The Unhappy Medium, page 21
‘Newton, I’d like to introduce you to the head of personnel,’ said Sixsmith, chuckling slightly.
‘Really? What, really ?!’ said Newton sceptically.
‘Yes really!’ protested the being, his camp tones mingling with a faint Greek accent. ‘And what’s so amusing about that? At least I’ve got a job.’
‘Sorry, no offence intended,’ said Newton.
‘Anyway, call me Eryximachos. It’s better to be informal at interviews I think.’
‘Your name is what ?’ said Newton, with no intention of attempting to repeat it.
‘Eryxima ... Oh hell, call me Eric if makes it easier,’ said the Greek, huffing. ‘You are Dr Barlow are you not?’
‘Err yes, that’s me,’ said Newton, folding his arms defensively. ‘And you said an interview, but I haven’t said I want the job yet.’
‘Dr Sixsmith,’ said Eric with some agitation, ‘I was under the impression that Dr Barlow was ready and available for the position. This is most inappropriate, most inappropriate indeed! Protocol has to be followed you know.’
‘Oh don’t sweat it Eric,’ said Sixsmith, waving the issue away. ‘He’ll come around, he just lost his job.’
‘I could get another!’ protested Newton.
‘Of course you could my dear boy, of course you could,’ Sixsmith continued. ‘But, you probably won’t, well not quickly at any rate.’
‘Am I to understand that you don’t want this job Dr Barlow?’ added Eric disappointedly.
‘Me ... a job as a spiritual conduit? Well, who could possibly say no?’ said Newton snidely. ‘I mean, it’s everyone’s dream, isn’t it? ’
‘Is he being sarcastic Dr Sixsmith? Sarcasm really wasn’t an ancient Greek thing – I find it hard to spot,’ said Eric, perplexed.
‘Yes, he’s being sarcastic,’ said Alex, wearily. ‘Newton look, it’s pretty straightforward; it’s a normal job for all intents and purposes. Proper employment, taxed at source, health benefits, pension. All that.’
‘Normal? Are you sure ?’
‘Most certainly,’ said Eric. ‘My department is very careful to ensure employees receive excellent benefits. We run a happy ship.’
‘What’s the salary then?’ asked Newton.
‘Oh really, this is most irregular,’ said Eric in a queenie huff. ‘I should be asking the questions, not you.’
‘I’m sorry. Do go on,’ said Newton, suppressing a grin.
‘Well, I should ask some of my usual questions for a start,’ said Eric officiously.
‘OK. Fire away.’
‘Well, where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’
‘What? Are you serious?’ said Newton, and he laughed so hard he had to rest his hands on his knees. ‘Oh priceless!’
‘He’s laughing at me, Dr Sixsmith,’ said Eric.
‘Sorry,’ said Newton, suddenly feeling pity for the poor man. ‘Please, Eric, please go on.’
‘Thank you,’ said Eric cautiously. After holding his eyes sternly on Newton’s sceptical face for a couple of seconds, he consulted his tablet again. ‘Dr Barlow,’ he continued warily, ‘what would you say was your biggest failing?’
‘Well,’ said Newton after some thought, ‘if you had asked me that a few years ago, I’d probably have said that I was a bit of a perfectionist. Now though, I’d have to say it’s that I see dead people.’ He affected a look of bewilderment to frame his sarcasm.
‘Oh really, this isn’t funny Dr Barlow,’ huffed Eric. ‘This is a matter of life and death! Your flippancy is really not helping – not helping at all!’
‘Eric, why don’t you just explain the job to Dr Barlow – that might speed things up a bit,’ said Sixsmith, trying to smooth things over.
‘Yes please,’ said Newton, obstructively. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ said Eric. ‘You have your ... err ... good, and then ... well, you have your evil. Good is good, and evil is essentially bad. We need help clearing up the evil. ’
‘And how the bloody hell do I do that?’
‘I was getting to that! You see, evil leaves traces here on earth, it hangs around like a stain, like a kind of poison, a pollution. It lurks in relics, paintings, the popular consciousness, songs even. The living hold the dead back, sometimes for good reasons, sometimes for bad. Mostly for bad, sadly, now I think about it. But it all needs cleaning up you see. Filing away and putting straight, that’s what we do. Though we, the dead up in ... I suppose you’d call it ...’
