A LIFE IN FIVE OBJECTS

—ROSS WARREN—

Frankie Pearce sat on one side of the gun-metal grey table upon which sat a selection of items, many of which he recognised. The chair he sat in was rather uncomfortably stiff, but he felt instinctively that his discomfort was best kept to himself. The walls were white and featureless and the door the same grey as the table. The chair on the other side of the broad table was occupied by a very tall and remarkably thin man with pallid, almost grey skin. Frankie rather thought that the man’s picture could suitably be placed next to the word cadaverous in a dictionary. The man had yet to acknowledge Frankie and was intently studying the contents of a thick manila folder. Frankie reached absentmindedly for the nearest object on the table in front of him, the man spoke before his fingers had even touched the item.

“It is very important that none of the artefacts are touched prior to our conversation, Mr. Pearce.” The man’s voice was surprisingly mellow, Frankie had been expecting a gravelly hoarseness, and his gaze stayed firmly on the pages of the file. There was a long period of silence before he spoke again, during which the absence of noise began to irritate Frankie to the point he found himself on the verge of whistling. But again he felt instinctively that this would be a very unwise thing to do as a bizarre desire to please the unknown man rose up within him.

“Now then, Mr Pearce, what I would like you to do is take an object from the table and describe to me the scene that comes to mind. It is vitally important that you describe everything to me.”

At this comment the man fixed Frankie with an unflinching gaze. Wanting, but unable to look anywhere else in the room, Frankie noticed red flecks in the grey of the man’s irises, like imperfections in a piece of marble. 

“Yeah, that seems quite straight forward.” The realisation came to Frankie that he had no recollection of arriving at the room. Last he could recall he was crossing the road to the Red Lion to meet the lads. He was about to question this when the man spoke again.

“Very well then, begin.”

Frankie’s hand went instinctively to the most recognisable object on the table. He held it up in front of his face. It had been his mother’s for most of his life. But, before it had passed into his mother’s possession, and been a feature around her neck at family occasions and in countless photographs, it had been her mother’s, Frankie’s Gran. Frankie let the chain fall from his right hand to his left and, as he clutched it within his pudgy fist, his eyes rolled up into his head and he began to speak.

Object One: Small silver cross on a chain.

I was a bit of a little cunt when I was seven or eight. I don’t mind admitting that. Nowadays the Docs would have some fancy term for it but I think I was just a naturally restless kid with a low boredom threshold. I pretty much resented anything my parents forced me to do that didn’t involve me playing out on the estate with the other kids. However, by far the worst, was the weekly visits to see Gran.

Her flat, in one of those assisted living places where help was only the pull of a red cord or press of a panic button away, was always about ten degrees too hot. The smells were a revolting mixture of damp clothes, which seemed to be in abundance on white concertina airers, Ovaltine and cat piss. The cat, Petey, was never anywhere to be seen on our frequent visits and I got the impression the little bastard only returned to piss on yet another part of the manky brown carpet.

On these visits Mom and Gran talked for what felt like hours, often seeming to repeat everything they’d talked about the visit before. Boredom usually hit me roughly within the time it took me to take off my coat and toss it onto one of the diarrhoea-coloured armchairs that were festooned with miss-matched cushions and white cotton doilies. Really the only thing I liked about visiting Gran was that there were always choc-ices in her freezer and I’d get to have one if I could last five minutes without throwing a hissy fit. Then Mom stopped taking me. 

She sat me down and explained that Gran was getting old and didn’t have the energy for too many visitors. Mom was softly spoken as she explained it to me, as if she was worried I’d get upset that I could no longer go sweat my ass off in a glorified cat’s toilet. To my credit I kept from whooping with delight till I was far enough into the estate for Mom not to hear.

We were almost into winter before I saw Gran again. This time though it wasn’t at her stuffy flat but at the local hospital, with its pea green walls and funny smells of its own. The woman who greeted me as I walked in holding Mom’s hand was like a bad sculptor’s representation of Gran. She’d lost a lot of weight and her skin, even yellower than before, was stretched tight against her skull and cheek bones. She tried an approximation of a smile as she caught sight of us, which revealed a half dozen or so blackened and crooked teeth. My mom sat in a high-backed chair on one side of the bed and grasped the bundle of yellow twigs that represented Gran’s hand.

I sat in a large seat on the other side with one of those leather cushions you can hear the air escape from when you sit down. I curled my feet under me and read a Transformers comic I had with me, trying to ignore the dull conversation the olds were having.

