A Few Words for the Dead (27 page)

‘You’re hoping,’ he said, knocking the drink back, ‘that I’ll be much easier to handle than August was.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite so aggressively. But yes.’

‘Not much chance of that.’

Toby put the glass down on the table and got up. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, Section 37 has a few loose ends to tie up.’

‘Would one of them be Bill Fratfield?’ Sir Robin asked as Toby made to leave.

Toby halted and turned to look at him. ‘It would.’

‘Well now, I heard something quite fascinating concerning our poisonous Mr Fratfield just before I came to meet you.’ Sir Robin smiled. Toby thought he looked like a python who had just been offered a wriggling hamster. ‘It’s quite the most bizarre thing…’

Bill Fratfield — though, like any he used, that was not his real name — stood next to the ancient watchtower and gazed across the Spanish cove below. From up here, he looked down on the entire resort. In the distance there was the town, its winding streets leading back from the beach and its cafes. The church steeple jutted up, its ancient bell ready to toll at the slightest provocation. Beyond that, the vineyards and their row after row of stunted vines.

Directly beneath him, the old port, its exclusive, slender beach and the over-priced restaurant that served those who tanned themselves on it. He had eaten a large bowl of mussels there not half an hour ago. That and the copious quantities of bread and wine it had come with being precisely what he had hoped this march up the cliff would work off.

Out to sea he saw a couple of large liners making their way towards the port of Denia, a few miles north. People about their normal business. None of that for him. For now he was having a holiday.

‘Señor?’ a strained voice shouted. ‘Pleases señor?’

He looked back towards the cliff path to see the young waiter from the restaurant running towards him. He was waving something in his left hand.

‘What is it?’ Fratfield asked, immediately on edge. He disliked being the focus of anyone’s attention. The waiter came up to him, wheezing with breathlessness.

‘This is yours, señor,’ he said after a moment, proffering the thing he’d been carrying. It was a manila envelope.

Fratfield tapped the breast of his jacket and found it was empty. That envelope contained his passport — fake naturally, but important while in use — and a rather large quantity of cash. It had been in his jacket throughout lunch. How could he have dropped it and not noticed?

He snatched it from the waiter, still unable to get his head around how he could have misplaced it. Realising from the look on the waiter’s face that this abruptness was not quite the reward he had hoped for, he smiled with as much sincerity as he could. ‘Sorry, don’t mean to be rude. Thanks a lot.’ He took a ten euro note out of his pocket and gave it to the man. That improved the look on his face.

‘It is no problem, señor,’ the waiter said, heading back down the path. ‘The other English gentleman gave it to me. He said you’d be pleased to have it back.’

Fratfield watched him go, a chill feeling of suspicion creeping over him.

English gentleman?

He opened the envelope. His passport was there but no money, just a sheet of note paper wrapped around a folded paper napkin.

He opened the note:

Mr Fratfield,

You’ll forgive me not coming over and chatting in person, I’m sure. I don’t think my company would have helped your digestion.

You’ll also forgive me taking your money. After all, it was originally mine. Not that I question the job you did to earn it. You followed my instructions to the letter. Still, I need it more than you, given your current circumstances. I’m afraid I’ve also refunded the transfer for the balance. In fact, your bank account is now rather empty. Awful of me, I know, but you pick up the odd trick in my line of work. Old line of work, that is, I’m pleased to say I’ve retired, in no small part thanks to your kind, financial contribution.

As it would have been terribly rude of me to leave you with nothing, I do enclose a small gift. Something I believe was once yours which it is my pleasure to return. Its previous owners are better off without it. I did try and give it to you earlier but I’m afraid you’re a hard man to pin down.

Yours,

A.S.

‘A.S.?’ Fratfield muttered, running to the edge of the cliff and looking down at the restaurant below. Standing between the tables looking up at him was a well-dressed man in sunglasses and a Panama hat. As Fratfield watched, he raised the hat at him in greeting.

It couldn’t be! It was impossible!

Around him, a wind was beginning to build, whipping at the long, Spanish grass and whistling through the holes in the ancient brick of the watchtower.

