Overtime (2 page)

Guy frowned. ‘Is Death usually like this?' he asked.

‘Gracious me, what a question!' replied Peter's body. ‘How should I know?'

‘Well ...' Guy looked at the ground. It didn't seem to be getting all that much closer. An illusion of time slowing up, he reckoned, probably quite normal. ‘You
should know,'
he added.

‘Why?'

‘Because you're the Angel of Death, or whatever it is you call yourself,' Guy said. ‘I'm going to die, and so I'm imagining you've come to life, or something like that. Hallucinating.'

‘Are you feeling all right?'

‘No, of course I'm not, I'm just about to die!'

Peter's body tutted disapprovingly. ‘Here,' it said, ‘you just relax; I'll see to things. I had an idea all along you weren't very good at landings. You should have said earlier, instead of going all to pieces.'

About thirty seconds later, there was a terrible jolt, and for a moment Guy imagined that the safety harness would break and he would be catapulted out through the perspex. But he wasn't. The plane stopped moving and sat there. On the ground.

‘Right,' said the voice in his ear, ‘I think we ought to get out now. Sorry.'

‘Sorry?'

‘I'm afraid I've damaged your aeroplane,' said the voice. ‘As I think I said, I'm not terribly well up on these old-fashioned models. I have an idea I've ruptured the fuel-tanks. Shall we get out now?'

‘Anything you say,' Guy replied. ‘But I didn't think it mattered when you're dead.'

‘It may well not,' said the voice. ‘But I don't want to find out. Cheerio.'

The canopy was thrown back, and Guy saw someone jump out over the side. Interestingly enough, Peter's body was still there.

‘Come
on!'
said a voice from outside the plane. Guy shrugged, took off his safety harness and clambered out. He was very stiff and his legs hurt. He nearly killed himself falling off the plane on to the ground, which was as hard as stone.

‘Come
on
!' the voice said again. Guy picked himself up and ran clumsily in the direction of the voice. Not long afterwards, there was an explosion which landed him on his face.

He came round to find a tall young man standing over him. Odd chap. Dressed strangely.

‘Are you all right?' said the odd chap. He sounded just like Peter's body.

‘I think so.'

‘Good. Here.' The odd chap reached out a hand and Guy pulled himself up to his feet. The odd chap smiled sheepishly.

‘Very sorry about your aeroplane.'

Not far away, the Mosquito, or what was left of it, was burning merrily. Being made of wood it burnt well, and so there was plenty of light.

‘That's all right,' Guy said. ‘It wasn't actually mine. Belonged to His Majesty's Government.'

‘Fair enough,' said the odd chap, ‘but it's going to make it rather tricky for you to get home, isn't it?'

‘How do you mean, home?' Guy replied, rubbing his eyes - odd; he could feel them itching. ‘I'm dead, aren't I?'

‘I wish you'd stop saying that,' said the odd chap. ‘Makes me feel creepy, don't you know?' He looked around him, saw a church spire, and nodded. The sight of the spire had seemed to reassure him, Guy felt.

‘We're about five miles from Banville,' the odd chap said. ‘Can I offer you a drink?'

‘A drink,' Guy repeated.

‘Yes indeed,' said the odd chap. ‘Don't know about you, but I feel a bit shaken. My place is only just round the comer.'

Guy thought about it. He thought very hard in a remarkably short space of time. It was probably the smell of burning flesh coming from the plane that decided him in the end. ‘Thank you,' he said. ‘I'm sorry,' he added, ‘I don't think I caught your name.'

‘John de Nesle,' said the odd chap. ‘And you're ...?'

‘Goodlet,' said Guy. ‘Guy Goodlet.'

‘Oh,' said John de Nesle. ‘Where's Goodlet?'

‘I'm sorry?'

John de Nesle shook his head. ‘Tell me later,' he said. ‘Come on. We need to find a town hall or something.'

 

‘Here you are,' said the girl. ‘I've brought you your tea.'

In the darkness of the cell the prisoner stirred and grunted. ‘Don't want any tea,' he said in his characteristic muffled fashion. ‘Go away.'

