“There are three types of dead,” said Spike, counting on his fingers. “Dead, undead and semidead. Dead is what we call in the trade ‘spiritually bereft’—the life force is extinct. Those are the lucky ones. Undead are the ‘spiritually challenged’ that I seem to spend most of my time dealing with. Vampires, zombies, bogeys and what have you.”

  “And the semidead?”

  “Spiritually ambiguous. Those that are moving on from one state to another or in a spiritual limbo—what you and I generally refer to as ghosts.”

  Parks laughed out loud, and Spike raised an eyebrow, the only outward sign of indignation I had ever seen him make.

  “I didn’t ask you along so I could listen to some garbage about ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties, Officer Stoker.”

  “Don’t forget ‘things that go bump in the night,’ ” countered Spike. “You won’t believe how bad a thing can bump if you don’t deal with it quick.”

  “Whatever. As far as I can see, there is one state of dead and that’s ‘not living.’ Now, do you have anything useful to add to this investigation or not?”

  Spike didn’t answer. He stared hard at Parks for a moment and then scrambled down the embankment towards a dead and withered tree. It had leafless branches that looked incongruous amongst the summer greenery, and the plastic bags that had caught in its branches moved lazily in the breeze. Parks and I looked at one another, then slid down the bank to join him. We found Spike examining the short grass with great interest.

  “If you have a theory, you should tell us,” said Parks, leaning against the tree. “I’m getting a bit bored with all this New Age mumbo jumbo.”

  “We all visit the realm of the semidead at some point,” continued Spike, picking at the ground with his fingers like a chimp checking a partner for fleas, “but for most of us it is only a millisecond as we pass from one realm to the next. Blink and you’ll miss it. But there are others. Others who loiter around in the world of the semidead for years. The ‘spiritually ambiguous’ who don’t know they are dead, or, in the case of the President, there by accident.”

  “And . . . ?” asked Parks, who was becoming less keen on Spike with each second that passed. Spike carried on rummaging in the dirt, so the SO-6 agent shrugged resignedly and started to walk back up the embankment.

  “He didn’t stop for a leak at Membury or Chievley services, did he?” announced Spike in a loud voice. “I wonder if he even went at Reading.”

  Parks stopped, and his attitude changed abruptly. He slid clumsily back down the embankment and rejoined us.

  “How did you know that?”

  Spike looked around at the empty fields. “There is a motorway services here.”

  “There was going to be one,” I corrected, “but after Kington St—I mean, Leigh Delamare was built, it wasn’t considered necessary.”

  “It’s here all right,” replied Spike, “just occluded from our view. This is what happened: The President needs a leak and tells Mallory to pull over at the next services. Mallory is tired, and his mind is open to those things usually hidden from our sight. He sees what he thinks are the services and pulls over. For a fraction of a second, the two worlds touch—the presidential Bentley moves across—and then part again. I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that President Formby has accidentally entered a gateway to the underworld—a living person adrift in the abode of the dead.”

  There was deathly quiet.

  “That is the most insanely moronic story I have ever been forced to listen to,” announced Parks, not wanting to lose sight of reality for even one second. “If I listened to a gaggle of lunatics for a month, I’d not hear a crazier notion.”

  “There are more things in heaven and earth, Parks, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  There was a pause as the SO-6 agent weighed up the facts.

  “Do you think you can get him back?” he asked at last.

  “I fear not. The spirits of the semidead will be flocking to him like moths to a light, trying to feed off his life force and return themselves to the land of the living. Such a trip would almost certainly be suicidal.”

  Parks sighed audibly. “All right. How much?”

  “Ten grand. Realm-of-the-dead-certain-to-die work pays extra.”

  “Each?”

  “Since you mention it, why not?”

  “Okay then,” said Parks with a faint grin, “you’ll get your blood money—but only on results.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Spike beckoned me to follow him, and we climbed back over the fence, the SO-6 agents staring at us, unsure of whether to be impressed or have us certified or what.

  “That really put the wind up them!” hissed Spike as we scrambled to the top of the embankment, across bits of broken bumpers and shards of plastic moldings. “Nothing like a bit of that wooo-wooo crossing-over-into-the-spirit-world stuff to scare the crap out of them!”

  “You mean you were making all that up?” I asked, not without a certain degree of nervousness in my voice. I had been on two jobs with Spike before. On the first I was nearly fanged by a vampire, on the second almost eaten by zombies.

  “I wish,” he replied, “but if we make it look too easy, then they don’t cough up the big moola. It’ll be a cinch! After all, what do we have to lose?”

  “Our lives?”

  “Dahhhh! You must loosen up a bit, Thursday. Look upon it as an experience—part of death’s rich tapestry. You ready?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Let’s hit those semideads where it hurts!”

  By the fifth time we had driven the circuit between Junctions 16 and 17 and without so much as a glimpse of anything other than bored motorists and a cow or two, I was beginning to wonder whether Spike really knew what he was doing.

  “Spike?”

  “Mmm?” he replied, concentrating on the empty field that he thought might contain the gateway to the dead.

  “What exactly are we looking for?”

