The New Collected Short Stories (83 page)

‘Oh my God,’ said Arnold, ‘it’s him!’

‘It’s who?’ said Janet, her eyes not straying from the royal box.

‘The man I was telling you about,’ said Arnold. ‘He’s a terrorist, and somehow he’s managed to escape and get into the royal box.’ Arnold didn’t wait to
hear his sister’s next question. He knew his duty, and quickly squeezed past the people in his row, not caring whose toes he trod on while ignoring a barrage of angry protests. When he
reached the aisle he began to run towards the exit, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. Once he was in the foyer he quickly looked around then charged up the sweeping staircase that led to the
dress circle, while the majority of theatregoers were making their way slowly down to the crush bar on the ground floor. Several people stopped and stared at the ill-mannered man going so rudely
against the tide. Arnold ignored them, as well as several caustic comments addressed directly at him. At the top of the stairs he set off in the direction of the royal box, but when he came to a
red rope barrier, two burly police officers stepped forward and blocked his path.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ one of them asked politely.

‘There’s a dangerous terrorist in the royal box,’ shouted Arnold. ‘The princess’s life is in danger.’

‘Please calm down, sir,’ said the officer. ‘The only guest in the royal box this evening is Professor Naresh Khan, the distinguished American orthopaedic surgeon who is over
here to give a series of lectures on the problems he encountered following 9/11.’

‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Arnold. ‘He may be posing as a famous surgeon, but I assure you, he’s an escaped terrorist.’

‘Why don’t you show this gentleman back to his seat,’ said the officer, turning to his colleague.

‘And why don’t you call Commander Harrison at Scotland Yard,’ said Arnold. ‘He’ll confirm my story. My name is Arnold Pennyworthy.’

The two officers looked at each other for a moment, and then more closely at Arnold. The senior officer dialled a number on his mobile phone.

‘Put me through to the Yard.’ A few moments passed, too long for Arnold, who was becoming more frantic by the second.

‘I need to speak to Commander Harrison, urgently,’ the officer said.

After what seemed an eternity to Arnold, the commander came on the line.

‘Good evening, sir, my name is Bolton, Royal Protection team, currently on duty at the London Palladium. A member of the public – a Mr Pennyworthy – is convinced there’s
a terrorist in the royal box, and he says you’ll confirm his story.’ Arnold hoped they would still be in time to save her life. ‘I’ll put him on, sir.’ The officer
handed the phone to Arnold, who tried to remain calm.

‘That man we discussed this afternoon, Commander, he must have escaped, because I’ve just seen him in the royal box.’

‘I can assure you, Mr Pennyworthy,’ said the commander calmly, ‘that’s not possible. The man we spoke about this afternoon is locked up in a high-security prison from
which he’s unlikely to be released in your lifetime.’

‘But I’ve just seen him in the royal box!’ shouted Arnold desperately. ‘You must tell your men to arrest him before it’s too late.’

‘I don’t know whom you’ve just seen in the royal box, sir,’ said the commander, ‘but I can assure you that it isn’t Mr Zebari.’

T
HE CHAIRMAN CLIMBED OUT
of the back of his car and strode into the bank.

‘Good morning, Chairman,’ said Rod, the young man standing behind the reception desk.

The chairman walked straight past without acknowledging him and headed towards a lift that had just opened. A group of people who’d been expecting to take it stood aside. None of them
would have considered sharing a lift with the chairman, not if they wanted to keep their jobs.

The lift whisked him up to the top floor and he marched into his office. Four separate piles of market reports, telephone messages, press clippings and emails had been placed neatly on his desk
by his secretary, but today they could wait. He checked his diary, although he knew he didn’t have any appointments before his check-up with the company’s doctor at twelve
o’clock.

He walked across to the window and looked out over the City. The Bank of England, the Guildhall, the Tower, Lloyd’s of London and St Paul’s dominated the skyline. But his bank, the
bank he’d built up to such prominence over the past thirty years, looked down on all of them, and now they wanted to take it away from him.

