The Bureau of Them

by Cate Gardner

  Katy stood and rubbed her hip, wiping dust from her hands onto her jacket.

  "I warned you," the boy at the desk said, turning from the mannequin-ghost.

  "You didn't." Had he? Katy asked, "What of?"

  "I asked if you were sure."

  "That's not a warning. Who are you?"

  "The same as you more or less with emphasis on the less. My name is Peter. Sorry," he said. "I forget what it's like to be around the living. Niceties and all that"

  "Katy. Are you dead?"

  "Ha! Not yet. At least, I don't think so. I was alive when I entered and I don't recall dying in between. I get hungry-I steal food. I drink from rain puddles and dripping taps. I suppose I should be dead. Sometimes, I want to be dead. If you're here, I guess you want to be dead too."

  Katy shook her head. "No, I…"

  "You saw someone."

  She nodded.

  "Well you'll probably find him in there. That's where all the others are. Good luck Katy, I hope he remembers you."

  Katy turned towards the office. I hope he remembers you. Desks were set three columns wide and at least eight rows long. Each desk held a computer. Ghosts sat with their heads bent to the monitors. Smile twitched-seemed there was no escape from the office even in the afterlife. She moved amongst the desks. Glynn sat hunched over a keyboard, his fingers scrolling from screen to screen. He appeared a stranger. Glynn had hated computers and new technology in general. He played vinyl, composed letters on an old Olivetti typewriter, wrote with fountain pens, distrusted microwaves. Although his appearance matched Glynn's, this copy behaved like a stranger. If he was Glynn, why didn't he look at her?

  "Glynn?"

  Perhaps he thought her an illusion. Having spent so much time with the dead, he may not believe in the living anymore. He was a fever dream to her.

  "Is it you, Glynn?"

  For a moment, she expected him to look at her and say 'no'. Instead, Glynn continued to stare at the computer screen and its collection of grainy images. It looked as if the ghosts had accessed the city's CCTV system. As she reached to touch Glynn's face, the ghost named Yarker coughed. Katy looked up and away from Glynn. Yarker stood before the windows, the only ghost (apart from the mannequin-receptionist) who didn't work behind a computer. Yarker wagged his finger and shook his head.

  "Do not touch your dead," Yarker said.

  She leaned forward, her fingers a centimetre away from Glynn's cheek.

  "Oh go on then," Yarker said. "If you must."

  She drew her hand away. Yarker smiled.

  "I am forever grateful for the long hours spent listening to a lecturer lecture about reverse psychology. Now I've confused you. Now you don't know what to do. Should you touch him? Will you explode into dust if you do? Maybe a kiss will waken him from his zombie-like slumber. However, you don't look like the princess sort, more the ugly sister. Apologies, death makes me speak my mind and beauty is in the eye of the beholder etc etc."

  "Why are you here?"

  "Why are you?" Yarker asked in return. He danced forward. "No… wait, I know the answer to that one. Because of him."

  Glynn paused on a CCTV image of a boarded-up launderette. Katy noted that the neighbouring ghosts highlighted the same scene on their monitors. Onscreen, one of the boards covering the launderette doors dropped to the ground revealing a girl trapped within the launderette, a girl in a tattered grey dress. She looked about sixteen. Glynn (and his neighbours) leaned forward, fingers attacking the monitor, sliding across the image until the launderette looked out of proportion. Until it looked as though the building were falling down, the roof too heavy for its crumbling walls. Within the launderette, the girl beat her fists and Lego blocks against the window. Lego Blocks.

  "What are you doing? What are they doing?"

  "So many questions. No wonder Glynn stepped in front of that coach. He wanted a little peace, a little quiet," Yarker said.

  "What do you know about Glynn's death?"

  Yarker raised an eyebrow, straightened his tie, and looked rather smug.

  "Fuck you," she said.

  "I admire your bravery. My wife, god rest her soul… please, someone bury her… would have run screaming at the sight of one ghost and yet you stand amongst us and insult the head-honcho, the lead owl. As I like to think of myself. I admire that. No, really I do."

  Katy touched Glynn's arm. All the dead turned towards her and, except Glynn, all the dead stood. Chairs scraped back. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Katy removed her hand from Glynn's arm. Yarker shook his head.

