much.
’ ‘I hear you got your nose caught in a VAT-trap. That must sting. Your sort don’t like parting with money, do you?’
‘Works every time. Scratch a thug, you’ll find an anti-Semite.’ Vice versa worked too. A train was coming, Oxford-bound, but very very slowly. ‘I’ve a job on at the moment, Bob, but I’ll get back to you soon. See how life’s been treating you since you last tried messing with me. And then I’ll fix your wheels, like you just fixed mine.’
‘You’ve had your go, bitch. You think fate’s gunna swing your way again? Your good luck’s used up. It’s downhill all the way.’
‘So I could strive real hard in this life and still have a haircut like yours in the next?’
‘Hang on to your sense of humour, Zoë. You’re going to need it.’
The phone died, then the train blotted the silence out as it crawled asthmatically towards the station.
Bob Poland . . . Describe Bob Poland. He was a six-foot jawless stringbean who used to be a cop; a man whose nearly spherical head topped a narrow frame like a concrete ball tops a gatepost. It would be the most obvious thing about him, if it weren’t for his being a prick . . . For the first few years of their working relationship, he’d been Zoë’s police contact; someone she gave money to in return for information. Then he got involved with people who wanted to kill her, which had ultimately cost him his job. Apparently, he remained pissed off about this.
She slipped her mobile into her pocket and leaned on the rail to watch the train come to a halt by the cemetery. Last time she’d caught a train from London, the fifty-minute journey had taken a shade under three hours. It was a wonder ties and shoelaces weren’t confiscated on boarding, as a suicide precaution.
Back on ground level, the cops had gone. On the field, there were kids still playing kickabout, though not with a ball, she realized, but something ball-shaped: a rolled-up wodge of wet newspaper, or a human head. They had better things to do than watch a car expire. Happened every day. She left them to it, and walked into town.
iii
It was office procedure to give one week’s notice of time off. Tim Whitby had always set a good example, and hesitated now to say he wouldn’t be in tomorrow. A dozen small but cumulatively significant obstacles suggested themselves as he sat tapping a pencil against his thumbnail. His office was small, windowless, would have passed for a cupboard without effort, but it allowed him a certain amount of privacy despite his open-door policy. And there were usually people outside that door, because the office was off the staff room, which wasn’t much larger but had more chairs.
The previous Monday, of course, he had called in sick. This had felt legitimate – he had, after all, planned on being dead – but had not gone unnoticed.
‘Feeling better?’ Jean had asked, every morning since.
Jean was the shop mother. Jean fussed over everybody; even – especially – those who didn’t welcome it. Fuss was Jean’s default setting. If Tim announced that he was taking tomorrow off, she’d assume he’d had to make an emergency appointment with a specialist. So he needed a plausible explanation for absence; another sick day, and she’d send an ambulance round his house.
. . . And this was what his decision to live had returned him to. He favoured an open-door policy, but was locked back in his old life as severely as if it were a cell; worrying about how much notice he should give for a day off. He’d planned on taking the rest of forever off: how much warning had he given of that? Tim had the feeling he’d passed a fork in the road, and there was no turning back – suicide was a one-time-only offer, if you were Tim Whitby. Like those rubrics in job adverts: Previous applicants need not apply. He’d sometimes wondered how he’d feel if he saw one of those and knew it meant him. Well, this was it. Death had rejected him. It would
’ ‘I hear you got your nose caught in a VAT-trap. That must sting. Your sort don’t like parting with money, do you?’
‘Works every time. Scratch a thug, you’ll find an anti-Semite.’ Vice versa worked too. A train was coming, Oxford-bound, but very very slowly. ‘I’ve a job on at the moment, Bob, but I’ll get back to you soon. See how life’s been treating you since you last tried messing with me. And then I’ll fix your wheels, like you just fixed mine.’
‘You’ve had your go, bitch. You think fate’s gunna swing your way again? Your good luck’s used up. It’s downhill all the way.’
‘So I could strive real hard in this life and still have a haircut like yours in the next?’
‘Hang on to your sense of humour, Zoë. You’re going to need it.’
The phone died, then the train blotted the silence out as it crawled asthmatically towards the station.
Bob Poland . . . Describe Bob Poland. He was a six-foot jawless stringbean who used to be a cop; a man whose nearly spherical head topped a narrow frame like a concrete ball tops a gatepost. It would be the most obvious thing about him, if it weren’t for his being a prick . . . For the first few years of their working relationship, he’d been Zoë’s police contact; someone she gave money to in return for information. Then he got involved with people who wanted to kill her, which had ultimately cost him his job. Apparently, he remained pissed off about this.
She slipped her mobile into her pocket and leaned on the rail to watch the train come to a halt by the cemetery. Last time she’d caught a train from London, the fifty-minute journey had taken a shade under three hours. It was a wonder ties and shoelaces weren’t confiscated on boarding, as a suicide precaution.
Back on ground level, the cops had gone. On the field, there were kids still playing kickabout, though not with a ball, she realized, but something ball-shaped: a rolled-up wodge of wet newspaper, or a human head. They had better things to do than watch a car expire. Happened every day. She left them to it, and walked into town.
iii
It was office procedure to give one week’s notice of time off. Tim Whitby had always set a good example, and hesitated now to say he wouldn’t be in tomorrow. A dozen small but cumulatively significant obstacles suggested themselves as he sat tapping a pencil against his thumbnail. His office was small, windowless, would have passed for a cupboard without effort, but it allowed him a certain amount of privacy despite his open-door policy. And there were usually people outside that door, because the office was off the staff room, which wasn’t much larger but had more chairs.
The previous Monday, of course, he had called in sick. This had felt legitimate – he had, after all, planned on being dead – but had not gone unnoticed.
‘Feeling better?’ Jean had asked, every morning since.
Jean was the shop mother. Jean fussed over everybody; even – especially – those who didn’t welcome it. Fuss was Jean’s default setting. If Tim announced that he was taking tomorrow off, she’d assume he’d had to make an emergency appointment with a specialist. So he needed a plausible explanation for absence; another sick day, and she’d send an ambulance round his house.
. . . And this was what his decision to live had returned him to. He favoured an open-door policy, but was locked back in his old life as severely as if it were a cell; worrying about how much notice he should give for a day off. He’d planned on taking the rest of forever off: how much warning had he given of that? Tim had the feeling he’d passed a fork in the road, and there was no turning back – suicide was a one-time-only offer, if you were Tim Whitby. Like those rubrics in job adverts: Previous applicants need not apply. He’d sometimes wondered how he’d feel if he saw one of those and knew it meant him. Well, this was it. Death had rejected him. It would
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