I was on a second run-through of the magazine, mainly looking at the pictures rather than reading it, when Mom stood up to say she was going to get a coffee. I got up to go with her but she waved me back to my chair, saying I should keep Gran company and she’d bring me back a bottle of Panda Pop and a Curly-Wurly.

Bored, I got up and tossed the comic on the chair. Nan was asleep when I went around to the other side of the bed so I had a bit of a mooch around. Amongst the assortment of items on her bedside cabinet the only thing that interested me was a pack of Opal Fruits, so I helped myself to a few and put them in my pocket. There was also a drawer so I opened that to have a nose, too.

Inside was a crossword book, several biros and Gran’s purse. It was about the size of a pencil case, covered in a fading floral pattern; a real old girl’s piece of kit. There was a thick brass clasp that held it closed. I lifted it out of the drawer and pinched open the stiff prongs of the clasp. Inside was about a ton of shrapnel, two tenners and a couple of Lady Godiva’s. I plucked out one of the fivers, crumpled it into my fist and thrust it deep into my pocket where it could keep the sweets company. I closed the clasp and replaced the purse in the drawer. With it firmly closed I looked up to check Gran was still asleep. She was staring right at me with wide eyes. Her knarled, vellum covered hand snapped out with surprising speed, gripping my left wrist and yanking me towards the bed.

I yelped in pain, her fingers digging in to the pudgy flesh of my arm. My face was barely an inch from hers, the smell a revolting mix of tobacco, Murray Mints and disease. She stared into my eyes like there was something important to be seen there and said two words which came out in a croaky hoarseness that sounded as if the old witch was gargling a mouthful of gravel. ‘Evil boy’ was what she said and then her eyes went wide and her head fell back onto the pillow. Her grip remained tight on my wrist, but I knew she was dead. My mom walked in then, concern for her little soldier etched on her face as I burst into convenient tears.

*    *    *

Frankie reached forward, dropped the silver necklace back onto the table and plucked up a small, tattered paperback. The book was scarcely within his grasp when he slumped back into his chair, his eyes once more rolling up to their whites.

*    *    *

Object Two: Wheels of Terror by Sven Hassel

The book fits snuggly within the back pocket of my jeans. I can still see the cover with the Tiger tank and a German soldier surrounded by flames, but have no idea what became of it. A book inside that particular pocket was a feature of that summer spent in the Spanish countryside, in the mountains to the south of Benidorm. Like a young child with a security blanket, I always had a book with me; a reassuring sense that there was always an alternate world I could escape to when being in a strange country, surrounded by people who talked funny, started to get me down. I was eleven and just starting to move beyond the books of Blyton and Lewis. The war books of Sven Hassel, Leo Kessler and Len Deighton were my current fascination. Later in the year as summer gave way to autumn and then winter, I would discover King and Herbert and wonder if events of that July day had formed in me some sort of desire for more macabre stories.

On this particular day there were five of us, three other ex-pat kids, a Spanish lad called Vincent who seemed to like tagging along with us, and me. And we were bored. Unless there were fiestas or bull running on, it was a pretty quiet town and we usually had to make our own entertainment. Over the previous weeks we had been up the mountains to look for caves and down into the valley, when someone told us there were a couple of dead bulls that had been killed by wild boar. We had nearly given up when we came across a detached hoof in the middle of the dirt track. Off to the side of the road we found the ravaged carcases of the two bulls. The suggestion to explore the sewers under the town came from Jack, the oldest of our group at thirteen, who said there was a way in near to the place his folks were renting while they built a house down in the valley.

Tania was against the idea but Katie convinced her, mainly by reassuring her that the bit we were going to explore was where the rainwater drained away, not where the turds and piss went. We weren’t exactly kitted out for pot-holing but as it had been dry for the past few weeks, we weren’t expecting the water to be too deep. We were certainly wrong on that score as, little did we know at the time, there was quite a large river that flowed under the town, bisecting the tunnel we were moving along.

In all honesty it was a bit of a let-down to me. There were so many drains that fed in, not to mention large sections that were open to the air, that it was barely dark through most of its length. We didn’t even need a torch, although Jack still decided to light match after match till his box was empty and the girls gamely chimed in with the odd scream when the going got a little slippery or narrow. I was just about to suggest we sack it off and go cave hunting again, when we rounded a bend and the sound of running water increased five-fold.