‘Purgatory?’ said Newton.
‘If you must,’ said Eric. ‘We the dead can do a certain amount but, in this modern world it’s getting harder and harder to be discreet. There’s all this stuff lying about you see, all over the place, and we just can’t keep track of it anymore. Not just that, but my generation ... well to be honest, we just can’t keep up with the software. Even Pythagoras was flagging by the time we got to Windows 7.’
‘You need IT support, not a physicist.’
‘Oh no Dr Barlow! We need you a great deal. You have such practical skills, logic, objectivity! Frankly, we’ve had enough of the traditional mediums. Dr Sixsmith here was adamant that you’d make a superb alternative. You came highly recommended.’
‘This is all your doing, is it Alex?’ said Newton, raising an eyebrow.
‘Certainly,’ said Sixsmith, ‘because I think you’d really love it. It’ll be a hoot! Plus, of course, you need the money.’
‘Well, I can’t argue with that, so what is the salary?’
‘Well, what do you want?’ asked Eric, as if it didn’t really matter.
‘What do I want ?’ asked Newton, standing back upright from his slouch. ‘Are you serious? Do I look like a banker!’
‘Newton, go on, name a figure,’ said Sixsmith.
‘OK, I’ll make a stab,’ said Newton. ‘How about 100k, plus a bonus?’
‘Certainly Dr Barlow,’ said Eric. ‘That’s not a problem.’
‘Hello? Are you saying yes to that? Should I have said 200k?’
‘Well you could have done,’ said Eric, rolling his eyes. ‘But you didn’t. What is your actual figure please?’ He prepared to make an entry on his tablet.
‘300k,’ said Newton, now strangely interested in the venture.
‘Are you mocking me Dr Barlow?’ said Eric, folding his arms defensively. ‘I don’t have all day you know. ’
‘350k?’ said Newton mischievously. ‘Most of it will go in maintenance anyway.’
‘Don’t take the piss,’ said Sixsmith, sighing. ‘Eric here is seriously trying to offer you a salary. But bear in mind, money attracts attention and any sizable salary will need justification.’
‘It’s hard to think of any of this that doesn’t,’ said Newton wryly.
‘Really, people will ask questions,’ Sixsmith said. ‘Eric, I suspect Dr Barlow here is more interested in the nature of the employment than the financial package.’
‘Quite right!’ said Newton cockily. ‘In fact, I’ve never really been interested in money, though I’ve found the absence of it absolutely riveting.’
‘Shall we say £100,000 per annum, Dr Barlow, while you are on your probationary period?’ said Eric.
‘Probation?’
‘It is protocol,’ said Eric as if it was all perfectly normal.
‘100k is fine,’ said Newton eventually, after yet again shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How do I explain it anyway then?’ asked Newton. ‘I mean, who do I tell what?’
‘Ah, well, that’s the clever bit,’ said Alex. ‘We’ve had a good long think about that and we’ve drawn up a dossier for you. It’s over there on top of that coffin.’ He pointed across the gloomy chamber to a manila envelope amongst the bones and dust.
‘What’s this then? A training manual?’ said Newton.
‘In a manner of thinking, yes,’ said Eric. ‘It’s a job description – it explains what we need you to do and outlines your cover story.’
‘Which is?’ asked Newton impatiently.
‘We thought antiques,’ said Sixsmith.
‘Antiques? But I don’t know anything about antiques,’ protested Newton.
‘Well not just any old antiques,’ Alex continued. ‘Scientific instruments, that kind of thing.’
‘OK, fair enough,’ said Newton shrugging. ‘And where’s my employer? Is there an office I have to go to?’
‘You will find all that in the package,’ said Sixsmith. ‘It’s a small shop in Greenwich market, very specialist. A handy arrangement, I thought, since it’s just round the corner from where your new squeeze Viv lives. The proprietor of the shop will be your main point of contact. ’
‘The correct term is line manager, Dr Sixsmith,’ stressed Eric, trying to maintain his professional air. ‘He’ll also send you your wages, unless you want it paid via the information superhighway of course.’