There had been rumours circulating in the City for some time. Not everyone approved of his methods, or some of the tactics he resorted to just before closing a deal. ‘Brings the very
reputation of the City into question,’ one of his directors had dared to suggest at a recent board meeting. The chairman had made sure the man was replaced a few weeks later, but his
departure had caused even more unease not only amongst the rest of the board but also as far as the inner reaches of Threadneedle Street.

Perhaps he’d bent the rules a little over the years, possibly a few people had suffered on the way, but the bank had thrived and those who’d remained loyal to him had benefited,
while he had built one of the largest personal fortunes in the City.

The chairman was well aware that some of his colleagues hoped he would retire on his sixtieth birthday, but they didn’t have the guts to put the knife in and hasten his departure. At
least, not until a story appeared in one of the gossip columns hinting that he’d been seen paying regular visits to a clinic in Harley Street. They still didn’t make a move until the
same story appeared on the front page of the
Financial Times
.

When the chairman was asked at the next board meeting to confirm or deny the reports, he procrastinated, but one of his colleagues, someone he should have got rid of years ago, called his bluff
and insisted on an independent medical report so that the rumours could be scotched. The chairman called for a vote and didn’t get the result he’d anticipated. The board decided by
eleven votes to nine that the company’s doctor, not the chairman’s personal physician, should carry out a full medical examination and make his findings known to the board. The chairman
knew it would be pointless to protest. It was exactly the same procedure he insisted on for all his staff when they had their annual check-ups. In fact, over the years, he’d found it a
convenient way to rid himself of any incompetent or overzealous executives who’d dared to question his judgement. Now they intended to use the same tactic to get rid of him.

The company’s doctor was not a man who could be bought, so the board would find out the truth. He had cancer, and although his personal physician said he could live for another two years,
possibly three, he knew that once the medical report was made public, the bank’s shares would collapse, with no hope of recovering until he’d resigned and a new chairman had been
appointed in his place.

He’d known for some time that he was dying, but he’d always beaten the odds in the past, often at the last moment, and he believed he could do it once again. He’d have given
anything, anything for a second chance . . .

‘Anything?’ said a voice from behind him.

The chairman continued to stare out of the window, as no one was allowed to enter his office without an appointment, even the deputy chairman. Then he heard the voice again.
‘Anything?’ it repeated.

He swung round to see a man dressed in a smartly tailored dark suit, white silk shirt and thin black tie.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘My name is Mr De Ath,’ the man said, ‘and I represent a lower authority.’

‘How did you get into my office?’

‘Your secretary can’t see or hear me.’

‘Get out, before I call security,’ said the chairman, pressing a button under his desk several times.

A moment later the door opened and his secretary came rushing in. ‘You called, Chairman?’ she said, a notepad open in her hand, a pen poised.

‘I want to know how this man got into my office without an appointment,’ he said, pointing at the intruder.

‘You don’t have any appointments this morning, Chairman,’ said his secretary, looking uncertainly around the room, ‘other than with the company doctor at twelve
o’clock.’

‘As I told you,’ said Mr De Ath, ‘she can’t see or hear me. I can only be seen by those approaching death.’

The chairman looked at his secretary and said sharply, ‘I don’t want to be disturbed again unless I call.’

‘Of course, Chairman,’ she said and quickly left the room.

‘Now that we’ve established my credentials,’ said Mr De Ath, ‘allow me to ask you again. When you said you’d do anything to be given a second chance, did you mean
anything?’

‘Even if I did say it, we both know that’s impossible.’

‘For me, anything is possible. After all, that’s how I knew what you were thinking at the time, and at this very moment I know you’re asking yourself, “Is he for real?
And if he is, have I found a way out?”’

‘How do you know that?’

‘It’s my job. I visit those who’ll do anything to be given a second chance. In Hell, we take the long view.’

‘So what’s the deal?’ asked the chairman, folding his arms and looking at Mr De Ath defiantly.

‘I have the authority to allow you to change places with anyone you choose. For example, the young man working on the front desk in reception. Even though you’re scarcely aware of
his existence and probably don’t even know his name.’

‘And what does he get, if I agree to change places with him?’ asked the chairman.

