Narrator: Jamie E. | London, England
I found a room behind the print area at work. I was looking for toner. The door was propped open with a ream of paper, and I assumed it was a cupboard.
Inside were a desk, a lamp and photographs of our office. Loads of them. People eating lunch. People putting coats on. Me leaning over my keyboard with a hand inside my shirt, scratching my shoulder. I’d never seen anyone taking pictures.
On the desk was a sheet of paper with that day’s date. Under it, in pencil, somebody had written: “Jamie checks the door at 18.42.”
My phone said 18.41.
I left. At the lifts I looked back. A person was standing in the print area, mostly hidden behind the machine. They lifted one finger, asking me to wait.
I took the stairs. Security went up with me the next morning. The door behind the printers opened into a shallow cupboard containing cleaning supplies. They thought I’d confused it with another floor.
The only photograph I managed to take is of my own shoes. I must have touched the screen without raising the phone. I’m angry about that in a way I find difficult to explain. I had proof within reach and came away with a picture of the carpet.
