“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 round 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 toward 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 honoring 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 judgment.” 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.”
Later that afternoon a large brown box was delivered to the surgery.
“What’s this?” the doctor asked his assistant.
“A gift from the chairman.”
“Two surprises in one day,” said the doctor, examining the label on the box. “A dozen bottles of a 1994 Côtes du Rhône. How very generous of him.” He didn’t add until his assistant had closed the door, “And how out of character.”
The chairman sat in the front seat of his car and chatted to his chauffeur as he was driven back to the bank. He hadn’t realized that, like him, Fred was an Arsenal supporter.
When the car drew up outside the bank, he leaped out. The doorman saluted and held the door open for him.
“Good morning, Sam,” said the chairman, then walked across reception to the lift, which a young man was holding open for him.
“Good morning, Chairman,” said the young man. “Would it be possible to have a word with you?”
“Yes, of course. By the way, what’s your name?”
&
nbsp; “Rod, sir,” said the young man.
“Well, Rod, what can I do for you?”
“There’s a vacancy coming up on the Commodities floor, and I wondered if I might be considered for it.”
“Of course, Rod. Why not?”
“Well, sir, I don’t have any formal qualifications.”
“Neither did I when I was your age,” said the chairman. “So why don’t you go for it?”
“I hope you know what you’re up to,” said the senior clerk when Rod returned to his place behind the reception desk.
“I sure do. I can tell you I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life on the ground floor like you.”
The chairman held open the lift doors to allow two women to join him. “Which floor?” he asked as the doors closed.
“The fifth please, sir,” one of them said nervously.
He pressed the button, then asked, “Which department do you work in?”
“We’re cleaners,” said one of the girls.
“Well, I’ve wanted to have a word with you for some time,” said the chairman.
The girls looked anxiously at each other.
“Yours must be a thankless task at times, but I can tell you, these are the cleanest offices in the City. You should be very proud of yourselves.”
The lift came to a halt at the fifth floor.
“Thank you, Chairman,” the girls both said as they stepped out. They could only wonder if their colleagues would believe them when they told them what had just happened.
When the lift reached the top floor, the chairman strolled into his secretary’s office. “Good morning, Sally,” he said, and sat down in the seat next to her desk. She leaped up. He waved her back down with a smile.
“How did the medical go?” she asked nervously.
“Far better than I’d expected,” said the chairman. “It seems the cancer is in remission, and I could be round for another ten years.”
“That is good news,” said Sally. “So there’s no longer any reason for you to resign?”
“That’s what the doctor said, but perhaps the time has come for me to accept the fact that I’m not immortal. So there are going to be a few changes round here.”
“What exactly did you have in mind?” the secretary asked anxiously.
“To start with, I’m going to accept the board’s generous retirement package and stay on as non-executive director, but not before I’ve taken a proper holiday.”
“But will that be enough for you, Chairman?” asked his secretary, not certain she was hearing him correctly.
“More than enough, Sally. Perhaps the time has come for me to do some voluntary work. I could start by helping my local football club. They need some new changing rooms. You know, when I was a youngster, that club was the only thing that kept me off the streets, and who knows, maybe they even need a new chairman?”
His secretary couldn’t think what to say.
“And there’s something else I must do before I go, Sally.”
She picked up her notepad as the chairman removed a checkbook from an inside pocket.
“How many years have you been working for me?”
“It will be twenty-seven at the end of this month, Chairman.”
He wrote out a check for twenty-seven thousand pounds and passed it across to her. “Perhaps you should take a holiday as well. Heaven knows, I can’t have been the easiest of bosses.”
Sally fainted.
“Well, I’m off for lunch,” said Rod, checking his watch.
“Where have you got in mind?” asked Sam. “The Savoy Grill?”
“All in good time,” said Rod. “But for now I’ll have to be satisfied with the Garter Arms because the time has come for me to get to know my future colleagues in Commodities.”
“Aren’t you getting a bit above yourself, lad?”
“No, Sam, just keep your eyes open. It won’t be long before I’m their boss, because this is just the first step on my way to becoming chairman.”
“Not in my lifetime,” said Sam as he unwrapped his sandwiches.
“Don’t be so sure about that, Sam,” said Rod, taking off his long blue porter’s coat and replacing it with a smart sports jacket. He strolled across the foyer, pushed his way through the swing doors, and out onto the pavement. He glanced across the road at the Garter Arms, looking forward to taking his first step on the corporate ladder.
Rod checked to his right as a double-decker bus came to a halt and disgorged several passengers. He spotted a gap in the traffic and stepped out into the road just as a motorcycle courier overtook the bus. The biker threw on his brakes the moment he saw Rod, swerved and tried to avoid him, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The bike hit Rod side-on, dragging him along the road until it finally came to a halt on top of him.