Up ahead there was a cross section where the tunnel widened into a thick circular tube of concrete and the gushing river ran beneath it. To each side was just enough of a gap to fit through. I edged in to take a look. The ledge that I emerged onto was a good two feet wide but wet from the spray, so I took small steps to avoid falling in. The channel that the water gushed down was about three feet wide with a similar ledge on the other side.

I called back to the others to come through and once they were all on the ledge beside me, I put forth the suggestion that we follow it to see where it came out. The guys agreed with no need for coercing; it was obvious that this was so much cooler than the way we had been going. It started to get darker too, which we all thought was great. I guess we were coming out from under the town and there was less need for inlets.

Ten minutes of edging slowly along the ledge in single file brought us to our first real obstacle of the adventure, and it looked like we’d have to turn back. The ledge we were on came to an abrupt stop and the rush of water became wider. The ledge on the other side went further so I suggested we trace our way back and go down the other side. As we were discussing if it was going to be worth the effort, Jack launched himself into the air and landed firmly on the other side. He must have come close to bashing his head on the tunnel roof as it was pretty low. That negated any argument; no one was going to insist on going back now and risk looking like a chicken.

I went next and it was easier than I thought, a little slippery on landing but I made the ledge with plenty to spare and steadied myself using the wall. I turned around and looked down at the swirling white froth of the churning water. It was impossible to tell how deep it was. Tania went next and cleared it as well as I had. We were quite close in height and she was easily the sportiest of the bunch.

Katie, ever the drama queen, had to build herself up for it pacing about the ledge like an actor orating Shakespeare. Finally after a bit of high pitched screaming which probably had all the scrawny dogs that wandered the streets of the town howling in response, she launched herself across the abyss. She didn’t look like she was going to reach when she was about half-way, but her bare feet came down just on the edge of the ledge and Jack, who was nearest, had his wits about him and shot out his arm to grab Katie’s flapping hand.

Last of all to jump was Vincent. He didn’t speak any English and between us we knew only the most basic Spanish phrases. Jack and the two girls edged back along the ledge to give Vincent a decent landing area between them and me. He’d seen us all jump across and seemed pretty confident he could make it. He steadied himself, muttered something in Spanish, and sprang forward. He made the distance easily, his sandal clad feet landing a good four inches or so beyond the edge. But then it all happened so fast. Vincent’s right foot slipped on the wet concrete and his momentum caused him to lurch towards me. The ledge was too narrow and he stumbled nearer the edge trying to avoid colliding with me and started to over-balance backwards, his arms pin wheeling as he fought to regain his balance. I instinctively reached out to grab him but my hands were clammy with sweat and he slid free of my grasp. He splashed down into the water and the current sped him away into the darkness, lost from our view.

*    *    *

Next Frankie picked up the largest item from the table, hefting it in his hand to feel its weight. The colour drained from his face as the memories flooded in.

*    *    *

Object Three: A Ten-Pin Bowling Pin

It was supposed to be my day. Key to the door and all that. Sadly, I got the sense pretty early on that the silly cunt was gonna try and spoil it for me. You know what women are like, not happy unless they’re centre of attention. We started with a bite to eat in one of those themed restaurants, Mexican or some shite, waiters all dressed up like twats. The level people will demean themselves to for minimum wage astounds me. Anyways, all through our meal Lou barely said a word to me, answering my questions with one word replies like she was being interviewed by the police or something.

As we waited for our pudding to arrive I’d finally had enough of her sulky, prima donna routine and asked her, in my usual tactful, and compassionate way, what had got her pissy knickers in a twist. The response? Wouldn’t you know it; she wanted the day to be about just the two of us. Why did we have to meet up with my mates? Why did we have to go bowling when I know she’s no good at it? And rah, rah, rah...

Well obviously I put her right on a few things. I kept it civil, we were in a restaurant after all, but I left her in no doubt that it was my bloody birthday and I’d do what I fucking well wanted, with whoever I chose. And if she didn’t like it she could bloody well go spend the day at her mother’s house or with that slag Jenny, who seemed to think the sun shined out of her crack.

Anyway, she sat there through three games of bowling looking like a bulldog chewing a wasp. The two or three other girlfriends that had tagged along with the guys had no problem joining in, and all told I had a pretty fun afternoon, once I’d decided to ignore the mardy cow, obviously. I won one of the games and Baz brought a bowling pin and presented it to me like a trophy. He’d marker penned a face and a pair of man-boobs on it and said it was to represent the fat bastard I would become now that I was turning into an old bastard.