Fratfield searched through the envelope. His passport fell to the ground, landing open. He saw his own photo, and next to it, like a bookmark, a small piece of paper with ancient markings scrawled on it. As the wind caught it, it fluttered into the air, sailing up beyond the edge of the cliff.

No! He couldn’t have done!

The wind continued to build, stronger and stronger, until Fratfield was forced to dig his nails into the grass to avoid being pushed along by it.

He looked towards the watchtower as the pale, bloated wind demon appeared, the storm raging from its wide open mouth.

‘I cast you!’ Fratfield screamed. ‘You can’t come for me!’

‘I am cast,’ the wind seemed to say, ‘it does not matter by whom. All that matters is promises. We get what is owed to us.’

With one last scream, Fratfield felt his grip give way and found himself sailing backwards, his heels kicking at the grass until they found nothing but fresh air.

Below, the diners looked up in horror as a scream rang out. The dark shape of a man flying through the air before finally, inevitably, hitting the rocks below.

‘Madre Mia!’ gasped the waiter who had handed Fratfield the envelope. He crossed himself. He turned to the old man who had found it. ‘He must not have liked what was in it.’

‘Possibly not,’ the man admitted, ‘but it was all his.’

With that he turned and walked away, his eyes gazing out at the brilliant, shining sea.

‘I ask you to remember an important thing. Sometimes we do not see what is real. Sometimes, what we think has played out before us is not as we perceive it. Our eyes cheat. Our hearts lie. Sometimes it is necessary to make a little theatre.’

‘You said, “Is this now?”’ said Shining. ‘What did you mean?’

The sudden change of subject seemed to confuse the entity that inhabited Ryska for a moment. She stared at him for a couple of seconds before answering.

‘Moving from my plane to yours, it’s hard to be precise. Time is not so linear to us. I have found you before but it was never the right time. Sometimes you were younger, sometimes it was too late.’

‘Too late? That’s reassuring.’

When Ryska didn’t reply, Shining paused and turned back. She was looking at him with a quizzical expression that he recognised as sign that Ryska’s consciousness was no longer in residence.

‘You again, is it?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Have you thought about what you mean to do?’

‘About the rebel?’

She nodded.

He leaned back in the doorway, checking briefly that the others were out of earshot. He could hear them faintly outside, chatting in the porch.

‘You’re the same as him?’ he asked. ‘By which I mean you can do everything he can?’

She nodded.

‘Then, yes, I know what I mean to do, as much as the idea terrifies me. You said it yourself, I have to give him what he wants.’

‘Tell me your plan.’

‘Doppelgänger Contract,’ he said. ‘I need you to go back and make another me.’

Shining watched Toby and Tamar dancing in the courtyard of the Church of the Sacred Mind. Ah… weddings, such a shame he didn’t get to go to many. Give it five minutes and he’d be on the dance floor himself showing the young idiots what hips were made for.

First, he had to…

He stumbled, a wave of dizziness washing over him. Surely he hadn’t had that much to drink? He’d been taking it steady, like all of them, but he wasn’t a man to hit the bottle too hard. It came again, stronger this time. He sank to his knees and blacked out.

‘You all right, August?’ asked Pleasance, stepping out of the kitchen. ‘What you doing sitting on the floor? We run out of chairs? I’ll fix some more in a minute. I got some pecan and raspberry muffins coming on like hellfire in that oven.’

‘More cakes? Dear God, woman, are you trying to kill us?’

‘Not with the cakes, it’s the punch that’ll do that. Come on, I’ll pour you another glassful.’

She led him outside.

In Pleasance’s office, watching through a crack in the door, August Shining saw himself leave, arm in arm with their host.

He turned back to face the thing wearing Jamie Goss’s body.

‘How do I know you’re telling me the truth?’ he said.

Goss shrugged. ‘You obviously thought you would,’ he said, ‘or you wouldn’t have sent me back to do this.’

‘My head’s splitting. Doppelgänger Contract? Aren’t you supposed to ask first? Doesn’t it have to be some kind of deal?’

‘No. The rebel just phrases it that way. It’s so he can get something from you that he wants.’

‘Whereas this is what I want?’

‘Very much so.’