Rod opened his eyes and stared at a package marked URGENT, which had landed in the road by his side: The Chairman’s Medical Report. He looked up to see a man dressed in a smartly tailored dark suit, white silk shirt, and thin black tie looking down at him.
“If only you’d asked me how long the young man had to live, and not what his life expectancy was,” were the last words Rod heard before departing from this world.
NO ROOM AT THE INN
14
Richard Edmiston climbed off the bus feeling tired and hungry. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to a meal and a bath, although he wasn’t sure if he could afford both.
He was coming to the end of his holiday, which was a good thing because he was also coming to the end of his money. In fact, he had less than a hundred euros left in his wallet, along with a return train ticket to London.
But he wasn’t complaining. He’d spent an idyllic month in Tuscany, even though Melanie had dropped out at the last minute without offering any explanation. He would have canceled the whole trip but he’d already bought his ticket and put a deposit down at several small pensioni dotted round the Italian countryside. In any case, he’d been looking forward to exploring northern Italy for the past year, ever since he’d read an article in Time magazine by Robert Hughes, which said that half the world’s treasures were to be found in one country. He was finally persuaded to go after he and Melanie had attended a lecture given by John Julius Norwich at the Courtauld, at which the celebrated historian ended with the words, “If you were given two lives, you’d spend one of them in Italy.”
Richard may well be ending his holiday penniless, tired, and hungry, but he’d quickly discovered just how accurate Hughes and Norwich were after he’d visited Florence, San Gimignano, Cortona, Arezzo, Siena, and Lucca, each of which contained masterpieces that in any other country would have been worthy of several pages in the national tourist guides, whereas in Italy were often no more than a footnote.
Richard needed to leave for England the following day because he would start his first job on Monday, as an English teacher at a large comprehensive in the East End of London. His old headmaster at Marlborough had offered him the chance to return and teach English to the lower fifth, but what could he hope to learn by going back to his old school and simply repeating his experiences as a child, even if he did exchange his blazer for a graduates gown?
He adjusted his rucksack and began to trudge slowly up the winding path that led to the ancient village of Monterchi, perched on top of the hill. He’d saved Monterchi until last because it possessed the Madonna del Parto, a fresco of the Virgin Mary breastfeeding the infant Jesus by Piero della Francesca. It was considered by scholars to be one of the artist’s finest works, which was why many pilgrims and lovers of the Renaissance period came from all parts of the world to admire it.
Richard’s rucksack felt heavier with each step he took, while the view of the valley below became more spectacular, dominated by the River Arno winding its way through vineyards, olive groves, and green-sculpted hills. But even this paled into insignificance when he reached the top of the hill and saw Monterchi in all its glory for the first time.
/> The fourteenth-century village had been stranded in a backwater of history and clearly did not approve of anything modern. There were no traffic lights, no signposts, no double yellow lines, and not a McDonald’s in sight. As Richard strolled into the market square, the town hall clock struck nine times. Despite the hour, the evening was warm enough to allow the natives and an occasional interloper to dine al fresco. Richard spotted a restaurant shaded by ancient olive trees and walked across to study the menu. He reluctantly accepted that it might have suited his palate, but sadly not his purse, unless he was willing to sleep in a field that night before walking the ninety kilometers back to Florence.
He noticed a smaller establishment tucked away on the far side of the square, where the tables didn’t have spotless white cloths and the waiters weren’t wearing smart linen jackets. He took a seat in the corner and thought about Melanie, who should have been sitting opposite him. He’d planned to spend a month with her so they could finally decide if they should move in together once they’d both settled in London, she as a barrister, he as a teacher. Melanie clearly hadn’t felt she needed another month to make up her mind.
For the past couple of weeks, whenever Richard had studied a menu, he’d always checked the prices rather than the dishes before he came to a decision. He selected the one dish he could afford before rummaging round in his rucksack and pulling out the book of short stories that had been recommended to him by his tutor. He’d advised Richard to ignore the sacred cows of Indian literature and instead enjoy the genius of R. K. Narayan. Richard soon became so engrossed by the problems of a tax collector living in a small village on the other side of the world that he didn’t notice when a waitress appeared with a pitcher of water in one hand, and a basket of freshly baked bread and a small bowl of olives in the other. She placed them on the table and asked if he was ready to order.
“Spaghetti all’ Amatriciana,” he said, looking up, “e un vetro di vino rosso.” He wondered how many kilos he’d put on since crossing the Channel; not that it mattered, because once he began the new job he would return to his old routine of running five miles a day, which he’d managed even when he was taking his exams.