Bowling done we headed into town, session on! Started on the apples like you do, but, by early evening we’d moved on to the vodka Redbulls and a bit of Charlie in the gents. Hell, it was my birthday after all, wasn’t it? The rest of the night went by in a blur of booze and banter. Even Lou seemed to lighten up. We all piled into the nearest Balti house and finished the night off with some spicy food and a bottle or two of Merlot.

It was into the early hours when we spilled back out onto the high street. There were plenty of people milling about, most slightly the worse for booze. In the doorway of Halfords two doors down from the Balti was a passed out girl, sixteen if she was a day, puddle of piss trickling out from beneath her sprawled body and running to the kerb. Parked on the precinct was a police meat-wagon, but the fat fucks sat inside appeared disinclined to lumber out of their warm van to get puked on by a pissed up teenager.

We all split up then to make our ways home. Most of the lads made to go along the high street but my folk’s house was up the hill out the other way from town. I still had the bowling pin tucked under my left arm, so I reached out to take Lou’s hand in my right. She shrugged me off, folded her arms and marched off ahead of me. Here we go, I thought, she’s going to make me do something I’ll regret ain’t she. Just ‘cause I dared to enjoy my own fucking birthday.

I’m not a total shit though, so I tried the gentle approach first. I jogged to catch up with her—she’d got far enough up the road so that she was passing the town cemetery—and I grabbed her hand this time and pulled her through the gate. Before she could start squawking in mock outrage I planted my lips on hers and we had a good snog. I slipped my hand into her dress and copped a handful of tit with no reaction. Her hand grabbed the crotch of my trousers and I thought I was in for a bit of a birthday treat.

I dropped the bowling pin to the dirt and started working at my belt with my free hand. I’d just freed the buckle and unzipped when she broke off from kissing me and asked me what I was doing. Well I said, I’m not exactly getting my cock out for it to enjoy the chill night air, am I? In response she made that snorting noise like a pig snuffling in a trough that really revolts me and said something about me being simple in the head if I thought I was getting a blowy after the way I’d treated her all day. Well the red mist descended then, and it’s hard to be sure of what happened over the next thirty seconds.

I must have picked the pin back up because it was in my right hand. Lou was putting the top of her dress straight and when she bent to pick up her clutch bag I must have lashed out. Next thing I remember she was on her ass with her back against a gravestone clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her face. Well I’d never been good with emotional women, so I stood there doing my trousers up and getting myself straight. Her dress had ridden up her thigh and I could see a bit of blood trickling down the inside of her leg, figured her jam-rag must be leaking. I chucked a twenty into her lap and told her she should get a taxi home. I’d decide later in the week if I wanted to see her any more. The walk home with blue balls was no picnic, I can tell ya! Had to put a pack of peas on my nuts just to get to bloody sleep.

*    *    *

Frankie tossed the pin onto the pile of trinkets as if it had suddenly become too hot to hold. The gaunt man allowed himself a small smile at this.

“Oh enjoying this are you?” Frankie asked. He looked down to see he had clenched his fists hard enough to turn the knuckles white.

“My enjoyment or otherwise is of no concern. Now, please choose another memory.”

Frankie grabbed a small black book. He was unsurprised to see his own small, neat handwriting on the lined pages within. He reached a page headed with a certain address and slid his finger over the writing, feeling the indentation the blue biro had made on the page. This time he closed his eyes and was instantly back into his past.

*    *    *

Object Four: Moleskine® Pocket Notebook

I’ve always been a bit of an entrepreneur at heart, and the buy-to-let boom looked like the sort of pie I ought to get my fat fingers in, you know? 

I didn’t have the finances to get too fancy, but I found a couple of bargain terraced houses that weren’t far off liveable, and with them being in the student area there was no shortage of tenants lining up to share their student loans with me.

When things started to go Pete Tong I was up to half a dozen properties in my, whatcha call it... portfolio. Yeah that’s the word, bit poncey I know, but you had to be up with the lingo to look the part. I even had a nice suit back in them days. Anyway, the banks started tightening their belts. They weren’t interested in funding anymore purchases and when they cut my overdraft, I started to struggle. To cap it all off it started to take up even more of my time tracking down the various sluts and tossers for their rent money every bloody month.