‘Yes please,’ said Newton, incredulous.
‘So you’re saying yes then?’ said Sixsmith, smiling broadly.
‘Not sure I’ve got any choice,’ said Newton, still determined to at least sound reluctant. ‘Nothing to lose so I guess that must be a ... blimey I’m saying it ... yes!’
‘Excellent! Excellent!’ clapped Eric. ‘Everyone will be so very pleased! Welcome on board, Dr Barlow!’ With that he offered his hand to Newton who tried to shake it, but of course, failed.
‘You’re making a good choice, old boy,’ said Sixsmith. ‘Really, it will be fun. A blast!’
‘Fun eh? I’ve heard of that,’ said Newton. ‘So what happens next?’
‘Well, there will be the regulation induction of course,’ said Eric. ‘We’ll have to fill you in on all the protocols, regulations and the basic organisation ethos. Oh, and then there’s health and safety.’
Newton shook his head in disbelief yet again. As he looked ahead into the unknown, he felt a hysterical vertigo in all of his internal organs at the same time.
‘OK,’ he said eventually, ‘where do I sign?’
CHAPTER 18 – Inductio n
Newton Barlow passed the National Maritime Museum and dropped down towards the Thames. He bought himself a coffee and a bacon roll and sat watching the river, killing time before he was due at the antique shop. He’d left Viv blissfully unaware of his appointment and snuck out quietly so he could avoid awkward explanations, leaving her burbling in her sleep, hugging the pillow like a toy koala.
He opened his dossier and read the terms of his employment again.
‘Protocol 1. Do not involve family members in any project or case,’ it stated firmly. ‘Protocol 2. It is forbidden to use any information gained whilst in the employment of said party to make profit or exert power within the human realm ... Protocol 15. There is no dress code, but funereal visits are to be accorded respect according to local traditions and etiquette.’
I’m going to have to buy a suit, thought Newton. He looked at his pointy black shoes and sighed. Not really funeral-friendly either. He rolled the dossier up and slipped it back into his jacket then finished his breakfast, blowing on his cold hands as the wind whipped up from the river. He walked back past the Cutty Sark, its rigging singing in the freshening breeze, and entered the old market.
Greenwich market sits within an intricate network of tiny old streets; if a town-planning officer suggested it nowadays, even as a joke, he would be made to clear his desk. Small shops lean in towards each other, muscling forward into the meagre available space, barely leaving room for the huge mass of tourists and shoppers that descend on the place every weekend. Mid-week though, after the visitors have gone, it’s often nothing but a sea of stacked tables and it’s once again possible to stroll about freely. The antique shop was in a narrow side alley, and even though it was small and unassuming, Newton was surprised that he’d never noticed it before. He looked up at the sign: ‘M. R. Jameson Antiques. Specialist in brass scientific instrumentation and astronomical collectables.’ Looking through the window between the metal shutters, he could see a sea of brass glinting in the meagre light.
Eventually, the proprietor rolled up, Newton guessing correctly who he was when he was still some distance away. He was probably in his fifties, and seemed to have been using some kind of manly hair product to keep his pointed beard and swept-back hair as dark and mysterious as possible, giving him an air of Omar Sharif playing a magician. Beneath his wine-red corduroy jacket, he had an equally Shiraz-coloured polo neck, around which hung a large brass pendant. As he drew near he raised a suspicious eyebrow and looked straight into Newton’s eyes as he lifted a key up to the padlocks.
‘Are you Dr Barlow?’ he asked coldly.
‘Yes, yes I am,’ replied Newton, smiling weakly. ‘I’m here for the ...’
‘I know what you’re here for. It would help if you introduced the necessary discretion from the outset. As a man of science, it shouldn’t be beyond you to notice that this is a public space.’
‘Oh right, yeah, sorry,’ said Newton, mildly stung by the rebuke. ‘I’ll be more careful in future.’
The shop owner relentlessly worked his way through the bolts and padlocks until after some time the shutters rolled noisily up. ‘You’d better come in.’ Brusquely he entered with Newton following. There was instantly an overpowering smell of Brasso, and Newton was thankful for the fresh cold air they’d brought in with them. The shop owner switched on strip lights that flickered erratically before finally lighting up a glittering interior of telescopes, astrolabes, globes, microscopes and cases containing complicated objects that Newton, despite his advanced scientific knowledge, had trouble identifying.
