Of course it’s what she wants! Ever since Linda was small, her ambition has been to have an account at Days. Her mother used to laugh at her when she would state, with absolute, unshakeable conviction, that one day she would walk through the doors of the world’s first and (unquestionably) foremost gigastore with a card with her name on it in her hand. “Unless you win the lottery or marry a millionaire,” her mother would reply with a laugh, “the only way you’ll ever see the inside of Days is wearing a sales assistant’s uniform.” But then that was the kind of woman her mother was. Linda’s father was a cold, distant brute of a man who kept his wife in her place with constant venomous criticism, and her mother meekly accepted being treated that way because she was scared to believe that life could offer her more, since that would mean admitting she had settled for less. Linda grew up determined that she would not end up like her mother, and glory be and halleluiah, she hasn’t. Today is the proof of that.
As the taxi reaches the end of the street, Linda catches sight of Pat coming out of the tobacconist’s on the corner. Pat has a Days lottery ticket in her hand and is stalwartly filling in her “lucky” numbers once again. Linda calls to her, and Pat glances up and waves. Her smile is uncertain. It seems she needs a moment to recall where Linda and Gordon might be heading in a taxi on a Thursday morning, despite the fact that for the past week Linda has talked about little other than their trip to Days. Linda returns the wave, turning the back of her hand towards Pat and languidly rotating it from the wrist in what she thinks is a funny imitation of royalty. Pat appears not to get the joke, because her smile disappears and is replaced by a frown. Linda will have to explain to her later the satirical intention behind the wave. She doesn’t want Pat getting the wrong idea and spreading it about that Linda Trivett has become all la-di-dah since getting her Silver.
The driver turns right, giving a wide berth to a sack of rubbish that has rolled off the pavement into the road and split open like a dead man’s belly, and aims the taxi for the heart of the city. The meter mounted on the dashboard busily clocks up the tariff. Gordon starts to fidget. He takes off his spectacles, polishes the lenses with a handkerchief and puts them on again. He fondles his lower lip. He traces abstract designs on his trouser leg with one fingernail. He plays with the card, slipping it in and out of its velvet sheath, in and out. Linda, meanwhile, watches the city pass by. The boarded-up shops. The pubs, doing a brisk trade even at this early hour. The cafés haunted by aimless souls trying to make one cup of tea last the whole morning. The beggars waiting at traffic lights, holding cardboard signs that say things like “Homeless – Will Work For Food” and “Mother Of Six, No Welfare”. The school-age kids congregating around benches in threadbare parks to drink and smoke. A man who clearly ought to be in an institution shouting at himself as he stalks the gutters. People who, unlike Linda, have given up hope, who lack the energy and the resolve – the dynamism, that’s a good word for it – the dynamism to improve their lot. The sight of them both angers and saddens her.
The taxi driver breaks into her reverie. “So, Days then, is it, missus?” he says, eyeing her in the rearview mirror. When he knows that he has got her attention, he twists around in his seat to look at her directly. “Don’t tell me. I can guess just by looking at people.” He turns back to watch the road. “Silver, right?”
Linda suspects that the driver has seen the card in Gordon’s hands but gives him the benefit of the doubt. “Absolutely right. Well done.”
“I can always tell. Got a knack for it. I bet this is your first time, too.”
“How did you know?”
The driver snaps a quick grin round at her. “I’m right about that too?” He shakes his head. “I am on form today.”
“We must look eager to get there.”
“It’s not that, missus. It’s more that you both look... well, ‘innocent’ is the word that springs to mind. Fresh-faced. Like troops who haven’t gone into combat yet.”
“What an extraordinary thing to say.”
“But it’s true. You can always tell regular Days customers. They have this look about them, sort of wary and jaded.”
“I’m sure we won’t end up looking like that. Don’t you agree, Gordon?”
Gordon grunts in the affirmative.
“Oh, you say that now,” says the taxi driver, “but people have had some pretty nasty experiences at Days. Experiences that have, you might say, dampened their enthusiasm for shopping there.”
“I’ve heard rumours.”
“Oh, they’re not –”
The taxi driver breaks off because a dust-caked van has pulled out from a parking space about thirty metres ahead. Spluttering with outrage, the taxi driver accelerates until his front bumper is less than a metre behind the van’s tail-lights, then hammers repeatedly on the horn, cursing.
Linda notices that in the skin of dust which coats the van’s rear doors someone has drawn a Days logo, etched a large X over it, and written beneath, in finger-thick capitals:
DAYS
DIES!
Just jealous, she thinks.