Corners needed to be cut to make it worth my while, so maintenance was the obvious thing to tighten the purse strings on. Yep, the gravy train I had been running for the local cowboy builders had to be derailed. It’s not like the state the flats were in affected me in anyway.

I kept a key to each place so I could let myself in if they didn’t answer the door on rent days. You know what students are like: only way they are up before midday is if they’re only just getting in. Occasionally I struck lucky and got to see a little bit of tit as the girls of today seemed to have no trouble walking about the gaff half undressed. Probably high on something or other, but they looked good on it if you know what I mean. Gravity certainly didn’t seem to have the same effect as it did on the wife’s knockers!

This time when I let myself in it wasn’t one of my lucky days, though. The flat was in a part of town that looked like the sort of place folk from Beirut would feel right at home. It was a two bedroom with two couples covering the rent, at least I think they were couples although you never know what sort of arrangements the kids of today have, do you? I’d been knocking for about ten minutes without reply, so, I dug out my ring of keys and let myself in.

The first thing to hit me was the heat, the daft cunts must have had the fire on all bloody night. Then I got a whiff of the smell, and the heat was forgotten. It brought back memories of Gran’s breath as she lay dying, God rest her soul, only about ten-times as pungent and cloying. I fished a hanky out of my pocket and covered my mouth and nose as best I could.

My first thought was that they had done a runner, leaving me out of pocket and with a clean-up bill as an added ‘fuck you.’ Later, as the last of my portfolio was repossessed by the bank, that worry of having to fork-out a hundred to some kids to clean up gave me a rueful chuckle. Sometimes our worst thought doesn’t even come close to the reality.

All four were in the lounge, two to each of a pair of mismatched sofas, either side of a coffee table covered with beer cans, overflowing ashtrays and an assortment of needles, pills and cannabis resin. Three of them were sat upright, their heads tilted back onto the top of the sofa and their eyes wide open. Each had considerable amounts of dried, yellow vomit on their chins and down the front of the T-shirts they wore, emblazoned with bands I’d never heard of and never wanted to listen to. The fourth student, one of the girls, lay with her head on the armrest. In addition to her own little lake of vomit she had also suffered a nose bleed, the dark crimson of the caked blood spotted with black lumps. As I moved closer the lumps took flight and buzzed around the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. The sight of those two-dozen or so fat, black flies was the final straw that got me moving back to the front door to deposit the remnants of that morning’s fry-up onto the pavement.

*    *    *

This time he placed the item back on the table almost reverently. Allowing his fingers to run over the black leather of the cover as if stroking a woman’s thigh. The final item he chose had really been the first he had centred on, but he’d felt instinctively that it should be left till last and had deliberately avoided even glancing at it lest he should cave and grab it before its time. He grabbed it now, though, like a drowning man clutching at a life ring.

*    *    *

Object Five: Red-haired Gonk Keyring

There was one too many in the car. I’ll admit that. But you know what it’s like when you’re with your mates: no one wants to be the one left to wait in the cold while you make two trips. I wasn’t drunk though, I can promise you that. Sure I had a couple of Guinness early doors, but after that I was strictly on the softies. I was distracted that was all. Not to mention knackered. I’d just come off a run of nights, but it was Dave’s fortieth, you know? I couldn’t miss that. He was the last of the gang to hit the big 4-0.

Anyway, Spanner was in the front, fucking about with the radio like always. Had some techno shite blasting out like he was approaching his twenties rather than seeing forty disappear in the rear-view. I couldn’t stand that sort of music when I was in my twenties, so I sure as fuck didn’t want to listen to it now. We were ripping each other back and forth about his musical tastes, so I may have taken my eye off the road a couple of times. The four lads in the back—Trigg, Dave, Tone and Baz—were having an increasingly loud discussion as to who’d had the best bit of skirt over the years.

We were going down the lanes, keeping to the back roads because we were over-loaded, yeah? I was going a little faster than I realised as I was right in the banter; you had to give as good as you got or the lads might think less of you.

Whatever, we’re bombing down this dual track road, plenty of room for two cars to pass, only there’s a sheep or a bastard goat in the middle of the road. Instinctively I slide into the other lane to avoid it just as some doddery old prick comes around the bend in his piece of shit Skoda or Prius, one of those old fart wagons anyway, and Bang! We plough straight into the poor old fuck.