Shining rubbed his aching head. It had explained it to him twice already, he trying to process it as he watched his unconscious body — his unconscious
other
body — sat out in the hallway. He was having a hard time of it.

‘So I have to take this extra time to fake my own death…’

‘You won’t be faking. He will die. He has to.’

‘But he’s me!’

‘So are you.’

Shining waved the conversation away with his hands. This was getting too much for him to cope with. He sat down at Pleasance’s desk.

‘Let me take some notes, dates, details…’

Bill Fratfield had received the email while waiting for his flight out of Mexico. Using the airport’s rented computer space, he had logged on to his business email account and there was the message: URGENT: SERVICES REQUIRED.

He’d read the mail. There were no details regarding the kill, just details of where he was to travel to and a number he was to message on arrival. This was normal. Clients didn’t like to mention the name of the person they wanted removing until the assassin was hired. In fact, on the rare occasion that a client did mention the name, any professional tended to run a mile – if they’d told you, who else had they told?

Why not? he thought. If he had to run, he might as well earn some money while he was doing it. He sent back a reply and proceeded to book a new flight. He’d let his original tickets stand, and with a bit of luck Toby Greene would end up following him as far as Italy before he realised he was chasing an empty seat.

Shining waved cheerily at the man behind the shop counter and made his way over to the storage lockers.

‘Got something nice, have you?’ the shop assistant asked.

‘Hopefully!’ Shining replied, using the open locker door to hide the fact that he was slipping an envelope from out of his jacket. ‘Oh,’ he said, dropping the envelope in. ‘That’s annoying. It’s empty.’ He closed the locker door and pulled out his new phone. ‘Better email them and see what’s going on.’

‘Happens sometimes,’ said the shop assistant. ‘Probably on its way and they sent you the delivery notification early by mistake.’

‘That’ll be it for sure,’ August agreed, walking out. ‘Not to worry. Thank you!’

Heading towards the office, Shining handled the messages from Fratfield. It was all falling into place. With Fratfield hired as the assassin to – how unnerving this thought was – kill his other body, he’d deal with both of their longstanding problems in one fell swoop. Fratfield could handle the Higher Power and then August would handle Fratfield.

Across the road, August Shining saw himself – his
other
self – step out onto the street. Quickly he darted into the closest shop.

‘Hello sir,’ said the owner. ‘Can I help you at all?’

‘Just browsing for now,’ he said, immediately turning to stare through the window. On the opposite side of the road, his other self was staring right back at him. He jumped back from the window.

‘Browsing for sandwiches?’ the owner asked, with no small amount of sarcasm, pointing at the array of fillings stocked before him in the chilled counter.

‘Ah, right… yes… erm, tuna salad please.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

While the sandwich was being made, he checked his notes. If he was leaving the office now then they’d be driving him to the safe house. He didn’t have time for this, he had to get to his car.

‘Sorry,’ he said, grabbing the sandwich, ‘just remembered a thing, must run.’ He threw a five pound note towards the owner and peered out of the doorway. Across the road, his other self was looking towards a car that was indicating to pull in.

Shining dashed up the road a short distance and then crossed over, all the time keeping an eye on his other self and the car he was climbing into. He ran around the corner from the office to where his car was parked in a rented garage a few doors down.

He’d given it a couple of runs over the last few days, only too aware of how little he used it. He’d had visions of the damn thing packing up on him when he really needed it. Besides, he’d had time to kill — what an unfortunate phrase that was in the circumstances, he thought. Over the last few weeks he’d been living in the house on Morrison Close, doing his best to run over the plan until he was sure it was as safe as it could be.

The problem was that he had come up with it in a rush, thinking on the hoof and laying down the bare bones of it to the entity that had come back and duplicated him. The second August – him – could hardly communicate with the first, so even though he looked at the arrangements and saw countless ways they could be made safer and better, he couldn’t risk altering them. His original self would play his part and that was now fixed. The entity had made it perfectly clear that the risks of altering his timeline at this stage could be catastrophic and, in truth, he hadn’t needed to be told. It was vital that he kept out of sight and ensured that everything that had led the other August to that safe house – and the conversation with the entity – remained identical. He would handle Fratfield and ensure that part of it was secure, the rest would just have to play out with no involvement from him.