Dead Men's s Boots

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Well, you can call me on my mobile,’ he said, very slightly mollified. ‘The number you got from John, yeah? I’ll get back to you when no one’s listening over my shoulder.’

‘Okay.’ I hefted the box. ‘Thanks for your help, Vince. John’s smiling down on you from Heaven, if that’s any help.’

I made my own way out, leaving him cursing me under his breath.

Smeet was coming back up the stairs as I went down. She eyed the box curiously. ‘Dead dog,’ I said, and kept on going.

John’s own private Idaho, Chesney had said.

Yeah, maybe it was, but I could have wished he hadn’t reminded me of that song: the B52s warbling about the awful surprise in the bottomless pool tied in too neatly with the dream I’d had the night before last.

I felt like I was following the trail that had led John to that final encounter with the business end of his own shotgun. And I wondered for the first time where the gun had come from.

Another souvenir, maybe.

12

Nicky was kind of surprised to see me again.

And I was surprised, too, walking into the formerly empty shell of the old Gaumont to find a team of six men resurfacing walls and putting the seating back in. Nicky was supervising loudly and officiously, ignoring the plaster dust in the air because he didn’t have to breathe it. He turned and saw me, and threw out his hands as I approached as though I was going to frisk him.

‘What?’ he said. ‘Castor, it’s only been four fucking hours. I didn’t even look at your stuff yet.

I’ll call you when I’ve got any bones to toss to you, okay?’

By way of answer I lifted the lid of the wooden box, which I still had tucked underneath my arm like Henry the Eighth’s head, and showed him its contents. He couldn’t blanch: zombies have a natural pallor that makes albinos look like dedicated sun-bed addicts. But he did look a little sick.

‘How about we go gnaw on a few together?’ I suggested.

Nicky nodded slowly, and put out his hand to touch the box lid, pushing it down so that it covered the objects inside from view again.

He turned to look over his shoulder at his little task force. ‘The rest of the stalls seats are over there, guys,’ he said, pointing. ‘If they’re not all in purple plush, do alternate purple and blue. Or make a star pattern, or something. But tasteful – I don’t want to end up with something that looks ongepotchket.’

We went up to the projection booth, our footsteps echoing on bare concrete.