The park. Good as anywhere. He’d get bothered by the dumb fucks. But that was fine. He’d get bothered anywhere. At least in the park, he could sit and have a smoke.
—Where you goin’?
—The park.
—Why?
—Because I want some peace and quiet.
—It’s 10am. Not break time yet, Will.
—Yeah? Shame, that. I don’t give a shit. You can hold the fort for a bit, yeah?
Sally Fraser frowned at him. Will wrote code. For a company called TopByte Software Ltd. Sally was his team leader. A decent coder herself. She came in when Will told them to stick the leader role. He wanted to write code. Not sit in meetings.
—You’re always skiving off.
—Come with me.
—Oh, yeah, right. Like that wouldn’t get noticed?
—By who? All the management are in one of their planning meetings. Won’t be out for ages.
He glanced out of the long window that ran the length of the outside wall. A group was out there. Waving at him. Trying to catch his attention.
They could do one. He’d leave by the back door.
—You coming?
Sally shook her head.
—You go. But don’t be long, okay?
—Ta, Sal. Won’t be long.
She said nothing else. So he left the office. Down the stairs to the smoked‑glass doors. Along the corridor to the back door. Out. Up the alleyway and onto the High Street.
—Blimey, sunshine. A treat for Whitlock, eh? he muttered.
Will turned left and walked towards the park entrance. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face. And none of the annoying twats. Yet. They’d appear. He knew they would.
He made it to the gates. Looked around. All good. He went in and made for the bench right at the back of the park. The one with a bin next to it. Not because they wouldn’t find him. That bin had an ashtray built into the lid.
He sat. Sighed. Lit up. Took a long drag and exhaled a slow stream of smoke. Kept an eye out for them. Still quiet. Good.
He leaned back on the bench. Tilted his head. Another drag.
—Hello? Can you help me?
Here we go. He sighed. Looked round. A spectral woman. Still only middle‑aged. Skinny as fuck, hospital wristband still dangling from her wrist.
—No. I can’t.
—Why?
—You’re dead, luv.
—Am I?
—Yeah.
—I can’t be. I was in the hospital!
—Yeah? Well, now you’re dead.
—I can’t be!
—No?
—I’m talking to you! So, I’m here.
—Yeah, you’d think. But I’ve been able to speak with the deceased since I was a boy. Dunno why. It’s a fucking pain in the arse.
—You speak with the dead?
—Yeah.
—Oh. What happens now?
—Relax. You’ll drift off soon enough.
He watched her walk away, wringing her hands. Took a long drag. Exhaled.
—Oi, mate.
He looked round. A spectral man this time. Young, a few years older than Will. Hoodie, jeans, trainers. Wide‑eyed.
—Yeah?
—Some fucker stabbed me. Look.
Will looked. The man had a large wound on his chest. Ugly, lined with congealed blood. Dark around the edges, like burnt meat.
—Yeah. Nasty.
—What happened to you?
—Nothing.
—Wha?
—You didn’t make it.
—Fuck. I’m dead, am I?
—Yeah.
—Are you?
—No. An ability to see and talk to people like you cursed me. When I was a kid.
—No way. Rough.
—It is.
—Right. Do I—
—You’ll drift off.
—Fuck. Righ’.
Will stubbed out his smoke. Thought about going back to the office.
—You are not nice to them.
That was new. This one had a voice so deep he spoke in a growl. Like a death‑metal singer. Will turned.
The man wore all black. Including a black fedora. Purple veins wormed across his face. His eyes were pure black.
—I get bothered by ’em all the time.
—You want to join them?
—No.
—I think you should.
—Why?
—So you learn to respect the others.
—The others? Don’t get all weird and mysterious with me. They’re the dead ones. Most of ’em don’t get that.
—Give me a cigarette.
—Rude.
—Do it. Now.
—Fuck’s sake. Here.
Will offered his pack. The man took one. Will lit it for him. The man took a long draw and exhaled. The smoke came out through the purple veins, leaking from his skin.
Will’s stomach flipped. He tried not to show it.
—So, you’re different. Who are you?
—I’m Silas Tench.
—Right. Will Lewis.
—I know who you are.
—Right. Toddle off then. You’ll drift—
—No, I won’t.
—Eh?
—I’m here for you.
—Well, I’m not in the mood for dying. So bugger off.
—A smart mouth. Think, Will.
—About?
—About your role in the arrangement.
—What arrangement?
—You think your ability to converse with the dead is a free pass?
—Free pass? I’ve been bothered by ’em all my life—
—Yes. For a reason.
—Oh, nice. And you are here to tell me, are you?
—Show you.
—Show me?
—Yes.
—Show me what?
The man moved quicker than anything Will had ever seen. From inside his coat, he drew a long blade. It glinted in the sunlight.
Will tried to move. But something locked him in place.
Silas Trench stepped in and swung his arm in a chopping motion. The blade struck Will’s neck. Immediate arterial spray. A crimson mist hung in the air.
Fire shot through his neck. Bolts of pain screamed up into his skull. His mouth formed an ‘o’ of silent panic. He collapsed.
But he wasn’t gone. Silas Trench leaned in.
—Welcome to the afterlife, Will. You will pay.
—Wha…
He couldn’t get the words out.
—Yes. Pay. For your mistreatment of the dead. You work for us now.
Silas lifted the blade again and plunged it down into Will’s chest. He felt it sink into his flesh. Felt it ripping and tearing, a hot, tearing pressure.
Then he gasped.
Once.