‘He becomes you.’

‘That’s not a very good deal for him.’

‘You’ve closed many deals like that in the past and it’s never concerned you before. But if it will ease what passes for your conscience, when he dies, he will go up,’
said De Ath, pointing towards the ceiling. ‘Whereas if you agree to my terms, you will eventually be coming down, to join me.’

‘But he’s just a clerk on the front desk.’

‘Just as you were forty years ago, although you rarely admit as much to anyone nowadays.’

‘But he doesn’t have my brain—’

‘Or your character.’

‘And I know nothing about his life, or his background,’ said the chairman.

‘Once the change has taken place, he’ll be supplied with your memory, and you with his.’

‘But will I keep my brain, or be saddled with his?’

‘You’ll still have your own brain, and he’ll keep his.’

‘And when he dies, he goes to Heaven.’

‘And when you die, you’ll join me in Hell. That is, if you sign the contract.’

Mr De Ath took the chairman by the elbow and led him across to the window, where they looked down on the City of London. ‘If you sign up with me, all this could be yours.’

‘Where do I sign?’ asked the chairman, taking the top off his pen.

‘Before you even consider signing,’ said Mr De Ath, ‘my inferiors have insisted that because of your past record when it comes to honouring the words “legal and
binding”, I’m obliged to point out all the finer points should you decide to accept our terms. It’s part of the lower authority’s new regulations to make sure you
can’t escape the final judgement.’ The chairman put his pen down. ‘Under the terms of this agreement, you will exchange your life for the clerk at the reception desk. When he
dies, he’ll go to Heaven. When you die, you’ll join me in Hell.’

‘You’ve already explained all that,’ said the chairman.

‘Yes, but I have to warn you that there are no break clauses. You don’t even get a period in Purgatory with a chance to redeem yourself. There are no buy-back options, no due
diligence to enable you to get off the hook at the last moment, as you’ve done so often in the past. You must understand that if you sign the contract, it’s for eternity.’

‘But if I sign, I get the boy’s life, and he gets mine?’

‘Yes, but my inferiors have also decreed that before you put pen to paper, I must honestly answer any questions you might wish to put to me.’

‘What’s the boy’s name?’ asked the chairman.

‘Rod.’

‘And how old is he?’

‘Twenty-five next March.’

‘Then I only have one more question. What’s his life expectancy?’

‘He’s just been put through one of those rigorous medical examinations all your staff are required to undertake, and he came out with a triple A rating. He plays football for his
local club, goes to the gym twice a week and plans to run the London Marathon for charity next April. He doesn’t smoke, and drinks only in moderation. He’s what life assurance companies
call an actuary’s dream.’

‘It’s a no-brainer,’ said the chairman. ‘Where do I sign?’

Mr De Ath produced several sheets of thick parchment. He turned them over until he had reached the last page of the contract, where his name was written in what looked a lot like blood. The
chairman didn’t bother to read the small print – he usually left that to his team of lawyers and in-house advisors, none of whom was available on this occasion.

He signed the document with a flourish and handed the pen to Mr De Ath, who topped and tailed it on behalf of a lower authority.

‘What happens now?’ asked the chairman.

‘You can get dressed,’ said the doctor.

The chairman put on his shirt as the doctor examined the X-rays. ‘For the moment the cancer seems to be in remission,’ he said. ‘So, with a bit of luck, you could live for
another five, even ten years.’

‘That’s the best news I’ve heard in months,’ said the chairman. ‘When do you think you’ll need to see me again?’

‘I think it would be wise for you to continue with your usual six-monthly check-ups, if for no other reason than to keep your colleagues happy. I’ll write up my report and have it
biked over to your office later today, and I shall make it clear that I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t continue as chairman for a couple more years.’

‘Thank you, Doctor, that’s a great relief.’

‘Mind you, I do think a holiday might be in order,’ said the doctor as he accompanied his patient to the door.

‘I certainly can’t remember when I last had one,’ said the chairman, ‘so I may well take your advice.’ He shook the doctor warmly by the hand. ‘Thank you.
Thank you very much.’