‘Wow, great shop,’ said Newton, genuinely impressed. ‘Very cool.’
‘Cool, is it?’ said the shopkeeper grumpily.
‘Err ...’ said Newton, ‘well maybe not cool, but these instruments are amazing. I’d always fancied a brass telescope, like this one,’ he said, reaching out.
‘Don’t touch that!’ barked the owner, rushing forward to deflect Newton’s curious fingers. ‘That’s worth £20,000. We’ve been polishing that bastard for months. Last thing we want is your greasy fingerprints all over it.’
‘Sorry,’ said Newton, suitably chastised.
‘If I can trouble you to sit down out of the way for a few minutes I might have a chance to get things prepared, then perhaps we can start your induction.’ The doorbell chirruped as a sickly looking lad awkwardly shuffled in through the door.
‘Mornin’ Muster Jameson,’ he muttered sullenly, conspicuously reluctant to meet Newton’s gaze.
‘Hello. I’m Newton.’ The lad did not return the greeting and simply bustled away into the shop’s interior.
‘Morning Trevor,’ said the owner. ‘Be a good lad and put the kettle on please – I’m sure Dr Barlow here would like a hot drink.’ Trevor grunted away to the small kitchen as the proprietor busied himself preparing the shop for what was unlikely to be a busy day.
‘So are you the Mr Jameson?’ asked Newton.
‘Yes,’ he replied indifferently. ‘The shop was my father’s, his father founded it before him.’
‘These things sell well? They must be valuable ...’
‘Oh sure, when they sell they can be very good for us. After all, every bloody fool self-made man in Canary Wharf wants a brass telescope for the top office. What a pathetic cliché.’
‘Yes, I suppose they do,’ said Newton, looking at a price tag dangling from an astrolabe.
‘I just wish I liked them myself, Dr Barlow. Actually I hate old things. I’d rather have a shop selling smart-phones or surfboards, but no, I’m stuck with this.’ The assistant arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits. ‘Good boy, Trevor, take them up to the training room, will you, and then you can start polishing again.’
‘Pol.....ish,’ said Trevor, his eyes glazed and focusing on two different objects at the same time.
‘Yes, polish. Oh and keep an eye on the shop properly today please, we lost another sextant yesterday.’
‘Yus,’ said Trevor, narrowing eyes at the door like a cat.
‘OK I’m finished here. If you’d follow me please,’ said Jameson, heading through a parade of telescopes and up some narrow stairs to a small room with rows of seminar chairs, and an overhead projector. ‘Sit down, Dr Barlow, I’ll put the heater on and we can get started. Personally, I don’t find low temperatures conducive to clear thinking.’
‘No,’ said Newton, ‘I suppose you’re right.’ He sat in a seat at the front feeling somewhat foolish, being the only person in the room apart from his inductor.
‘I take it you’ve brought your information pack, yes?’ said Jameson.
‘Yes, I have it here.’
‘Be aware please, Dr Barlow, that the things you hear today are not, I repeat NOT, to be discussed with anyone except your colleagues, spirit guides and other team members. You haven’t told anyone about this so far, I trust?’
‘No, not at all,’ said Newton.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Nope, she’d think I was mad.’
‘Quite,’ said Jameson knowingly. ‘It’s very important that you observe the protocols. If the true nature of the afterlife became common knowledge, well ... normal life, such as it is, would become impossible.’ He switched on the overhead projector. ‘Normally, we would have inducted several people together,’ he said, indicating the empty chairs. ‘Since the new directive, however, we’ve put that on hold. As I gather you have been informed already, traditional spiritualists and mediums have been proving very troublesome. True, they’re only too willing to take on board the idea of contact from the other side, but they have a tendency to be somewhat, how shall I put it?’
‘Flaky?’ suggested Newton.
‘Flaky, yes. Also fraudulent, crazy and mentally unstable. We’ve had people using the connections they made via the afterlife for personal gain, which is totally unacceptable, of course. A fair number have just dropped stone dead.’
