Lapsewood dipped his pen into the pot of black ink, licked his fingers and pulled a piece of paper from the pile on his desk. In the top right-hand corner he wrote the date: 16th January 1884. His in-tray was stacked higher than ever and today’s Dispatch documents had not been delivered yet. It concerned him greatly.
He didn’t mind the work. Quite the contrary. In life, Lapsewood had lived to work. In death, he was no different. Work was orderly. It was structured. It was safe. It meant arriving early, sitting down at his desk and working his way through the paperwork to be completed by the end of the day.
Work was satisfying.
Except recently, there had been an unsettling amount of paperwork still left in the in-tray when the final bell tolled.
He tried staying late to get on top of it, but if old Mr Turnbull, the night watchman, found him at his desk he would take the opportunity to recount the tale of his bloody Crimean death, while idly scratching the gaping bayonet wound through his heart.
Lapsewood tried working on Sundays, but still the paperwork grew and grew. Perhaps he was being too conscientious about his processing, taking too long over each one, but he couldn’t bear the thought of speeding up at the expense of doing a good job. The Bureau was all that stood between an orderly afterlife and utter chaos, and Lapsewood’s Dispatch documents were a vital cog in that great machine.
The office door opened. ‘Morning, Lapsewood,’ said Grunt.
‘Morning,’ Lapsewood responded. He didn’t look up.
Grunt was new. He had been hanged at Newgate for the murder of his wife and wore a silk scarf around his neck to hide the red marks from the rope. But the soft skin around his throat had been broken during the hanging, meaning that now, with no blood left in his veins, grey fluid seeped out, collecting at the top of the scarf. Every so often, Grunt would wipe it away with a spotted kerchief from his waistcoat pocket. Lapsewood found this habit utterly unacceptable. In his less charitable moments, he secretly wished that Grunt had been guilty of his crime, thus making him ineligible for Official Ghost Status and unable to work at the Bureau.
Grunt, however, was innocent. He had been hanged for another man’s crime.
‘Penhaligan wants to see you,’ said Grunt.
Lapsewood felt one of his headaches coming. This was not good news. Not good news at all. It had to be the paperwork. He knew what would happen. He would be called into Colonel Penhaligan’s office, given a dressing down, then escorted to the Vault where he would reside until he was tried and convicted of professional incompetence.
‘Did he say what it was about?’ he asked.
‘Nah,’ said Grunt. ‘He just told me to tell you to come up and see him urgently.’
‘Urgently? He used the word urgently?’
‘I think so. Might’ve been immediately. Or just now. It was something like that, anyway.’
‘Grunt, this is important. Exactly what did he say?’
‘He didn’t say anything,’ replied Grunt. ‘He more bellowed . . .’
Grunt’s smile suggested this was supposed to be funny.
‘Bellowed?’ exclaimed Lapsewood.
‘I’d say it was a bellow, yes. He bellowed, “DAMN IT. DAMN IT. DAMN IT. GRUNT, GET LAPSEWOOD UP HERE IMMEDIATELY.”’ The ghost looked pleased with himself for remembering this. ‘Yes, I think that was it.’
‘Did he sound angry?’
‘I ain’t never heard a bellow that didn’t sound angry. It’s the nature of a bellow, isn’t it? Shouting, now that’s different. My wife used to shout at me all the time but that was on account of the deafness I got in one ear. Funny thing – since being dead, I can hear perfectly well in both. It’s as though the hangman’s rope dislodged the wax when it snapped my neck.’ He chuckled.
Lapsewood had no interest in Grunt’s post-death hearing improvements. His mind was as busy as a beehive, bustling with questions, concerns, theories and fears.
Colonel Penhaligan was angry with him. It had to be the paperwork, but what did he expect Lapsewood to do? He was working as fast as he could. The Bureau needed to employ more clerks to help to clear the backlog. That’s what he would say. He would demand help. He refused to be forced to do a second-rate job for the sake of speed. Hadn’t it been Colonel Penhaligan himself who had praised Lapsewood’s exemplary work ethic and attention to detail last Christmas? Admittedly, the colonel had consumed a substantial quantity of spirit punch that night, so who knew whether he had really meant what he said.
‘Do you think I have time to walk?’ asked Lapsewood.
‘You’d better not,’ said Grunt. ‘In my experience, immediately means as soon to now as possible. Best use the Paternoster Pipe if I were you.’
Lapsewood glanced with dread at the small tube in the wall that led to the Paternoster Pipe Network. While all spirits had the ability to turn into the grey smoke-like substance known as Ether Dust, Lapsewood found the whole business thoroughly dehumanising. To quite literally disappear into a puff of smoke was another blatant reminder of his own deadness. He preferred to walk one step at a time like a man rather than whoosh about like burnt tobacco on a breezy day.
However, on this occasion he had no choice. He had wasted enough time already. If he stood any chance of persuading Colonel Penhaligan not to dispatch him, he needed to move quickly.
Lapsewood shook Grunt’s hand solemnly. It was damp.
‘Mr Grunt, it’s been a pleasure working with you,’ he lied.
Grunt laughed. ‘You look like I did when I stepped up on to those gallows.’
‘That’s precisely how I feel.’
More laughter. ‘Didn’t no one tell you? You can only die once, Lapsewood.’