  “I don’t have the foggiest idea, but if the President can make his way in without dying, so can we. Are you sure you won’t put Biffo on midhoop attack? He’s wasted on defense. You could promote Johnno to striker and use Jambe and Snake to build up defense.”

  “If I don’t find another five players, it might not matter anyway,” I replied. “I managed to get Alf Widdershaine out of retirement to coach, though. You used to play county croquet, didn’t you?”

  “No way, Thursday.”

  “Oh, go on.”

  “No.”

  There was a long pause. I stared out the window at the traffic, and Spike concentrated on driving, every now and then looking expectantly into the fields by the side of the road. I could see this was going to be a long day, so it seemed as good a time as any to broach the subject of Cindy. I wasn’t keen to kill her, and Spike, I knew, would be less than happy to see her dead.

  “So . . . when did you and Cindy tie the knot?”

  “About eighteen months ago. Have you ever visited the realm of the dead?”

  “Orpheus told me about the Greek version of it over coffee once—but only the highlights. Does she . . . er . . . have a job?”

  “She’s a librarian,” replied Spike, “part-time. I’ve been there a couple of times; it’s not half as creepy as you’d have thought.”

  “The library?”

  “The abode of the dead. Orpheus would have paid the ferryman, but, you know, that’s just a scam. You can easily do it yourself; those inflatable boats from Wal-Mart work a treat.”

  I tried to visualize Spike paddling his way to the underworld on a brightly colored inflatable boat but quickly swept it aside.

  “So . . . which library does Cindy work in?”

  “The one in Highclose. They have day care, so it’s very convenient. I want to have another kid, but Cindy’s not sure. How’s your husband, by the way—still eradicated?”

  “Wavering between ‘to be’ and ‘not to be’ at the moment.”

  “So there’s hope, then?”

  “There’s always hope.”

  “My sentiments entirely. Ever had a near-death experience?”

  “Yes,” I replied, recalling the time I was shot by a police marksman in an alternative future.

  “What was it like?”

  “Dark.”

  “That sounds like a plain old common or garden-variety death experience,” replied Spike cheerfully. “I get them all the time. No, we need something a bit better than that. To pass over into the dark realm, we need to just come within spitting distance of the Grim Reaper and hover there, tantalizingly just out of his reach.”

  “And how are we going to achieve that?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  He turned off the motorway at Junction 17 and took the entrance ramp back onto the opposite carriageway to do another circuit.

  “What did Cindy do before you were married?”

  “She was a librarian then, too. She comes from a long line of dedicated Sicilian librarians—her brother is a librarian for the CIA.”

  “The CIA?”

  “Yes, he spends the time traveling the world—cataloging their books, I presume.”

  It seemed as though Cindy was wanting to tell him what she really did but couldn’t pluck up the courage. The truth about Cindy might easily shock him, so I thought I’d better plant a few seeds of doubt. If he could figure it all out himself, it would be a great deal less painful.

  “Does it pay well, being a librarian?”

  “Certainly does!” exclaimed Spike. “Sometimes she is called away to do freelance contract work—emergency card-file indexing or something—and they pay her in used notes, too—in suitcases. Don’t know how they manage it, but they do.”

  I sighed and gave up.

  We drove around twice more. Parks and the rest of the SO-6 spooks had long since got bored and driven off, and I was beginning to get a little tired of this myself.

  “How long do we have to do this for?” I asked as we drove onto the Junction 16 roundabout for the seventh time, the sky darkening and small spots of rain appearing on the windshield. Spike turned on the wipers, which squeaked in protest.

  “Why, am I keeping you from something?”

  “I promised Mum she wouldn’t have to look after Friday past five.”

  “What are grannies for? Anyway, you’re working.”

  “Well, that’s not the point, is it?” I answered. “If I annoy her, she may decide not to look after him again.”

  “She should be grateful for it. My parents love looking after Betty, although Cindy doesn’t have any—they were both shot by police marksmen while being librarians.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as unusual?”

  He shrugged. “In my line of work, it’s difficult to know what unusual is.”

  “I know the feeling. Are you sure you don’t want to play in the SuperHoop?”

  “I’d sooner attempt root-canal work on a werewolf.” He pressed his foot hard on the accelerator and weaved around the traffic that was waiting to return to the westbound M4. “I’m bored with all this. Death, drape your sable coat upon us!”

  Spike’s car shot forward and rapidly gathered speed down the slip road as a deluge of summer rain suddenly dumped onto the motorway, so heavy that even with the wipers on full speed, it was difficult to see. Spike turned on the headlights, and we joined the motorway at breakneck speed, through the spray of a passing juggernaut, before pulling into the fast lane. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was just touching ninety-five.

  “Don’t you think you’d better slow down?” I yelled, but Spike just grinned maniacally and overtook a car on the inside.

  We were going almost a hundred when Spike pointed out the window and yelled, “Look!”

  I gazed out my window to the empty fields; there was nothing but a curtain of heavy rain falling from a leaden sky. As I stared, I suddenly glimpsed a sliver of light as faint as a will-o’-the-wisp. It might have been anything, but to Spike’s well-practiced eye, it was just what we’d been looking for—a chink in the dark curtain that separates the living from the dead.