  "Don't touch your dead," Yarker said, wagging his finger.

  Don't touch when she wanted to crush Glynn to her, to feel the weight of his arms around her, but this mannequin remained unresponsive. She ached to kiss his cheek.

  "Are you him?" Katy asked Glynn.

  For thirteen months, she'd wished the world away, had bartered all she owned (including her life) for one more moment with Glynn. This wasn't what she'd asked to exchange her life for. They couldn't stop her touching him. Katy clasped her arms around Glynn's neck and squeezed. She missed the feel of his arms about her. She missed so much about him. This Glynn didn't respond to her touch. He didn't gaze into her eyes or tell her how much he loved her.

  "Glynn," she whispered.

  The dead encircled them. Their blank expressions turned towards her; empty, grey eyes, betraying neither malevolence nor kindness. Katy's arms remained about Glynn's neck, but her grip loosened. Yarker stood with his back to the window. He controlled these dead. If she could break his hold over them, perhaps Glynn would respond to her touch, perhaps he would remember her. The dead stepped closer leaving no room to escape. Katy pulled away from Glynn. She pressed her hands to her chest as if holding her heart together.

  "Why can't I touch him?" she asked Yarker. "What harm can it do? Don't you remember being in love? Did anyone love you? Did anyone love any of you?"

  Glynn looked up. Whether he did so because Yarker's invisible strings orchestrated him, she couldn't say. She hoped the word love had resurrected a part of him. It gave her hope. She needed hope. Remember me.

  "Love is for the living," Yarker said. "If it bothers you so, die."

  The dead relaxed a little. At first, she thought they stepped back to give her more room, but then Glynn's chair pushed back and he stood. The dead had moved so he could join them.

  "I'm not an illusion, Glynn. I'm here. I'm real. Remember me."

  The dead turned to Yarker awaiting instruction. Katy's fingers hesitated at Glynn's sleeve. Trembled. Yarker shook his head but smiled as he did so. His smile caused her to pull away from Glynn.

  "I could order them to tear you apart hair follicle to fingernail to eyeball and limb," Yarker said. "But I'm a gentleman. Or maybe I'm just pulling your leg… off. Ooh, I could order them to do that and then you'd have to crawl out of here. But I don't like blood, which surprises me."

  The dead laughed in synch. Shoulders and chests heaving, mouths open, but the laughter didn't reach their eyes. Mid-laugh, Glynn spun on his heels and faced her. No sound escaped his mouth. A dry, cavernous laugh to suck from her what remained of hope.

  "No, you don't do this to me. You don't do this to us."

  Katy grabbed Glynn's hand. The dead inched closer.

  "You're Glynn Cutler and I'm your girlfriend, Katy Seymour. Your fiancée. We should have married last June. It rained that day. Great thunderous clouds."

  No response. The dead stare of an emptied man, of a corpse. Maybe he wasn't even here. A fabrication of her grief leaving her as cuckoo as the metallic owl that thought it could fly.

  "You're twenty-three, fucking gorgeous and you love drawing, comic books, antiques, and me."

  Glynn pulled his hand free from hers. She'd never felt emptier.

  "You're not him. You can't be him."

  This Glynn was a facsimile. A faded replica. The dead stepped back, gaps opening up between them. She shouldn't have chased after ghosts. Glynn stood amongst t
he dead, joining their circle.

  "He belongs to them, not you," Peter said, standing at the doorway into the office. "They belong to them, not us. You should leave before you find you can't."

  "You really should," Yarker said.

  The striplights flickered, erasing the dead with each blink. Within the building, they only existed in thin grey light. Katy stepped out of the circle, easing between the dead. Their clothing felt like dust, their skin paper-thin. Glynn didn't follow her escape. The dead reshuffled and began to return to their seats. Phantoms, they passed through desks that were broken one moment and the next held monitors and keyboards. The lights continued to flicker.

  "Hurry," Peter said, as if afraid she too would fade.

  Glynn had almost vanished. Sunlight poured into the lobby, further stealing the dead, stealing Glynn.

  She turned to Glynn. "Come with me." A final, ignored plea.

