Christian Bullson’s wife had once described him as a man filled with so much love it would leak from him into every corner of the world. On a Sunday morning, she would bring him his paper, the corners crumpled from the letterbox, kiss him on the cheek and tell him he would make a difference. Since her death, Christian had buried himself in his work.
He referred to himself as a humble toymaker. His company really made only one toy but it was a good toy, one that girls and boys could enjoy equally; construction blocks that developed skills in design and mechanics.
This evening, as he put down the phone of his last call of the day, a woman burst into his office and began screaming. She was of the rough, skinny kind, her hair bleached but leaving sharp black roots, the bones of her chest unattractively framed by a loose, gaudy top. Christian abruptly rolled his chair backwards and bumped into the wall as she knocked over the photos on his desk and tugged on the phone cord, flinging the phone across the room. He heard the crunch and tinkle of glass as his wife’s picture smashed on the tiles.
". . . sense of social responsibility? You selfish, selfish egomaniac . . ."
A ball of white foam flew from her mouth and landed coldly on Christian’s cheek but he remained gripping the arms of his chair. He glanced towards the corner and the cctv camera.
She had a large bag and began spilling papers onto his desk. Graphs and pictures of dead fish, their guts split open.
Christian was revolted, horrified. How had she got in here? Was she a modern artist? She was between him and the bathroom so there was little chance of him making it there unscathed to lock himself in.
She was hammering on the desk, holding a photo of a decomposing bird in his face when two, uniformed men ran in behind. She shrieked and thrust herself backwards as one grabbed her, her heels kicking the oak filing cabinet Christian had inherited from his father. The other man took a blow to his cheek as he grabbed her foot and one of her shoes whistled past Christians’ head, struck the wall and landed in his waste paper basket.
"How long before it’s us?" Her voice was muffled by her top which had ridden up and Christian could see rolls of a pale torso and a round pot belly. She was still kicking and trying to yell, "Fascists! Let me go!"
"Sorry, Mr. Bullson." One of the men made brief eye contact as they grappled the woman out the door.
Christian heard them retreating across the room outside and then the far door slamming. He walked stiffly to the cabinet, took a bottle of chilled water and held it to his temple. His hands shook and his shirt was dappled with new sweat. He smoothed his tie. No harm done. The grotesque images were still strewn across his desk and some on the floor. He used an antique letter opener to scoop them into the waste basket and hide from sight the offending shoe. He thought this was probably how women feel when they’ve been sexually violated. He sent a quick email to his assistant asking her to attend to the photos from his desk as a matter of urgency and left the office.
He did it for the children, he often said. It gave him a kick to see the awe on their faces when they came to his sites and were inspired by what they could make. Every day, he read with delight a handful of letters from the tens of thousands he received with their ideas for development. The Blocks were beautifully simple and Christian was incredibly proud. The people of the world rewarded him by buying Blocks in sets of hundreds, visiting model Block villages and buying Block themed merchandise. Last year, they had made around twenty billion Play Blocks, this year that would be increased to keep up with the growing population and demand.
Christian had bought himself a very grand house, garages full of luxury cars and even someone to iron his newspaper. Now, he walked through his home from room to room, switching off lights as he went. In the study, the news led with the story of a baby born with plastic entangled in its organs. A slow news day. He switched it off and checked the security cameras. There would always be those who were jealous of his wealth or unhinged but Christian took care to protect what was important. He lived like a king but the most precious thing he possessed was his daughter, Theresa.
Christian forgot to breathe as he watched her sleeping. She slept totally, as though it was the only thing in the world that God had ever intended. Her hand lay upturned on the pillow like a newly opened flower, her shoulders and hips were soft and rounded under the diaphanous layers of her pyjamas and sheets. Her breath was a rhythmic whisper rising hot from her chest and blowing sweetly from her parted lips. Christian’s legs were weak, a twisting in his stomach dragged him to his knees. He trembled as he leaned forward to kiss her. She smelled like hot, ripe peaches and vanilla ice cream, a scent that wrapped its youthful softness around him, enticing him to come closer, hinting at the woman she almost was. He groaned.
