Elemental by Steven Savile Page A

said, “In the freezer.”
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    The discussion didn’t go as planned.
    Girl 77 took one look at the collected vacuum-packed works of mystery person, eyed the burning candles arranged around the table, and screamed, “Satanist!”
    Jared Spoon stumbled to his feet. “I just wanted to make you happy.”
    â€œHow would this make me happy, you fucking loony?”
    She bolted from the apartment. “I’m going to tell,” she said. “I’m going to tell everyone!”
    In the event she told no one.
    She ran out into the road and was hit by a bus.
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    Seven people came to the funeral.
    Originally they’d come for somebody else’s, but it started pissing down and they needed somewhere to go. They huddled inside the chapel and did their best to be moved by the eulogy.
    They wouldn’t leave after that.
    They said it was impolite not to follow through on the whole occasion. So they followed Jared Spoon all the way home.

    They stood in front of the TV and reminisced about the life of the woman in the photo frame. Jared Spoon didn’t know her either. He’d only just bought it but it seemed to make them happy.
    He found a packet of biscuits and put them on a plate.
    They remarked on what a fine spread it was. She would have loved it, they said.
    That was the day Jared Spoon started smoking again.
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    The form read: Please sign and date to acknowledge receipt of your parcel.
    Jared Spoon eyed the package with dread. Another one? Perhaps this was her last gift to him. He said: “When was this posted?”
    The delivery driver checked his log. “This morning.”
    â€œThat can’t be right.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œShe’s dead.”
    â€œSo what’s the problem?”
    â€œGetting to a Post Office I should imagine.”
    The delivery driver didn’t understand. He wasn’t paid to understand. Though that was frankly evidence of nothing, he wasn’t paid to tap dance either.
    â€œLook, mate,” he said. “Do you want it or not?”
    Jared Spoon thought about it before asking that one question he probably should have asked to begin with. “Who sent it?”
    The delivery driver checked his log again. “Dunno,” he said. “But there’s a return address if you want.”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œThe Second Vonnegut and Fowler Institute of Cloneography.”
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    â€œYou may call me Ersatz,” said Mister Ersatz Ersatz.
    Jared Spoon sat across the office from him, his bodily collection piled up on a cart and said, “What if I don’t want to?”

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    â€œWhat is it you do here?” Jared Spoon said.
    With a broad welcoming smile, Mr. Ersatz Ersatz said, “We’re like Kinko’s for people.”
    â€œIs it usual for someone to photocopy their arse and post it out?”
    Mr. Ersatz Ersatz seemed genuinely befuddled. “Did you receive an arse in the post?”
    â€œNo. I got a foot, among other things.”
    â€œAnd very well it suits you too.”
    â€œIt’s not mine. I didn’t request anything. None of these bits and pieces are my bits and pieces.”
    â€œWell whose bits and pieces are they?”
    Jared Spoon said the answer to that question was why he had come here.
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    They took a test.
    By they , I mean neither Jared Spoon nor Mr. Ersatz Ersatz. But somebody. Probably somebody who worked for Mr. Ersatz Ersatz.
    The results led to merchandise that lived down on the sixty-fifth floor.
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    Jared Spoon looked like he’d seen a ghost.
    A handicapped ghost with parts of two legs, a foot and a gall bladder missing, and dragging a life support machine around behind her on an umbilical, but a ghost nonetheless.
    He said, “My God, she looks just like Girl 77. How is this possible?”
    â€œShe wanted to be perfect for you, Mr. Spoon. She wanted to show you how much she really