in the time it took for them to arrive was yet to be seen, but he did know two things; his revenge on the part-timers would be severe; and he was definitely getting a taxi to work for the next few weeks.