Theresa stirred. Her limbs moved the sheets like milk, her lashes fluttered and her brown eyes opened. A smile spread like sunrise over her face when she saw Christian. "Daddy!" She pulled him close, arms tight and strong around his neck. "What time is it?"
Christian held his breath and pulled away. "It’s late. I just wanted to look in because I’m travelling tomorrow and won’t see you ‘til the end of next week."
Theresa pouted. "Do you have to? I wanted you to look at Princess."
Princess was Theresa’s young cat. A pure bred Abyssinian, she would follow the girl around and the two of them were not an uncommon sight at Play Block headquarters. The staff had a deferential attitude towards her and Theresa was quite safe there as long as she had a chaperone.
Christian looked at her indulgently. "Remind me?"
Theresa’s brows met as she frowned. "Remember, she’s off her food?" Her face brightened. "But actually, I think she might be pregnant!"
Princess was a year old and Theresa was hoping she’d soon have her own kittens. Christian had a plan to surprise her with a thoroughbred Tom when he came back from Belgium. He bit his lip. "Oh? And why do you think that?"
"Her belly’s round and she’s talking to me all the time!"
Christian felt his chest tighten, the way it was doing recently. He brushed imaginary fluff off Theresa’s sheets. "That’s great, Angel. Let’s wait and see, shall we? You never know what the future will hold." He gave her a chaste kiss on her forehead. "Get some beauty sleep now. Not that you need it." He winked and she giggled.
"Da-ad!"
He pulled her door to, softly, and stood in their carpeted hallway. He could see the open door to his master suite, dark inside. If his wife were here now, he’d go to her and she would ease this ache but somehow he needed to see Theresa properly married before he moved on and he wasn’t in a hurry for her to grow up and leave. He ran a hand through his hair and padded away.
The next day, Christian spoke to a crowd of stakeholders about the vision of the Corporation in the next five years. Cameras flashed as he shared his predictions of growth and profit. "There are currently sixty two Play Blocks per person on the planet today!" He told the assembled, arms raised as if in blessing, "And I promise not to rest until the number is one hundred blocks for every man, woman and child on this planet!" Applause swept forward like thunder. Christian accepted it as his right.
As the limousine drove him to his next engagement, they passed a small crowd waving placards outside the main gate. "What is it? Who are they?" Over the classical music inside the car, he could hear fierce shouts.
"Protestors, sir," replied the chauffer, "don’t worry, we can get through."
Christian read a sign, ‘ABS plastics NEVER decompose’ and another, ‘Blocking Future Play’.
"Hippies." He muttered, settling back in his seat. He had a research team looking at viable material alternatives but it wasn’t high on his agenda; it was such a tiny percentage of consumers. He remembered the woman who had invaded his office and shuddered. There must be a way to keep people like this at bay. If they had jobs they wouldn’t have time to worry about what he was doing.
The phone flashed a picture of Theresa and he smiled as he answered. "Hello, Sweetheart! Daddy’s had a successful morning." When she didn’t immediately answer, he grew cold. "Baby, what’s wrong?"
She made a noise like a squashed hiccup and drew a grainy breath. "It’s Princess!"
Christian impatiently indicated the chauffeur turn down the music. "What about her?" He’d never heard his Angel so distraught.
"She’s dead!"
Christian felt the electric clench of anger. Who was responsible? How had this happened? He balled his fist ‘til his knuckles were white and felt his chest tighten. Someone would pay. He uttered platitudes to Theresa but she was inconsolable. He cut the call short and immediately dialled the woman responsible for overseeing Theresa’s care. Where was she while this was going on? The woman wittered something about illness or natural causes and now being with the vet. "Put him on! Let me speak to the vet!"
Another woman came on the line.
"I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Bullson, Princess just didn’t reach the surgery in time."
Christian wouldn’t be fobbed off.
"I want to speak to the vet!"
"I am your vet, Mr. Bullson, Gemma Beard. Once again, you have my deepest condolences."
For a moment, Christian was speechless. He didn’t pay everyone to be incompetent. "How did this happen? Who killed her?" He could hear Theresa sobbing in the background and his feelings intensified.
