Mike Carey - Dead Men's s Boots

I knew that was a lie, but it was a hard one to explain. Alone, without the Mount Grace trust to carry out the monthly reinscription, Myriam Kale would have found herself expelled from Doug’s body sooner or later anyway. And if the way we’d done it had eased the trauma and lessened the damage, the thanks probably belonged to the man who’d died a second time to make it happen. I told her to put the money towards a second honeymoon: if she invests it wisely, it might pay for a dirty weekend in Clacton.

It took me a long time to go through the files I took from Maynard Todd’s office, but the preliminary sweep of the names was quick and easy – although some of them made my eyebrows skitter across the top of my head and come to rest behind my ears. There were a couple of Cabinet ministers in there for starters, along with a Radio 4 presenter, the head of a major union and the CEOs of three companies even I’ve heard of.

But the biggest surprise wasn’t any of those. It was another name entirely that sent me on my travels to the top end of the Northern Line, five days after all this shit had hit the fan and when the echoes had already started to fade.

Court number one at Barnet had a full docket that morning: I didn’t bother to look at the details, but summary justice was scheduled to be meted out to an impressive number of people. Never mind the quality, as the saying goes: feel the burn.

I sat at the back of the court, making myself as inconspicuous as I could, but something was throwing the Honourable Mister Montague Runcie off his honourable stride. He wasn’t looking in the peak of condition, for one thing: his face was pale and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, as though he was hunkered down under about five degrees of fever. And he kept looking over at me at back row centre, getting more and more rattled each time. He fought his way manfully through the first case (a persistent burglar going down for a three-stretch) but he lost the thread of things a bit in the second (non-payment of council tax) and got downright tetchy in the third (bad debt). Finally he called a recess of half an hour and stormed off the bench so quickly that we didn’t have time to stand up and sit down again as the door slammed behind him.

A minute or so after that, the court clerk picked his way casually to the back row and asked me if I’d mind attending his honour in his chambers. I said I’d be delighted, and asked it if was okay if I brought my bronze funeral urn with me: it held the mortal remains of my uncle George, and it was hard for me to be parted from them.

Runcie favoured me with a berserker glare as I walked in, but he had enough presence of mind to dismiss the clerk before he started in on me. I took the opportunity to sit down on the far side of the dignified mahogany barricade that was his desk. Runcie was standing, so rigid with indignation that he was vibrating slightly, like a tuning fork. He really looked unwell: the pallor going beyond ashen into waxy.

‘How dare you play at charades in a court of law?’ he demanded as soon as we were alone, waving a finger at the urn. ‘What’s the meaning of this . . . thing?’

I gave the urn a wipe, because the bronze was a bit tarnished here and there. ‘Well,’ I explained, ‘it’s a mark of respect for the dead, primarily, but it also gives the living a focus for their grief. Otherwise you could just flush your ashes down the khazi and use the money for—’

‘Don’t give me all that . . . nonsense,’ Runcie interrupted me, forcing the words past clenched teeth. ‘Why did you bring it here? Why are you showing it to me?’

‘Ah!’ I said, shaking my head ruefully at my own misunderstanding. ‘Yeah, I get you now. Not so much “What the hell is that?” as “What the hell is that doing in my courtroom?” Well, Mister R, it’s a great, huge, festering, bloated bastard of a memento mori. Which if your Latin isn’t up to it means—’

‘I know what it means.’

‘-A reminder of death; a vivid or stirring testimony to human mort—’

‘I know what it means!’ Runcie screamed. ‘Get it out of my courtroom or I’ll find you in contempt. You’ll do thirty days, you understand me?’

I massaged my nose thoughtfully. ‘Thirty days is a long time,’ I observed.

Runcie shook his head, his eyes a little wild. ‘Oh no. Thirty days is my opening bid, Mister . . . whatever your name is. Carson? Carter? I know you. I know what you’re aiming to do here. You can’t intimidate a magistrate. But you can get yourself into a lot of trouble trying.’

I didn’t bother to answer. I turned the urn to face him. The name on it wasn’t Runcie, but it made him moan and fall backwards into his chair, all the fight knocked out of him in a second.

‘Now,’ I said easily, ‘we know where we stand. You, on that road with all the paving slabs made out of good intentions you never cashed in. And me, on your balls.’

Runcie said something. It wasn’t that easy to hear, but the name on the urn was in there along with some protest or disclaimer or denial. I turned the slightly dented bronze vessel around again and examined the name. ‘John Colmore,’ I read. ‘A.k.a. Jack Spot, the King of Aldgate. That’s you, isn’t it? You would have been one of the early ones, I’m guessing. And far from the worst. I gather you charged the Jewish businesses around Mile End a lot of money for “protection” – but then when the blackshirts rolled up you actually weighed in and provided some, which is something of a novelty. And you’ve improved yourself since then, obviously. Aaron Silver told me some of you had trained as lawyers for tactical reasons, but bloody hell, eh? A beak. You can take the boy out of the gutter.’

Runcie gave me a look that was pure poison, but I forgave him because he had nothing at all to back it up.

‘So don’t get me wrong, Jack,’ I concluded. ‘I’ve got nothing against you personally. But I’ve got to look out for me and mine, and right now, from where I’m sitting, you’re part of the problem. So here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to serve an injunction against Jenna-Jane Mulbridge, immediately restraining her against taking Rafi Ditko out of the Stanger clinic. You’ll also rule yourself ultra vires on the power-of-attorney thing, and bump it up to one of your mates in the Court of Appeal with a quiet nudge and a wink to decide in Pen Bruckner’s favour. These things you will do now, while I watch. And then you might want to clock off early and have a G&T, because you’ll have earned it.’

Runcie was still glaring at me like I’d trodden dogshit into his Persian carpet. ‘The law can’t be bought, Mister Castor.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of trying,’ I protested, throwing out my arms in injured innocence. ‘Although I suspect Jenna-Jane did. But this – this is extortion, not bribery.’

‘You can’t threaten me.’

‘Can’t I? Well, let me paint you a picture, then. You’re a ghost sitting in a body which if I’m any judge – pardon the pun – is already starting to reject you. Your friends aren’t around any more to help you get the whip hand again: no more inscriptions, now or ever, so there’s no going back. Which leaves you with three options. Sing along if you know the words.’

I counted them off on my fingers. ‘One. You hold on for dear life, and savour every last second of your fleshly existence until finally the last one of your fingernails is prised loose and you go sailing off into eternity like a balloon with its string cut.

‘Two – and this is a risky one – you let go. Leave now while you’re still strong, instead of wearing yourself out with a fight you can’t win. Find yourself a fresh corpse to nest in or a dog to redecorate. Come back as a zombie or a loup-garou and live to fight another day. If you opt for two I can even give you some pointers. I’ve been around the track a few times when it comes to borrowed flesh.