Life After Death (Book #1)

Chapter One

Max Dalton awoke to the droning buzz of his alarm clock, and angled his weary head towards the red flashing 6:00 am on his table. He reached out from under the warm covers and finally found the snooze button after grabbing mid-air in a few failed attempts.

It was going to be a painfully long day, but one which could prove to be both exciting and rewarding. He had been entrusted with a large presentation at the company he had slaved at for seven years with no promotion. If today went well this could all change. If he could secure a large contract, then Mr Thompson would surely have no choice but to give him the promotion he had been jumping through hoops for.

Truthfully, Max wasn't happy at all in his job, but the security of a steady -albeit unimpressive- paycheck was not something he could afford to gamble with.

Max reluctantly scrambled out of bed and made his way lazily towards the bathroom of his small apartment. It was a real man's apartment, lacking the female touch that comes with having a girlfriend or wife. The simple fact was that Max barely left this dark room for anything except work, and relationships continued to evade him as he slipped ever further into his late thirties.

He fumbled around for the bathroom light, then turned on the shower, praying for hot water. He stumbled up to the toilet, aimlessly splashing the seat with piss as he threw his arms into the air for a much-needed stretch. Max usually didn't bother to shave before a day of work, but a good impression was important today, so he decided to make the effort. He looked into the bathroom mirror and a tired, sickly-pale man stared back at him.

Max was 37 years old, six foot two, with broad shoulders and a naturally muscular body. His thick, black hair was messy and the odd grey hair was beginning to shine through. The deep purple bags and wrinkles under his eyes made him look like a man well into his forties, with dark, shadowy stubble covering most of his face and neck. His dark brown eyes were sad and lonely, which wasn't a false representation. He usually had the look of a man who put little effort into his appearance, but today would be an exception.

He carefully shaved his face before getting into the shower, using a more expensive, untouched bottle of shower gel which had been gifted to him by his brother a year or so earlier. Making sure to comb his hair and wear his best suit, Max skipped breakfast in order to arrive early at the meeting to prepare.

After closing the squeaky door to his apartment, he fiddled with the lock which seemed to get stuck more often than not. For once, Max was full of optimism as he began the short walk to his office.

As Max anxiously waited for the lift to reach the fifth floor, watching the numbers gradually light up one by one, he was conscious of the sweat dripping down his back as realisation ultimately sank in. This was probably one of the most important meetings of his life; it was his way out of the boring rut of a routine he had found himself in.

He didn't love his job, but Max honestly worked hard and he was excited to finally reap the rewards. He didn't get excited about much, but today was a big day.

Briefly checking himself out in the full-length lift mirror, and sharpening up his collar, he reached the fifth floor and stepped out. His boss was standing by the front desk, which was strange as he rarely ventured out from his large office; having always been a creature of habit. He arrived at seven on the dot, and left at six; every day the same routine. Yet here he was, standing outside seemingly waiting for someone.

"Is something wrong, Mr Thompson?" Max asked.

"Oh... err... yes... Max, just the man I wanted to see," Mr Thompson stuttered.

"Care to step into my office?"

Max was confused at his boss' behaviour. He was usually a slick and confident character, but he now seemed nervous and frantic.

"Of course sir, no problem," Max answered quickly.

Max followed his boss into his office, a room which had always impressed him. The huge space was mainly occupied by an expensive, grand oak desk behind which sat a menacingly large black chair. The difference in the sizes of the visitor's chair and Mr Thompson's meant that he was always looking down on you, as if you were on the back foot before the conversation had even started.

A fish tank which could rival some aquariums covered the wall behind Mr Thompson, with a variety of bright tropical fish dancing through the water. The shimmering scales of the exotic fish danced around the entire wall, like a shining sequined dress. The room had always inspired Max to stick with his job no matter what, following the pipe dream that one day he might be able to occupy such an elegant office.

"Take a seat, Max," said Mr Thompson.

"Yes, sir," replied Max, sinking into the comfy armchair and looking up at his boss.

"Can I just say I cannot wait for the opportunity to pitch this morning sir, I really think I can secure the company a great deal," Max continued, sounding as excited and enthusiastic as possible.

Max hated sucking up to his boss, with every fibre of his body, but he needed a promotion desperately. If he had to blow smoke up a few arses, then that's exactly what he would do.

"If I'm honest with you, Max, that's why I invited you in here this morning. I'm afraid you won't be taking the presentation," Mr Thompson stated without a hint of remorse.

Max felt his fists clench. How could the company he had been so faithful to over the years betray him like this? He could feel the anger welling up inside him, ready to burst out; but he knew that without this job he wouldn't be able to afford even the rent on his small, dingy apartment. He needed to make his excuses and leave before he did something he might later regret.

"I respect your decision, sir. I'll try harder next time. I should get back to my work..." Max replied in a soft, angry whisper as he rose from the chair to leave.

"Actually, Mr Dalton, I wasn't quite finished," Mr Thompson replied authoritatively.

As Max slowly sank back into the now uncomfortable chair, it dawned on him that his boss never referred to anyone by surname. He felt a large lump in his throat, squirming on the spot as he waited for Mr Thompson to continue.

"As you know the company is making some pretty serious cuts at the moment, and we need to take every possible action in order to save money and maximise profit," Mr Thompson finally said.

Both men knew what was coming, but he carried on in the same formal manner. Max only grew angrier by the second.

"It has come to my attention that this department could stand to lose a few employees and it is with great regret that we are going to have to let you go, Mr Dalton," he continued.

Max had stopped listening to the old man behind the desk. Jealousy pumped through his body, filling every inch with insane rage. This small man behind his big desk had the power to plunge Max's life into darkness, and he didn't seem to care one bit. He just sat there in his sharp, expensive suit, in his grand office, with his stupid wispy grey moustache on his wrinkled, aged, sagging face.

Max simply couldn't take it. He had given up seven good years working at this mind-numbingly boring company, slotting into the same monotonous routine day in day out, all for nothing. Mr Thompson was still droning on, but all Max could hear was the intense beating of his heart, and the boiling blood rushing around his head.

"What do you mean, let me go?" Max whispered through gritted teeth, shooting a dagger-like look into his boss' eyes.

"I'm sorry Max, but-?" Mr Thompson replied with a sense of judgement and authority.

"I've worked my fingers to the f*****g bones for seven miserable years for you, and now you're just going to...let me go?!?" Max spat.

"I'm afraid that's the way it has to be Max, please clean out your desk and leave within the hour," Mr Thompson arrogantly shot back, barely keeping eye contact, as if Max was no longer worth his attention.

"Don't worry, I'm leaving! Oh, and you know Mark from accounts?" Max shouted as he stood to leave.

"I don't see what Mark has to do-" Mr Thompson began.

"He's f*****g your daughter!" Max laughed.

Just as he turned he noticed the glimmering engraved plaque, with MR THOMPSON inscribed in fancy italics, sitting upon his boss' desk. Without a moment's thought, Max had it squeezed in the palm on his hand, his knuckles turning a pale white, and with a parting "Screw you!" he hurled it towards Mr Thompson's beloved fish tank, cracking the wall from floor to ceiling.

A stream of foul-smelling tank water began to flow from the cracks onto the posh burgundy rug, no doubt imported from some faraway country.

"Hope you can swim arsehole," Max said with a sense of pride as he strode out of Mr Thompson's office back towards the depressing, dank flat he called home.