  Risking reanimating the dead, Katy rushed back to Glynn and wrapped her arms around his neck. He didn't smell like her Glynn. He didn't smell of anything. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Katy ran from the room. The receptionist had faded to a sketch, a thin outline of a girl with exaggerated hair. Sunlight erased the receptionist's hands. The front door stood ajar. Katy turned to look into the office a final time. Yarker shivered up to the office doorway. He reached into his pocket and began pulling out a chain that was at first watch-chain thin but the more he pulled, the weightier the chain became. When he had withdrawn it all, he tensed the links between his fists.

  "Go," Peter said. "Go and don't look back."

  Yarker stepped into the lobby. The ends of the chain scratched worn linoleum, cut into the back of her ankle. Sunlight washed the room behind him, expunging Glynn, expunging everything but Yarker, Peter and herself. The door yawned open, hinges squeaking, then teasing her, it rebounded, closing almost to the frame. Katy ran for the door, shoes skidding through dust. As she slipped between door and frame, the chain bit into her wrist, tethering her to the building. She pulled against its restraint, grimacing against the cut of each link. Her heart pounded. With her free hand, she grabbed the doorframe and managed to pull herself out the building. The door slammed to, cutting through the chain. Its links evaporated.

  Amos sat in the doorway, his box of things placed between his knees. Despite the fresh air, the mustiness of the office clung to her skin.

  "Are you dead?" she asked.

  "Sometimes even the living can be dead. A better question may be, am I alive? And in response to that I'll say, not always."

  She pressed her hand to the door. The building gave no hint as to what hid within. So much for offering anything to have Glynn back, she should have dragged him from the building. Even weighted with her grief, a ghost couldn't weigh much.

  She took Glynn's doodle from her pocket, where it nestled beside the owl, and slipped the paper halfway beneath the door. Someone pulled the note fully through to the other side. They were still in there.

  EIGHT

  Nobody escapes death. Yarker wished he'd told Katy that. He stared at her silhouette, her shape, pressed against the door, echoing against its glass. She believed she'd escaped.

  "Nobody escapes death," he whispered, lips to the window. Then Yarker spun on his heels and addressed Peter, "You certainly don't escape death. May as well fix a noose to the light fittings and be done. You could be with Isobel then. Twin dolls stuffed to the gut with spiders. Sounds like a plan. I'll wheel another chair into reception for you."

  Peter looked at the door, contemplating escape.

  "You think it's still possible for you," Yarker said. "Despite your breath, you're one of us now. The world would rip you apart. Ooh, on second thoughts, do try to escape. A dismembering would brighten this grey day."

  "She's gone," Peter said, his inadequate chin poking at Yarker.

  "Isobel or the living girl? No matter, you're wrong on both counts. I do like that you're always wrong it makes me feel so right."

  Yarker leaned across the reception desk and stared into Isobel's eyes. He rapped his knuckles against her forehead and relished her scream. A scream audible only to him for Isobel remained trapped within her corpse.

  "Wake up, sleepyhead," Yarker said. "Or, I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll crack your skull open."

  "Leave her alone," Peter said, attempting to grab Yarker's arm. Peter's hand passed through supposed sleeve and skin.

  To the living, the dead could be corporeal or mist. To the dead, those living were a common enemy. Tugging on Isobel's cobweb bouffant, Yarker drew the girl up until she balanced on unsteady legs, her puppet arms dripping by her sides. Yarker spun her around, then let go. Peter rushed around the desk to catch her and her dust. Her bones landed on him, knocking Peter to the floor, pinning him.

  "Get a room," Yarker said, and danced back into the office.

  Behind Yarker, Peter began to cry.

  #

  Her Peter lay beneath her, his body shaking from the weight of tears, from grief. If she could move her limbs without Yarker's help, she'd wrap her hands around his neck and throttle the life from him. The final crumbs of her love for him disintegrated. How dare he feel sorry for himself when she was the one trapped in a broken body waiting for Yarker to bury her soul along with her corpse? He had breath, he had hope, he had the ability to love, to grieve. Although… Isobel assumed she grieved too. For herself. She missed laughing. She missed loving this man.

  If she'd loved him.

  An image flashed of her arms wrapped around Peter's neck, her lips pressed to his, the spread of warmth, of tingling flesh. Beneath her, Peter squirmed. He pushed against her shoulders and rolled her off him. Now, Isobel lay on her back staring glass-eyed at the ceiling.

