think. It’s his personal metaphor. Nightmare, whatever. Then I have a flashback of my own, to a buried temple: writhing bodies, hungry revenants in the surrounding darkness, a sacrifice of souls. “I’m afraid I do,” I say slowly. “Too bloody well.”
“Good.” His shoulders relax like an over-wound spring. “I trust that you were not suffering from the misconception that your promotion was directed towards a routine management role.”
“This doesn’t sound very routine to me.” As a joke, it falls flatter than a Brick Lane chapati.
The caterpillar twitches. “Ninety-eight percent of management work in this organization is routine. The other two percent is a tightrope walk over an erupting volcano without a safety net. Congratulations: here’s your balance pole.”
I lick my lips. “So what exactly am I managing?”
“Trouble.” Lockhart glances at his wristwatch. “Hmm. Well, I must be going—I have a meeting at four. I suggest you take the rest of the day off. Go home, check your go-bag, that kind of thing.” He looks at me again. “Make sure to wear a suit tomorrow.”
“What?” The phrase wear a suit does not fill me with joy.
“Be here tomorrow morning, nine thirty sharp. We’ll start by collecting your new passport. They’ll need to photograph you. Then we have a field trip.”
“New passport?”
“In all probability this operation will require you to travel outside the country.” Lockhart picks up the BASHFUL INCENDIARY file and bends over his office safe, putting his back between me and the keypad. “In which case you will need a passport with a diplomatic visa. In my experience, when pretending to be a diplomat working for the Foreign Office it usually helps to look the part.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “Well? What is it?”
I put my brain back in gear. “Where am I going?”
“Probably the United States, because that is where Schiller’s Golden Promise Ministries is headquartered—but in any event, wherever Ms. Hazard leads you. Remember: economy class on flights of less than six hours duration. Oh, and don’t forget to write.” He flicks his fingers at me. “Shoo.”
I shoo.
I AM IN THE BEDROOM PACKING MY GO-BAG WHEN MO GETS home.
There is a clattering from the front hall, then more noises from the kitchen—cupboard doors, the fridge, a dirty coffee mug rattling in the sink. Finally a loudly pitched question mark: “Bob?”
“Up here.” Five pairs of socks, six, or hit M&S for a new one-week pre-pack? I hear footsteps on the stairs.
“Who died?” she asks from the doorway.
“No one,” I say, straightening up. She’s seen the suit.
Actually, I own two suits these days. The other one is a black-tie job for formal bashes like the Institute of Chartered Demonologists’ annual ball. This one is my Reservoir Dogs Special. It does duty for all occasions that require a suit—court appearances, weddings, graduation ceremonies, funerals, and those situations when work absolutely requires something other than a tee shirt and jeans. It’s the kind of suit that is worn at arm’s length by a suit refusnik; the kind of suit that trails a screaming neon disclaimer overhead, saying: the occupant of this garment is clearly alive only because he wouldn’t be seen dead in one of these things ; the kind of suit whose afterlife is destined to be spent surrounded by mothballs in a charity shop window display. I did not buy it willingly: when it became half past obvious that I needed one, Mo dragged me round the shops for seven solid hours until I finally surrendered.
“They’re sending you somewhere,” she says. “Diplomatic cover?”
“Er—”
Laundry employees are not supposed—in fact, not allowed—to discuss their work with civilians. But Mo is not a civilian. And (I don’t think Lockhart knows this) she and I have a special waiver to our binding geas to allow us to vent on one another’s shoulder. But this business with Raymond Schiller
“Good.” His shoulders relax like an over-wound spring. “I trust that you were not suffering from the misconception that your promotion was directed towards a routine management role.”
“This doesn’t sound very routine to me.” As a joke, it falls flatter than a Brick Lane chapati.
The caterpillar twitches. “Ninety-eight percent of management work in this organization is routine. The other two percent is a tightrope walk over an erupting volcano without a safety net. Congratulations: here’s your balance pole.”
I lick my lips. “So what exactly am I managing?”
“Trouble.” Lockhart glances at his wristwatch. “Hmm. Well, I must be going—I have a meeting at four. I suggest you take the rest of the day off. Go home, check your go-bag, that kind of thing.” He looks at me again. “Make sure to wear a suit tomorrow.”
“What?” The phrase wear a suit does not fill me with joy.
“Be here tomorrow morning, nine thirty sharp. We’ll start by collecting your new passport. They’ll need to photograph you. Then we have a field trip.”
“New passport?”
“In all probability this operation will require you to travel outside the country.” Lockhart picks up the BASHFUL INCENDIARY file and bends over his office safe, putting his back between me and the keypad. “In which case you will need a passport with a diplomatic visa. In my experience, when pretending to be a diplomat working for the Foreign Office it usually helps to look the part.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “Well? What is it?”
I put my brain back in gear. “Where am I going?”
“Probably the United States, because that is where Schiller’s Golden Promise Ministries is headquartered—but in any event, wherever Ms. Hazard leads you. Remember: economy class on flights of less than six hours duration. Oh, and don’t forget to write.” He flicks his fingers at me. “Shoo.”
I shoo.
I AM IN THE BEDROOM PACKING MY GO-BAG WHEN MO GETS home.
There is a clattering from the front hall, then more noises from the kitchen—cupboard doors, the fridge, a dirty coffee mug rattling in the sink. Finally a loudly pitched question mark: “Bob?”
“Up here.” Five pairs of socks, six, or hit M&S for a new one-week pre-pack? I hear footsteps on the stairs.
“Who died?” she asks from the doorway.
“No one,” I say, straightening up. She’s seen the suit.
Actually, I own two suits these days. The other one is a black-tie job for formal bashes like the Institute of Chartered Demonologists’ annual ball. This one is my Reservoir Dogs Special. It does duty for all occasions that require a suit—court appearances, weddings, graduation ceremonies, funerals, and those situations when work absolutely requires something other than a tee shirt and jeans. It’s the kind of suit that is worn at arm’s length by a suit refusnik; the kind of suit that trails a screaming neon disclaimer overhead, saying: the occupant of this garment is clearly alive only because he wouldn’t be seen dead in one of these things ; the kind of suit whose afterlife is destined to be spent surrounded by mothballs in a charity shop window display. I did not buy it willingly: when it became half past obvious that I needed one, Mo dragged me round the shops for seven solid hours until I finally surrendered.
“They’re sending you somewhere,” she says. “Diplomatic cover?”
“Er—”
Laundry employees are not supposed—in fact, not allowed—to discuss their work with civilians. But Mo is not a civilian. And (I don’t think Lockhart knows this) she and I have a special waiver to our binding geas to allow us to vent on one another’s shoulder. But this business with Raymond Schiller
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