The van turns off at the next junction, its driver taking one hand off the steering wheel to stroke the air in a slow, masturbatory salute. The taxi driver growls, “Arsehole,” then says to the Trivetts, “Did you see that? Did you see the way he pulled out right in front of me? I nearly went straight into him.”
Gordon declines to comment, and Linda imperturbably resumes the conversation she and the driver were having before this incident. “You were saying they’re not rumours.”
“What aren’t rumours?”
“The rumours about Days.”
“The rumours about people getting killed?”
“Those rumours.”
“Oh, they’re not rumours. They’re the truth.”
“I know they’re supposed to have some basis in the truth, but don’t you think that these things have been blown up out of all proportion by the media? It can’t possibly be as bad as people say.”
“You obviously haven’t been reading the papers lately, have you, love? Seventeen shoppers crushed to death in the run-up to last Christmas, another eight during the January sales – that seems pretty bad to me. And those are just the accidental deaths.”
“But people still go there to shop.”
“Course they do. It’s Days, isn’t it? And then there are the lightning sales...”
“Gordon and I are going to steer well clear of the lightning sales,” says Linda. “Aren’t we, Gordon?”
“Seems like a good idea,” murmurs Gordon.
“A very good idea,” says the taxi driver. “If you can.”
“We will.”
“And then, of course, there are the people who run foul of in-store security.”
“You mean shoplifters.”
“Exactly. Did you know, last year a total of thirteen shoplifters were shot dead by Days Security?”
“Because they ran.”
“Wouldn’t you? If you were faced with a choice between losing your account for ever and trying to get away, wouldn’t you run?”
“I wouldn’t shoplift in the first place,” Linda states frostily.
“OK. All right. The point I’m trying to make here is that, even for honest customers like yourselves, Days is a dangerous place.”
“We’ve signed the disclaimer form,” says Linda. “We’re aware of the risks.” There, that neatly and tidily sums up her case. The taxi driver is referring to all that things that can happen to Days customers who are not careful or do not follow the rules. (Typically, like anyone who hasn’t earned an account there, he can see only the store’s bad side.) Days isn’t to blame for the deaths that occur on the premises; it’s the shoppers who are at fault. If you don’t know how to behave while you’re there, and if you lack the self-control not to take anything you can’t pay for, then you thoroughly deserve the consequences.
This Linda thinks but does not say, believing it to be self-evident. Instead, she leans back, folds
her arms across her chest, and scans the skyline ahead for a glimpse of the gigastore.
The taxi driver mulls some thoughts over for a while before opening his mouth again. “It’s still a dangerous place. If I were you, I’d be taking some kind of protection in with me.”
“What are you talking about, protection?” The taxi driver seems to be determined to ruin Linda’s rosy mood, so the snappish edge in her voice can be forgiven.
“Protection,” he says. “Self-defence. In case you run into a lunatic.”
“Lunatics don’t shop at Days.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“But that’s the whole point of the place. Only a certain, for want of a better word, class of person can shop there.”
“I wouldn’t say class, missus. I’d say type. The type that loves to buy things. The type that lives to buy things. The type that goes bananas the moment a lightning sale is announced over the tannoy. The type that’ll fly right off the handle if you happen to pick up the last item in stock of something they want. The type that’ll bite your fingers off if you refuse to let go of it. That’s the type of person that shops at Days, and that’s the type you’ve got to watch out for.”
“I’ve never heard such nonsense,” says Linda. She looks at her husband. “Have you?”
Gordon shrugs. “I’ve heard that people can get a little strange in there.”
“Too right,” says the taxi driver.
“Well, we’ll simply avoid anyone we don’t like the look of.”
“Right. See, love, I’m not trying to put you off going or anything. I’m just offering some friendly advice.”
“Thank you,” Linda replies curtly. Still, the taxi driver has piqued her curiosity. “Out of interest, when you said ‘protection’, what exactly did you mean? If you mean a gun, then that’s absurd. Out of the question.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more, missus. You’d never get it past the metal detectors, for one thing. No, I’m referring to something that isn’t going to kill anyone, right, but’ll see off whoever’s hassling you, should that happen, God forbid.”
“And what would that be?”
Breaking into a broad grin, the taxi driver reaches across the passenger seat and opens the glove compartment. Inside are several small, shiny cylinders that resemble lipstick cases, black with gold caps, bound together with an elastic band.
“Got these off a mate of mine who used to be in the police force. Undercover policewomen carry them in their handbags. Pepper spray. Derived from those, what are they called? Jallypeeno peppers. Did I say that right?”
“Jalapeño,” says Linda, stressing the aspirate “j”.