The girl frowned. ‘Don't be silly,' she said. ‘It's chicken broth. Your favourite,' she added.

The prisoner made an impatient gesture with one manacled hand, startling a rat. ‘Two points,' he said. ‘First, it is not my favourite. Second, you put too much salt in it.'

‘You should have said earlier.'

‘When you put too much salt in it,' the prisoner continued, ignoring her, ‘the drops that inevitably escape from the straw get in the fiddly bits of the mask and make it go all rusty. If there's one thing I can't be doing with, it's rust.'

‘Sorry, I'm sure,' said the girl, nettled. The prisoner shook his head.

‘It's me who should apologise,' he said. ‘A bit grumpy, I'm afraid. What's the weather like outside?'

‘Raining.'

‘Really?' Although it was obviously impossible for the girl to see his face, she was sure the prisoner was smiling. ‘I used to love rain,' he said.

‘Did you?' The girl seemed surprised.

‘Oh yes,' replied the prisoner. ‘Everyone else in my family had this thing about sun, but I always preferred rain. What day is it today?'

‘Thursday.'

‘You don't say!' The prisoner sighed until the girl felt sure that his heart must break for pure nostalgia. ‘Ah well. Chicken broth, you said? Yummy.'

She put the tray down. ‘I'll put less salt in it next time,' she said.

‘No, no,' said the prisoner, ‘it's just fine the way it is. And what's for afters? Water? Oh good, I
do
like water.' Instinctively he reached for his belt; but there was nothing there. ‘Sorry,' he said sheepishly and for about the ten thousandth time, ‘I don't seem to have any money on me.'

The girl smiled. ‘That's all right,' she said. ‘Be seeing you.'

The prisoner nodded affably, and the door closed after her. With a soft moan, the prisoner sat down on the floor and stared at the wooden bowl, the earthenware cup and the straw. After a long time, he nerved himself to drink some of the broth, which was disgusting, as usual. Still, one had to keep one's strength up, apparently. Why, he was not quite sure; but it was a thing that one did, just as one always tried to be affable to the staff.

The rat scuttled up and sat on his knee, its sharp nose sniffing in the direction of the broth. The prisoner looked down.

‘Hello, ratty,' he said, ‘you want some? Well, help yourself, I disclaim all responsibility, mind.' He put the bowl on the floor and the rat scampered down his leg and hoisted its snout into the remaining broth. After a couple of sips, it looked up, shook its head and slunk away. From a far comer of the cell came the small, clear sound of a rat vomiting.

‘Don't say I didn't warn you,' the prisoner said. Then he drank the water.

 

‘It's all right,' said the odd chap. ‘I've got a pass.'

Guy looked at him. By the full light of a summer's morning he had discovered that the odd chap was wearing: a pair of trousers with one red leg and one yellow leg; pointed red leather shoes with wiggly gold buckles; what looked suspiciously like a white silk longsleeved vest; and a sort of cricket sweater made of tiny interlocking steel rings.

‘Now hang on,' Guy whispered, but the odd chap just smiled. He had an odd face too, very long, with a long, pointed nose, and his hair was cut strangely - all short at the sides and back, and thick and curly on top. It reminded Guy of something.

‘You just leave this to me,' said the odd chap.

So saying, he walked round the corner, and Guy, to his amazement, found himself following. This was all extremely strange, but maybe being dead was like that.

The solid German soldier standing guard outside the Mairie of Benville looked up and started to unsling his rifle. from his shoulder. Halfway through the operation, he stopped and appeared to relax.

‘Morning,' said the odd chap. ‘Let me show you my pass.' He reached inside the steel sweater and produced a scrap of folded parchment, which he opened up and showed to the guard. The guard read it, twice, thought about it, shrugged and saluted.

‘Thanks awfully,' said the odd chap. ‘The British airman is with me.'

The guard nodded. Guy followed the odd chap into the Mairie.

‘Please don't get the wrong idea,' said the odd chap. ‘I'm not German myself, if that's what you're thinking. It's a sort of all-purpose pass. Here, have a look.'

