Damned If You Do (12 page)

Famine picked up the thread. ‘I've put into practice all the recommendations discussed at Saturday's meeting. Currently researching emetic foodstuffs. First tests carried out yesterday. Nothing came up.' He chuckled, but his pun was received with icy silence.

‘I,'
began War self-importantly, ‘was supposed to be helping Weapons Research with some sodding statistical survey, but I didn't have time.' He sighed. ‘Actually, I couldn't be arsed.' He sniffed, rubbed his belly, belched loudly, and looked at Death. ‘How about you?'

‘Apart from the usual fatalities – the details are lodged in Archives – I've been dealing with our new apprentice.' All eyes turned towards me, and I felt a snake of fear writhing in my gut. ‘I'll have more to tell you on Saturday, but everything is running smoothly so far. Wouldn't you agree?'

‘I don't know,' I replied. It was an honest confession, but the horseshoe of eyes wanted more. ‘I don't know what it's like when things
don't
run smoothly.'

The question had taken me by surprise – as usual, my mind had been elsewhere. It's hard to shake off the habits of the coffin.

In particular, I'd been thinking about the words I'd read the previous evening, about Hades. As soon as Death had closed the door, I'd staggered over to the desk and opened the Bible. With an immense feeling of excitement and anticipation I quickly located the passage. It said:
And I looked, and behold a pale horse. And his name that sat on him was Death, and Hades followed with him.
I'd scanned the rest of Revelation 6, and then the whole book, but there was no more helpful reference than this.

‘Obviously,' Death continued, ‘we'll be in a better position to judge at the weekend, so I'll submit a more complete report then, along with the financial summary.' The arc of piercing eyes turned away from me. ‘Now: the reorganization of the filing system. The Chief is currently effecting the transferral of all documents presently to be found in Archives to the office on the second floor, ready for digital encoding. The estimated window for completion is about two years, after which time all Life Files will be processed by the Chief before use, with additional information appended where necessary. From now on, all Termination Reports will be transferred directly to the Chief on completion and will form part of the appropriate Life Files. No documents will be issued without prior authorization from the Chief, and all files currently in circulation must be returned within the next ten weeks. The practical results of implementing this system should include a huge reduction in paperwork, greater efficiency in terms of time and resources, a tangible reduction in errors, and a more manageable workload for us all.'

*   *   *

Like everything else, the afterlife has its moments of utter tedium, and a zombie's attention span is shorter than most. Looking for excitement, my brain led me back to Amy, and to the bus station café … where I turned over the photograph.

I don't normally like generalizations, but I'll make an exception this once: Amy's husband
looked
like a criminal. A passport photo can make a mug out of anyone (particularly if you're dumb enough to choose the plain white background) but in any light he would have been a triple-strength bozo with a frothy spiv topping. He had the square jaw, the meatloaf neck, the Brylcreemed hair. He had a scar running from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. His eyes were frighteningly small, impenetrably black, primitively deep-set. He had the stubble, the tan, the broken nose. He even had a gold tooth. I was jealous of him, of course: Amy had chosen him, and rejected me.

‘I'll need some more details,' I said, fighting the urge to mock. ‘Name. Age. Where he works. Who his friends are. What time he goes out.'

Amy nodded. ‘Anything you want. And his name's Ralph.'

Ralph,
for Christ's sake. Ralph and Amy. Chalk and cheese. What had she seen in him? A man whose name was a euphemism for vomit. I offered her the photograph but she fended it off with her palm. I placed it in my inside jacket pocket, where it remained until my death seven weeks later.

‘One more thing … You should decide how much information you want. The truth can be more uncomfortable than you expect.'

She laughed. ‘Nothing can be worse than what I already know.'

*   *   *

Amy provided me with names and a few basic details, and we arranged a follow-up meeting to finalize the deal in seven days' time. As we parted, she smiled and shook my hand. Her grip was feeble, like a child's, but her touch was like a match flame against my skin.