  “Here we go!” yelled Spike, and he pulled the wheel hard over. The side of the M4 greeted us in a flash, and I had just the barest glimpse of the embankment, the white branches of the dead tree and rain swirling in the headlights before the wheels thumped hard on the drainage ditch and we left the road. There was a sudden smoothness as we were airborne, and I braced myself for the heavy landing. It didn’t happen. A moment later we were driving slowly into a motorway services in the dead of night. The rain had stopped, and the inky black sky had no stars. We had arrived.

  28.

  Dauntsey Services

  Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

  And our hearts, though stout and brave,

  Still, like muffled drums, are beating

  Funeral marches to the grave.

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

  “A Psalm of Life”

  We motored slowly in and parked next to where Formby’s Bentley was standing empty with the keys in the ignition.

  “Looks like we’re still in time. What sort of plan do you suggest?”

  “Well, I understand a lyre seems to work quite well—and not looking back has something to do with it.”

  “Optional, if you ask me. My strategy goes like this: We locate the President and get the hell out. Anyone who tries to stop us gets bashed. What do you think?”

  “Wow!” I muttered. “You planned this down to the smallest detail, didn’t you?”

  “It has the benefit of simplicity.”

  Spike looked around at the number of people entering the motorway services building. “This gateway isn’t just for road accidents,” he muttered, opening the boot of the car and taking out a pump-action shotgun. “From the numbers, I reckon this portal must service most of Wessex and a bit of Oxfordshire as well. Years ago there was no need for this sort of place. You just croaked, then went up or down. Simple.”

  “So what’s changed?”

  Spike tore open a box of cartridges and pushed them one by one into the shotgun. “The rise of secularism has a hand in it, but mostly it’s down to CPR. Death takes a hold—you come here, someone resuscitates you, you leave.”

  “Right. So what’s the President doing here?”

  Spike filled his pockets with cartridges and placed the sawn-off shotgun in a long pocket on the inside of his duster. “An accident. He’s not meant to be here at all—like us. Are you packing?”

  I nodded.

  “Then let’s see what’s going on. And act dead—we don’t want to attract any attention.”

  We strode slowly down the parking lot towards the motorway services. Tow trucks that pulled the empty cars of the departed souls drove past, vanishing into the mist that swathed the exit ramp.

  We opened the doors to the services and stepped in, ignoring a Royal Automobile Club man who tried in a desultory manner to sell us membership. The interior was well lit, airy, smelt vaguely of disinfectant and was pretty much identical to every other motorway services I had ever been in. The visitors were the big difference. Their talking was muted and low and their movements languorous, as though the burden of life was pressing heavily on their shoulders. I noticed also that although many people were walking in the main entrance, not so many people were walking out.

  We passed the phones, which were all out of order, and then walked towards the canteen, which smelt of stewed tea and pizza. People sat around in groups, talking softly, reading out-of-date newspapers or sipping coffee. Some of the tables had a number on a stand that designated some unfulfilled food order.

  “Are all these people dead?” I asked.

  “Nearly. This is only a gateway, remember. Have a look over there.” Spike pulled me to one side and pointed out the bridge that connected us—the Southside services—to the other side, the Northside. I looked out the grimy windows at the pedestrian bridge that stretched in a gentle arc across the carriageways towards nothingness.

  “No one comes back, do they?”

  “ ‘The undiscover’d country from whose bourn no traveler returns, ’ ” replied Spike. “It’s the last journey we ever make.”

  The waitress called out a number. “Thirty-two?”

  “Here!” said a couple quite near us.

  “Thank you, the Northside is ready for you now.”

  “Northside?” echoed the woman. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake. We ordered fish, chips and peas for two.”

  “You can take the pedestrian footbridge over there. Thank you!”

  The couple grumbled and muttered a bit to themselves but got up nonetheless and walked slowly up the steps to the footbridge and began to cross. As I watched, their forms became more and more indistinct until they vanished completely. I shivered and looked by way of comfort towards the living world and the motorway. I could dimly make out the M4 streaming with rush-hour traffic, the headlights shining and sparkling on the rain-soaked asphalt. The living, heading home to meet their loved ones. What in God’s name was I doing here?

  I was interrupted from my thoughts by Spike, who nudged me in the ribs and pointed. On the far side of the canteen was a frail old man who was sitting by himself at a table. I’d seen President Formby once or twice before, but not for about a decade. According to Dad, he would die of natural causes in six days, and it wouldn’t be unkind to say that he looked it. He was painfully thin, and his eyes seemed sunken into his sockets. His teeth, so much a trademark, more protruding than ever. A lifetime’s entertaining can be punishing, a half lifetime in politics doubly so. He was hanging on to keep Kaine from power, and by the look of it, he was losing and knew it.

  I moved to get up but Spike murmured:

  “We might be too late. Look at his table.”

  There was a “Number 33” sign in front of him. I felt Spike tense and lower his shoulders, as though he had seen someone he recognized but didn’t want them to see him.

  “Thursday,” he whispered, “get the President to my car by whatever means you can before the waitress comes back. I have to take care of something. I’ll see you outside.”