My car is a Beemer, not a new one of course, but decent with plenty of the safety features. My airbag deploys no bother and I get a face full of powdery white Nylon. Spanner doesn’t get the benefit though as I’d disabled the passenger airbag when I’d put little Chantel’s baby seat in the front for a trip down to Weston and I’d forgotten to reactivate it. He’d have been alright anyway, just a bit of whiplash from his seatbelt, only, Baz, who was sat behind him, wasn’t wearing his belt, and Baz is a big Rugby playing lad. That was pretty fucking grim for all concerned, I can tell you.

I was squashed into my air bag with my head turned to face the passenger side so I saw it all happen. It was like a super-slo-mo from some action movie. That bullet-time shit that was all the rage after The Matrix came out. Just as Spanner’s seatbelt was pulling him back into his seat, Baz, and his considerable bulk, collided into the seat, the headrest ploughing forward into Spanner’s head as it was coming back. It wasn’t quite unstoppable force meets immovable object though, as the back of Spanner’s head caved in with the impact. He slumped forward over his seat belt, the back of his head a crumpled mess of blood, bone and brain matter. Baz fell back into his seat, his nose obliterated into a gristly mess, his eyes wide but unseeing, and that’s when the car started to roll. I couldn’t get my head far enough around to see what had happened to the other guys but, as the car continued to tumble, flashes of arms and legs appeared. We must have rolled at least six or seven times before coming to a stop on the roof.

I hung there, wedged in by a combination of my belt and the airbag, and the panic started to kick in. There was some pain from my legs; a kind of throbbing, and on some level I was aware that there were serious problems down there. The panic was the big issue, though. I started to hyperventilate, fighting to get the bag to deflate a little, sure it was suffocating me and I was going to drown in a sea of white. 

The last thing I remember before I guess I blacked out was that bloody key ring Michelle had gotten me as a joke, with its big plume of bright red hair where I had none. The little bastard was grinning at me like it found it all the funniest thing ever. I swear the fucker winked at me just before everything went dark.

*    *    *

Frankie’s eyes returned to normal and he was once more back in the room. He glanced to either side as if initially unfamiliar with his surroundings, the light seeming different. The gaunt man was still seated opposite him, but his focus now seemed to be on the objects strewn across the ocean of gun-metal surface between them. His fingers were like grey twigs, covered in calluses and abrasions, and they danced over the items like a concert pianist over the keys of a baby grand. Occasionally they paused over a particular token and would caress it like the soft cheek of a loved one. When he touched an item he got a brief flash of insight; a freeze-frame of the truth where Frankie had gotten whole show reels. In them he saw a push as opposed to a loss of grip, drunkenness where sobriety had been claimed, an unrevealed foetus miscarried, bodged gas fire repairs, and a pair of young hands gripping a pillow of whitest cotton. With each flash a sneer grew on the features of his face, stretching the parchment-like skin till it looked like it may actually tear. There was a malevolence to the expression that Frankie didn’t care for and threatened to raise bile to his throat.

“So what’s the verdict then?” Frankie felt compelled to interrupt the man’s unnerving appraisal of the objects. His relief when the sinister grin evaporated from that grey face was palpable.

“Verdict? I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” the man replied, straightening up once more and precisely positioning the open folder in front of him.

“Well I picked five things like you asked. So am I going up there?” Frankie extended his middle finger to the ceiling and allowed a smirk of his own to break out upon his face. “Or am I headed down that way?” He inverted his hand to point at the slate floor tiles.

“Whatever gave you the idea that you were here for a determination of that? I’m afraid that’s a whole different department.” The gaunt man smiled, a proper toothy smile, and his whole posture seemed to relax. Within seconds there was no trace of the stern, intimidating man that had been sat in front of Frankie. The man was now almost grandfatherly in aspect and Frankie found himself actually warming to the man.

“So this wasn’t an interview for me to argue a final destination for my soul?”

“Heavens, no! If you’ll forgive the pun. Your soul was claimed long ago, and there is little one can do to change that outcome I’m afraid.”

“So why am I here then?” Frankie asked, folding his arms and leaning back in the uncomfortable chair.

“You are here because you have been judged suitable for interview,” the gaunt man replied, still too vague and elusive for Frankie’s liking.

“Yes, I gathered that much for myself. I ain’t no thick pikey. But what’s the interview for?”

“Why, Mr Pearce. This is a job interview! For a very special, and important position. And I’m pleased to say, you are hired!”