For the next week I left the elastic bands and the trivia encyclopedia alone, and threw myself into pen-pushing and key-pressing. I dug up some dirt from my father's police contacts, trawled through the national criminal databases, scoured back issues of newspapers for information about relevant individuals and companies. At first, it seemed that he was nothing more than an amateur, an international milk thief. He'd bought property in the town centre despite being on every credit blacklist in the country. He was a partner in a wine importing business – wine being the cover for more profitable and distinctly illegal merchandise. His name was associated with half a dozen minor companies in London, none of which had seen a tax return for the last ten years. But despite the overpowering musk of corruption with which he marked his territory, I only found two firm convictions.

The first involved hazy connections with the local mafia, a half-baked association of hatchet men with interests as wide and laughable as a kebab van protection racket and an extortionate student loan scheme. As a minor player, he'd got two years. The second was a pathetic attempt to hold up the NatWest on the High Street with plastic guns and a water bazooka, and that had led to a five-year stretch. He was released early for good behaviour, and for the last couple of years appeared to have been a model citizen.

So much for research.

*   *   *

We met again the following Friday. As Amy sat down, I noticed she had applied make-up to her left eye to disguise a tiny cut – it could have been anything, and it wasn't my business anyway. I handed her a dossier containing the information I had gathered and said nothing. She sipped a cup of tea as she read it, nodding when she discovered a detail she recognized, but mostly unmoved. After quarter of an hour she placed the report on the table, pushed back the hair from her face, and said:

‘We have a deal.'

I gathered up the papers. ‘From here it's a financial arrangement. A cheque at the end of every month, until you get what you want.'

And the thought zipped through my head: Did she still want me?

‘Whatever it takes. He's paying.' She flashed both rings on her right hand, then finished the rest of her tea and stood up.

‘Is there anything in particular you'd like me to work on?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You mentioned that he …
did
certain things to you.'

She smiled briefly, inscrutably. ‘I'd rather not. Unless you think it's necessary.'

‘It could be important. If I don't find anything else.' She nodded, and I wondered how reluctant she really was. ‘I won't be there, of course, but I'll need to set up the equipment. Whenever it suits you.'

‘Give me a week. I'll call you.'

She was wearing a short black skirt, black suede shoes and a white shirt. When she turned around to leave I noticed the tanned skin of her neck above the collar, and remembered the time when I had run my fingers over it, as I had done with the velvet cloth in my father's study.

*   *   *

A hard ball of emotion caught in my throat, and I forced my attention back to the banal, business-like atmosphere of the Meeting Room – where everyone, for some unknown reason, was staring at Skirmish.

‘So where is it?' Death asked.

‘I had it a minute ago,' Skirmish replied. Panicking, he swept aside the notes in front of him, some of which leapt from the table and floated gracefully to the floor. Stooping to pick them up, he banged his head on Famine's chair. Reorganizing his files, he caught sight of a folded sheet of paper which had strayed towards War. ‘Here it is.' He unfolded it slowly, ceremoniously. ‘The Chief's message says:
It has come to my attention that certain of our Agents are interfering with standard termination practice. I would ask those Agents to reacquaint themselves with the Agency's clearly stated terms of employment: improvisation of any kind is expressly prohibited, and any deviation from established procedure will result in a severe reprimand and ultimate suspension. Keep up the good work.
' He looked at Death and smirked.

‘Thank you.' An awkward silence followed. Death chewed his lower lip and sank into melancholy reflection. Then, as if dismissing the Chief's criticism, he continued with forced breeziness. ‘Moving on to miscellaneous additional matters: I've made several requests for new costumes, equipment and supplies, which I've passed on to the Chief.' He chewed his lip again. ‘And if you haven't found them already, your work schedules for the next four days are on your desks in the office. Any further questions?' The only response was an embarrassed hush. ‘In that case, I call this meeting to a close, and I'd like to remind everyone of the next one – this Saturday, same time, same place.'

