The day dragged on. Time to do something about it. Will Lewis decided he would go out for a wander. Somewhere. Anywhere that wasn’t the office. The park. Good as anywhere. He’d get bothered by the dead ones. But that was fine. He’d get bothered anywhere. At least in the park, he could sit and have a smoke.
—Where you goin’?
—The park.
—Why?
—Need twenty minutes, Sal. Head’s fried.
—It’s ten o’clock. Break’s at eleven.
—Yeah? Shame, that. Hold the fort, eh?
Sally Fraser frowned at her monitors. TopByte Software Ltd paid them both to write clean C++, but Sally had taken the team leader bump. Will had told them to shove it. He wanted to write code, not sit in three—hour sprints nodding at slide decks.
—You’re taking the piss, Will.
—Come with, then.
—Right. As if management won’t notice.
—They’re in with the regional director till twelve. They wouldn’t notice if the building caught fire.
He glanced out of the long strip window facing the car park. Three of them were hovering by the wheelie bins. Transparent as cellophane, waving their arms, trying to catch his eye. A bloke in overalls, a girl with half a jaw missing, and an old woman clutching an empty handbag.
Piss off, he thought. He’d leave by the fire door.
—You coming or what?
Sally shook her head.
—Five minutes. Don’t get me bollocked.
—Ta, Sal.
Down the concrete stairwell. Push—bar on the heavy red door. Out into the alley behind the chippy, then left onto the High Street.
The London Borough of Wycham was quiet. Grey sky, smell of diesel and damp tarmac. Nobody bothersome on the pavement, flesh or otherwise. Just a couple of school skivers outside the vape shop. He kept his head down, hands jammed in his parka pockets, until he cleared the rusted iron gates of the memorial park.
He headed straight for the bench behind the green. The one tucked under the damp sycamore, right next to the council bin with the built—in stubbing plate.
He sat. Breathed. Flicked his lighter and drew the smoke deep into his chest. Closed his eyes.
—Excuse me? Hello? Can you see me?
Will didn’t open his eyes. Just sighed through his nose.
—No.
—Please. I don’t know where the ward is.
He opened one eye. Middle-aged woman. Thin nightdress, bare purple feet on the wet grass. White plastic hospital band still fastened round her skinny wrist.
—You’re not on the ward, luv.
—I have to get back. My sister’s bringing grapes.
—You’re dead.
—Don’t be ridiculous.
—Look at your feet. You’re floating two inches off the turf.
She looked down. Her mouth went slack.
—Oh.
—Sit on the grass. Stop panicking. You’ll fade out in a bit. They always do.
She drifted backward toward the flowerbeds, weeping without tears. Will took another drag, letting the nicotine hit the back of his throat.
—Oi, mate.
Will didn’t even flinch. He just tapped his ash into the bin lid.
—What?
Young lad. Grey tracksuit, soaking wet trainers. A dark, jagged tear right through the chest of his hoodie, the cotton stiff with black, congealed muck.
—Some prick did me outside the offie.
—Right. Looks nasty.
—Am I done for?
—You’re standing in a municipal flowerbed talking to a programmer on his break. What do you reckon?
—Fuck’s sake. What about me motor?
—Leave it, mate. Just sit down. It stops hurting once you go cold.
The lad cursed under his breath, kicked at a dandelion that didn’t move, and wandered off toward the bandstand.
Will looked at his watch. Ten past ten. One more drag, then back to the grind before Sally threw a wobbly.
—You don’t listen to them.
The voice was close. Too close. Dry, flat, like a drawer full of old files sliding open. Will turned his head.
The man sitting on the other end of the bench hadn’t made the wood creak. He was dressed like an off-duty rent collector: an ill-fitting navy mac, a washed-out synthetic tie, and skin the colour of lard left out on a counter. No breath plumed from his nose into the cold air.
—I listen plenty, Will said. —I just don’t run an advice bureau.
—They’re confused.
—They’re dead. Big difference. Who are you, anyway?
The man didn’t look at him. He stared straight ahead at the muddy bowling green.
—Trench.
—Right. Well, Trench, you’re on the wrong bench. I’m off back to work.
—You don’t listen, the man repeated.
His eyes didn’t blink. The pupils were wide, milky, like cataracts on a stray dog. You think having the eyes was a mistake. A crossed wire.
—I don’t think about it at all. It’s a bloody nuisance.
—It was a post. A station.
—What are you on about?
Trench reached inside the navy mac. Will tensed, expecting an official ID wallet, maybe a summons from some crackpot church.
The man pulled out a butcher’s boning knife. The handle was greasy yellow nylon, the blade ground down thin from years on an oilstone. It didn’t glint; it was dull with grease.
Will stood up so fast his lighter clattered to the tarmac.
—Right. Fuck this. Keep away from me.
He tried to turn toward the gate, but his legs didn’t get the message. His boots stayed glued to the damp flags. A cold cramp gripped the back of his knees, running up his hamstrings like ice water injected straight into the vein.
—You let them wander, Trench said, standing up.
His voice didn’t rise. It was the same dead, flat hum as an office fridge. You leave them loose. Making noise. Leaving grease on the glass.
—I can’t stop ’em! Will yelled, chest heaving against ribs that suddenly felt too tight.
—I write software, you psycho!
Trench stepped across the gravel. No hurry. Just a bloke stepping up to a butcher’s block.
—The borough has to be kept tidy, Will.
The blade went into Will’s neck just under the ear.
There was no sword-fight flourish. Just a dull, hard punch of steel parting cartilage, followed by an immediate, hot pressure down his shirt collar. Will’s mouth opened to swear, to scream at Sally to call the police, but only a wet rattle came out. His knees finally gave, hitting the gravel hard.
Trench didn’t let go of the yellow handle. He worked it once, practical, efficient, like a man clearing a drain.
—You’ll learn the sorting, Trench whispered, looking down at him. Hands in his mac pockets now.
—You’ve got all day.
Will tried to grab his neck, but his fingers were already numb. The grey sky tilted. The sycamore tree rushed upward.
Then the weight lifted. The pain didn’t stop, but the cold vanished.
He sat up.
His body was still on the path, face down in the wet gravel, the parka soaking up dark maroon slush. Beside it, Trench was wiping the boning knife on the hem of his mac. Will looked at his own hands. Pale as greaseproof paper.
—Told you, Trench said, not looking at him.
—Shift starts now. There’s three by the bins outside your office. Go clear ’em.