  Forget… Forget… Forget.

  Isobel's left hand twitched. Perhaps a mouse burrowed beneath it. Perhaps Yarker worked an animation spell. Perhaps she was coming back. As Peter struggled to lift her into the chair, Isobel tested her fingers and wondered when they would be strong enough to strangle.

  #

  Yarker gathered almost all his dead to him. They swarmed and clustered, pressing their corporeal forms together allowing their ghost edges to blend until they were almost indistinguishable from each other. Yarker gathered almost all his dead with the exception of Isobel. With great effort, Peter had positioned Isobel in her chair and rolled said chair to the desk to keep her upright.

  Now, Peter slumped against the wall, back pressed to the lifts. Yarker knew Peter wanted to force open the doors, to fall into the empty shaft and break. They'd worn him to almost nothing. Yarker danced free of his entourage and led them towards Peter and the lift. Peter's back straightened, aware of the vulnerability of his situation. The dead wanted to push Peter down the lift shaft. They whispered of their intent to Yarker, Isobel's cry loudest of all. Oh, the living did not understand their dead at all. Concentrating on the lift doors, Yarker forced them open. Peter teetered at the edge, attempting to keep his balance by means of flapping his arms and squeaking. Well it sounded like a squeak to Yarker.

  As Peter began to topple backwards, Yarker wrapped his arm around Peter's waist and saved him from falling into the shaft. The dead cried as one. The dead continued to press. They wanted Peter dead. They wanted Katy dead. They wanted to strip the world bare until only skeletons of buildings and of men remained.

  NINE

  In her thirteen months of grieving, Katy believed if she saw Glynn again she would never let him go. Then, she'd done just that. Sitting in their bedroom, she tried not to think of them together, of when Glynn was alive. Memory hurt too much. A hatbox containing a pink veil lay open on the bed. It smelled of roses, of must, and of things supposed lost. Some days, Katy thought she would crumble to dead dreams in this terraced house, would become a ghost while others moved in around her, filling its walls with life again. Now there was the smallest possibility she could have that life again or as near to it as she dared to hope.

  The telephone rang downstairs
. Katy pulled the veil with her, hugging it to her chest as she ran down the stairs. The telephone's LCD offered Steph's number.

  "Hey, Steph."

  "You okay? We've been worried about you?"

  Katy's pitch upped. "Of course."

  "You haven't seen him again? I mean, thought you've seen him again. Glynn," Steph asked, tagging Glynn's name to the end of the sentence as if they could have been talking about anyone else.

  "I'm sorry I worried you."

  "It's been over a year, Kate."

  Thirteen months, thirteen days.

  "I don't believe there's a time limit on such things. Except those which other people impose."

  "We care about you. You're not alone in this."

  Lie. No matter how often people sympathised or offered an interested ear they couldn't hold her in bed or whisper they loved her, at least not in the way Glynn had. Katy draped the veil across her face and stared at her ghost reflection in the vestibule door.

  "I'll meet you in the pub on Friday. You'll see I'm fine. I just had a blip and blips are allowed. It's in the manual."

  "There's a manual."

  Katy laughed.

  Steph said, "I did not just ask that. Please erase all mention of manuals."

  After their call ended, with further promises from Katy that she knew she hadn't seen Glynn, Katy stood by the vestibule door staring at the image of a bride caught within it. Could she marry a dead man? She'd marry Glynn whether he was dead or not. A deceased vicar could preside. One more kiss. Behind her, something thudded against the kitchen window. She spun around. Another thud, and this time, having moved into the living room, she saw something hit the yard wall. She lifted the veil.

  The yard door swung open into the back street. Katy stepped into the yard closing the kitchen door behind her. A shadow stretched across the back street, as though someone hid just out of view. Katy's heart thudded. In her yard, Lego pieces lay scattered across pitted concrete-yellow and white blocks on a green board, the remains of a house still attached with hollow spaces for windows and its door hanging from a single hinge. She recalled the ghost in the launderette and the blocks it had bashed against the window. What connection could that have to this? Clouds shivered across the sun, obliterating the lurking shadow.