Ten seconds later all the documents had been cleared away, all the Agents had left, and I was sitting alone in an empty room.

Hanging around

In the time between my second encounter with Amy and her subsequent phone call, I discovered a darker side to Ralph.

In those two weeks I spent the days in research and the nights on stake-out. Amy had given me the registration number of Ralph's Mercedes and told me where he parked it: in the pay and display beneath the bus station square. From the safety of my second-hand Morris Minor I watched that car for thirteen evenings in a row, noting the minor scratches in paintwork, the immaculately clean plush leather interior, the electric sun roof, the tacky wheel trims. It was boring work. On one occasion he drove for a pizza, on another he visited a friend, on a third he went to the supermarket and bought a box of Ritz crackers. None of these is a criminal offence. He hired
The Long Good Friday
and a couple of porno flicks from the video shop, then paid a call to his mistress on a barge on the canal – compromising perhaps, but hardly blackmail material.

And then, on the ninth evening, just before midnight, I found exactly what I needed.

*   *   *

As usual, Ralph appeared at the bottom of the steps with his hands in his jeans pockets, whistling a tune so badly that I was sure I recognized it. He scanned his surroundings carefully before unlocking the Mercedes, revving the engine, and turning his CD-player on full-blast.

I followed him only when he had disappeared up the exit ramp, and tagged him at a safe distance as he drove over the canal bridge towards the railway station. He checked his mirror only once – when he stopped at a set of traffic lights – but I had spent many years acting invisible, and he didn't pay me any further attention. Just before he reached the railway viaduct, he turned left into an unlit side road and headed for an industrial estate consisting of around thirty single-storey warehouses. I drove by, doubled back, turned off the lights, and trailed him along the road in the shadow of the railway embankment.

He parked the Mercedes about half a mile further down, outside a depot distinguished from the rest by a huge, red number 9 fixed above the entrance. I immediately turned off my engine and waited. As Ralph climbed out I noticed another car to the left of the building: a Land Rover with the message
LONDON ZOO – CONSERVATION IN ACTION
printed on the side. I felt a powerful rush of adrenaline which left me momentarily light-headed; then a second wave, which sharpened my senses and alerted every muscle. I didn't think I was about to witness a discussion on animal welfare.

I took my camera, zoom lens and micro cassette recorder from the back seat and left the car. It was a cold, dry, autumn evening, with a clear sky and a full moon; after six hours of sitting on my backside, the icy air was refreshing. Apart from the distant hum of traffic, the deserted estate was as eerily silent as a ghost town. I hastened stiffly along the base of the embankment then quickly crossed the road to the depot, praying that whatever business Ralph had inside wouldn't be finished too soon. I needn't have worried: when it came to business, he liked to take his time.

The warehouse was shaped like a small aircraft hangar, with a sloping corrugated iron roof and walls of red brick. I could only see one entrance – a sturdy steel door with a plastic plaque attached – but I wasn't about to walk in and start taking photographs. Sitting in the car I had noticed three large windows in the roof, and after a brief scout around the building I found an access ladder which began about eight feet up the back wall and ran straight to the top. I reached upwards to the bottom rung, pulled myself slowly up, and began to climb. The metal was cold against my fingers, and my breath condensed in front of my face.

The angle of the roof was shallow, which was a relief. I have never been comfortable with heights, and even though the lowest edge was only thirty feet from the ground, the thought of falling made my guts ache. I felt much happier once I'd completed the precarious manoeuvre from the top of the ladder to the apex, and I could feel a firm sheet of corrugated iron beneath my body. Slowly and carefully, fearful that at any moment the roof would give way, I slid on my belly towards the nearest window.

As I peered through the glass at the scene below, a train roared by on the embankment. The sudden noise startled me: I slipped a couple of feet down the roof and almost lost my grip on the camera. When I looked up I saw seven carriages, stroboscopic streaks of yellow against the deep, black night.