"It’s not clear exactly what’s the cause. Certainly, she shows signs of malnutrition and her stomach is very hard. Perhaps a cyst. A post mortem may give us more information?"
"Do whatever it takes." Christian ordered at once. "I want to know who’s responsible. I don’t care what it costs, do what you have to." The car was pulling in to a Play Block factory site. "My assistant will be in touch about payment." He ended the call and pinched the bridge of his nose. A spear of pain shot through his tight chest; he would have his assistant schedule a visit to his GP for as soon as he got back.
The factory was a new facility, making blocks in the latest range of colours to appeal to more girls. Christian dipped his hand into a vat of pink, plastic pellets and thought of his own little girl, her heart breaking. What use was an Abyssinian Tom to her, now? He should wait a couple of weeks before he replaced Princess. The pellets flowed like a soft, pink ocean. When he lifted out his hand, some were stuck with sweat in the creases. He brushed them to the floor and tried to concentrate as the nervous site manager pointed to where they moulded the pellets into bricks.
Back at his hotel, Christian took a bottle of water from the mini-bar and massaged his chest. He had only an hour before meeting some local dignitaries to discuss extending a site. The phone rang.
"Bullson."
"Mr. Bullson? Hi, it’s Gemma Beard, here, your vet. I concluded the post mortem on Princess and and your assistant thought you’d want the results as soon as possi-"
"Go ahead." He heard her clear her throat.
"Princess died of malnutrition, Mr. Bullson. She-"
"How can that be?" He interrupted. "She had the best food money could buy, she wanted for nothing!"
"The results of the post mortem show a build up in her stomach. Somehow, Princess had consumed a large quantity of plastic pellets. To a cat they would have looked a lot like food but she wouldn’t have been able to pass them or fill herself with any other food. And, of course, no nutritional value. She starved to death, Mr. Bullson. I’m so sorry."
Christian winced as a particularly sharp pain gripped his chest. "That can’t be true." He gasped, struggling for breath. "Princess wasn’t stupid. She was an Abyssinian." He leant over his desk to give his lungs more space. The top of his left arm ached.
"I can send you some images, if they’re helpful but, I must warn you, they’ll be distressing to l-"
"Send them." Christian cut her off and downed his drink. It was his job to get to the bottom of this debacle. He tossed the bottle and rubbed the top of his arm. The phone registered her email and he jabbed the file open. Immediately, he was confused about what he was seeing. Had the strange woman from his office managed to hack his email? He pictured the rolls of white flesh and her round pot belly, Theresa feeding Princess caviar from a teaspoon, the placards at the gates ‘ABS plastics never biodegrade’, the pink, plastic ocean. Here was Princess, her guts spilled across a metal table, plastic Play Block pellets jamming her tangled intestines.
"How long before it’s us?" The woman had yelled, "How long before it’s us?"
The room spun. Christian raised a trembling arm and wiped sweat from his forehead. A popping sensation ran up his spine and his chest exploded with pain. He couldn’t see. As he fell, his head hit the corner of the desk and the phone slipped from his grip, shooting sideways and showing Princess’s last photo to the underside of the hotel bed.
The next day, the media reported the demise of the multi-millionaire CEO of the Play Block Corporation as a Death of Natural Causes. A new outlet opened as planned and observed a minutes’ silence before the shopping commenced. A spokesman offered condolences to the family and said a new CEO would be announced shortly.
A viewer throwing broken Blocks in the trash, nudged her husband.
"We should go there." She nodded to the new outlet.
The media did not report on a demonstration against production outside a Play Block site. It did not report on the death of Princess or decide whether her death was natural. Nor did it mention the deaths of hundreds of birds and fish that day that had eaten plastics and slowly starved to death, the hundreds more that would die that night and those tomorrow.
As the credits rolled on the news, an overweight restaurant critic enjoying a dinner of mussels and white wine at a smart, new restaurant, bit into a piece of brightly-coloured plastic and dislodged his crown. He took a photo and made a damming note on his pad while he waited for the replacement dish. The manager despaired.
Play Block shares continued to rise.