He handed Guy the scrap of parchment, on which was written:

Guy thought about it. Then he started to reach for his revolver.

‘No, no,' said the odd chap, stopping him. ‘Sorry, I forgot you'd be convinced. Here, look again.'

Guy glanced down at the parchment in his hand, which now read:

‘Sorry,' Guy said. ‘It's just, you get suspicious, you know ...'

‘That's all right.' De Nesle put the parchment away, and looked round. ‘This way, I think,' he said.

He led the way up a flight of stairs to a small landing, off which opened a number of offices. It looked very much like a town hall anywhere. There was nobody about, but then, it was still early. De Nesle was reading what was written on the doors.

‘You spoke to that guard in English,' Guy said, ‘but he understood you.'

De Nesle shrugged. ‘It's a gift I have,' he said. ‘Ah, this looks like it might do the trick.'

He stopped in front of a door, on which was written
Privée: défense d'entrer.
He tried the handle, but it was locked.

‘Yes, this'll do,' he said. He rapped sharply on the door three times, muttered something under his breath, and turned the door knob again. The door opened. He walked through the doorway and vanished.

For reasons best known to himself, Guy followed.

 

It is well known that if you are fortunate enough to have a large amount of money and don't feel like paying more tax than you can help, there are skilled professional men and women who will gladly assist you. What is less well known is that fiscal advice comes on four levels: the ordinary, or High Street level; the superior or specialist level; the de luxe or international consultancy level; and the
ne plus ultra
or 32A Beaumont Street level.

32A Beaumont Street, London does not demean itself by trading under a name or logo. It does not advertise; in fact, it does its best to conceal its existence from the public, since, despite the murderously high fee scale it operates, if its existence were to become common knowledge it would soon become inundated with enquiries to such an extent that it would no longer be able to function.

The criteria for selection as a potential client of 32A Beaumont Street are almost prohibitively stringent. Wealth beyond the dreams of avarice is certainly not enough. Neither is discretion. Birth, rank, political standing and other such ephemeral factors are of no account. What 32A Beaumont Street looks for in a potential client is compatibility of outlook. Prospective clients of the practice must love acquiring money and hate parting with it more than anything else in time or space.

Once you have been selected, you are secretly vetted and then directly approached by a member of the practice. If, after a rigorous catechism, you are found to be of the right calibre, you are invited to number 32A to hear what the practice has to offer.

A prospective client, who need not be named, was sitting in the inner office. To be precise, he was sitting on an upturned orange box drinking instant coffee out of a chipped mug. The practice has never vulgarised itself by putting on a gaudy front merely to impress the punters.

The three members of the practice were grouped round him on the floor. They were all peculiarly dressed and strange-looking, but the anonymous client hadn't become as rich as he had through judging by appearances.

‘You are familiar,' said the senior partner — he spoke English as fluently as he spoke all the other languages in the world, but with a curious accent that was probably nearer Italian than anything else - ‘with the concept of the tax haven?'

The client nodded.

‘Liberia,' said the senior partner, ‘the Isle of Man, that sort of thing?'

‘Yes indeed.'

‘Well,' said the senior partner, ‘our basic investment and fiscal management strategy is largely based on the tax haven concept, but with a unique additional factor that we alone can offer. That's why,' he added with a smile, ‘our fees are so utterly outrageous.'

The client smiled bleakly. ‘Go on,' he said.

‘Traditional tax haven strategies,' said the senior partner, ‘rely on transferring sums of money from one fiscally privileged state to another. We call this the
lateral
approach, and we find that it has a great many imperfections. We prefer what we term the
vertical
approach. In our experience, which is considerable, it has no drawbacks whatsoever.' The senior partner smiled. ‘Except our fees, of course. They're diabolical.'

‘When you say vertical ...'

‘It's very simple, really,' said the senior partner. ‘Whereas the traditional approach is to move money about from nation to nation, in other words to transfer money through
space,
we transfer money through
time.
Oh dear, you seem to have spilt your coffee.'