Shadows
To a casual ear it might have sounded as if one person was approaching but in fact there were two. Their footsteps rang out with authority; they were in perfect step with each other. They generally were. They shared a strong sense of common purpose, their taste in most things was mutual as well. They both favoured heavy tweed skirts; sensible, solid shoes; capacious handbags. Neither of them were given to small-talk.
The air was cool, sanitised and fresh in the walkway they were on. Whim and Fancy didn’t appreciate it. Steps still in perfect harmony, they turned together as they came abreast of a gloss black door framed by softly pulsing deep-blue neon pillars and capped by an intricate in-laid crest. It was impossible to discern either what it signified or what it was made of. Three steps led up to the entrance. They ascended and placed their right hands over the eye sockets of the disfigured brass face that suddenly leered out to challenge them from the door’s centre panel. Neither of them batted an eyelid. After a momentary pause it swung open with a baronial creak.
If they were put off by the slight whiff of corpse-breath decay that greeted them they didn’t show it. Phlascher’s current doorman stood before them. Like all his short-lived predecessors, he too had been remaindered. Sooner or later they all started to look like death, with tell-tale grey complexions, dull and lifeless eyes and pores that wept a thin grease.
“This one’s getting a bit high.” Ms Whim muttered the comment as if she were sucking on something vaguely distasteful.
“Mmm.” Ms Fancy agreed. “In my judgment he probably has three days left.” She dabbed her nose with the lace hanky she’d deftly produced from up her sleeve.
They both fell silent, their professional instincts aroused by an indistinct, largely one-way conversation drifting through the thick air towards them. It stopped as The Weatherman emerged through a padded door at the far end of the long hall they were standing in. His walk was jerky, his whole manner animated. He hurriedly brushed past Whim and Fancy without making eye contact. He had to let himself out – Phlascher’s doorman was flummoxed by his haste. He shrugged and made do with inclining his head, motioning to Whim and Fancy that they should now go on in.
Phlascher was seated in a swivel chair behind a subtly ornate desk. His room was muted, bordering on dull. All the screens in the room were discretely in-set in the walls. Most of the remaining available wall-space was adorned with thick drapes. There were two other doors behind him. He was smoking his customary cheroot. Whim and Fancy walked in and presented themselves. Although they’d been there many times before they stayed a respectful distance away from his desk. It struck them both that he looked vaguely irritable. Ms Whim wondered whether it was perhaps a pensive expression.
“Report.” Phlascher was always economical with his words. His nostrils twitched slightly as he exhaled gently and swathed himself in smoke. He blinked in the haze and his face tightened into an expression that was too close to a scowl for anyone’s comfort. It was Ms Whim, now no longer in any doubt about his mood, who cleared her throat and proceeded to detail the previous evening’s events. They tried to take it in turns. Neither of them enjoyed the process.
“Nathaniel Card was followed to the Fully Functional Fuck branch run by Melanie Mellomoment. A meeting followed, during which…”
As the report was delivered Ms Fancy remained at her partner’s side and continued to dab at her nose. She noticed that Phlascher’s ears were memorable for the way they seemed to cling to the side of his head like limpets. He remained virtually impassive as Ms Whim gave her inevitably impressive account of Nat’s proposal to Melanie and the subsequent sadly inadequate coupling. She spared nothing but only occasionally did a nerve twitch and send a slight flicker across his face. Ms Fancy thought she could see her reflection in his jet black retinas. As ever, she could deduce nothing about where the thoughts she knew were going on in her employer’s mind might lead to.
Ms Fancy wasn’t alone. Phlascher’s myriad machinations were unfathomable to everyone. There was no question that his position as a Trustee was the single most important fact about him; that he was the proprietor of the various N.E.L. businesses was public knowledge and well respected. The Mall liked entrepreneurs. Unease came with the fact that he also had the franchises on remaindering, Cleaning Time implementation and all the associated recycling. No-one knew whether it was by accident or inclination that this part of his portfolio was so grim.
It wasn’t that he’d ever made any secret of the fact that his hands were somewhat dirty. Ostensibly he didn’t have anything to apologise for. The grubbiness came with the territory. He was just dealing with the things that had to be done, the things you couldn’t put in a shop window. No-one disputed that these things had to happen. But while it was never mentioned out loud, the potentially unhealthy link between a high remaindering rate and a profitable recycling business didn’t go unnoticed. His company group annual report always spoke with pride about its chairman’s hands-on management style and the way he liked to walk the job. With remaindering and recycling in his control, those claims did nothing to allay people’s fears when they met him.
While her partner carried on, Ms Fancy found herself considering whether Phlascher was inclined to remain so impassive when it came to extracting cashflow from the veins of his remaindering victims. She rather imagined he did not. What she couldn’t have known was that even as he sat there in front of her, Phlascher’s mind was wandering. He knew it didn’t show, but not for the first time of late he found himself feeling uneasy, asking himself whether he was happy, whether he was content with his lot. Something was niggling at him. It was as fleeting as a gnat’s shadow on a summer’s day, but it was still there.
As Ms Whim finished he snapped out of it. After all, things were going on, gathering momentum. As usual, that felt good. And what the hell – even if he wasn’t sure he’d tied everything up as thoroughly as in some of his past ventures, it didn’t matter. He suspected that in fact it made it all the more stimulating. He wondered whether perhaps that was all he needed. Raw excitement was too unprofessional, too likely to lead to mistakes, but a little more stimulation might not come amiss. He moved slightly in his seat. As usual, he didn’t hurry to break the silence. Ms Fancy stopped dabbing her nose. They were both used to it.
Phlascher flicked his cheroot stub down a waste chute in the corner. “Your brief hasn’t changed. Carry on and report back again when you have something to say. You know the score. Do what’s necessary.”
Whim and Fancy nodded, turned and left without a word. The manservant was in wait by the door and opened it in time for them to go out without breaking their stride. They were already walking in unison again.
Alone, Phlascher remained at his desk. He mulled over details and re-calculated again whether his plans were still viable. He concluded they were, flipped up the desk top console and tapped into the central comms server. It tracked and stored every electronic communication – voice or message – made in The Mall. Access to it was restricted to a select few. He devised an electro-agent and set it to work amidst the mass of data. Its instructions were to find out whether Nathaniel Card had contacted the Director of Personal Partnerships yet.
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