“Yeah, that’s the one. You know how nasty it is when you’re cutting one of them up and you make the mistake of rubbing your eyes? Well, this is ten times worse. One squirt in the face and – voom! – your potential rapist, mugger, bargain-hunter, whatever, isn’t bothering you any more.” He closes the glove compartment and returns his attention to the road. “They’re made of plastic, so you’ll get them through security no problem.”
“Are they legal?” asks Linda.
“Well, if the police can carry them, I reckon technically they must be. You interested?”
“You’re asking me if I want one?”
“I’m suggesting you might need one.”
Linda turns to her husband.
“Don’t look at me,” says Gordon, waving her away. “If you think you ought to get one, then get one.”
“I don’t think I ought to get one, but I think it might be wise to have one handy.”
“It’s up to you.”
“Just in case.”
“It’s up to you.”
“I’ll probably never use it, but I’d feel safer if I was carrying it.”
“You do what you have to, Linda.”
“Can I use our Days Silver?” Linda asks the taxi driver.
“I’ll add it to the fare,” the driver says, reaching for the glove compartment again. “And look.” He points ahead with one finger of the hand still on the steering wheel. “We’re almost there.”
And so they are. Above the rooftops, gliding towards them like a vast, strange galleon under full sail, there it is – a block of dried-blood brick whose dimensions would humble even the most arrogant of men. Linda has seen it before, of course, many times, but until now it has always been closed to her, an impenetrable gulag, a great blank space she has filled in with dreams and imaginings and expectations and longings. Until now, it has been Wonderland. Today, Linda is going to slip down the rabbit-hole.
Days!
8
Ancient Rome: built on seven hills – the Aventine, the Caelian, the Capitoline, the Esquiline, the Palatine, the Quirinal, and the Viminal.
8.32 a.m.
THE BASEMENT IS a network of tunnels – broad corridors branching off into narrower corridors which in turn branch off into even narrower corridors, lit at infrequent intervals by ceiling-mounted striplights of low wattage. Ducts and pipes, the building’s veins, run parallel overhead, and at each intersection the walls are marked with a colour-coded system of arrows, because it is all too easy to get lost down here, where every surface is painted battleship grey, except the floors, which are carpeted in a worn green cord with a repeating pattern of Days logos. When one stretch of corridor looks much like another, even employees of long standing sometimes have to consult the arrows to find their bearings.
Frank, though, is so familiar with the layout of every floor of Days that he doesn’t even glance around as he steps out of the lift, simply turns and heads unerringly in the right direction.
On the way, he falls in beside a pair of Eye screen-jockeys, one skinny, one blimp-big, both with blue-tinged cathode tans. Matching his pace to theirs, he eavesdrops on their conversation. They are discussing the football match last night. Apparently the national side lost at home to a scratch team from a remote Micronesian atoll, but the screen-jockeys console themselves with the fact that at least it was only a five-nil defeat. Given the national side’s current form, it could have been a lot worse.
Not being a follower of football or any other sport, Frank rapidly loses any interest he might have had in the screen-jockeys’ conversation, and drops back a few paces, only to find that he is walking alongside a fellow Ghost. He recognises the other man as a Ghost not so much by his face as by the way he sidles down the corridor, hunch-shouldered and close to the wall.
As is always the case when two Ghosts unexpectedly cross paths, there is a frisson of distant familiarity between them, as though they are a pair of violin strings tuned to the exact same pitch: when one is plucked, the other vibrates in sympathy. For each, it is like meeting an identical twin he didn’t know he had. In this instance, as is customary, neither offers the other the slightest acknowledgement, and Frank slows to an amble, allowing his co-worker to get ahead.
Reaching a door marked “Tactical Security”, Frank stops and waits until the other man has gone through before stepping forward to do the same. He detects the presence of another Ghost behind him, a woman this time, and does her the courtesy of not holding the door open for her, so that she won’t feel obliged to make eye-contact and thank him.
Tactical Security is one of several self-contained facilities within the Basement labyrinth, with its own cafeteria, cloakrooms, and locker rooms. Frank shares a locker room with twenty other Ghosts, most of whom are present when he enters. They are men and women of nondescript appearance, indeterminate age, dressed smartly but far from showily. The women wear the minimum of make-up and all the men look as if, like Frank, they trim their hair themselves. Few of the women wear any jewellery, and those that do restrict themselves to plain gold ear-studs and simple finger-rings. There isn’t a wedding band in sight. The Ghosts avoid looking at each other, exchange no conversation, just quietly, imperturbably get ready for work. Frank, too.
He springs his locker open with a swipe of his Iridium, removes his overcoat and
drapes it over the hanger inside, then shrugs off his jacket and hooks it over the corner of the door. Taking out his shoulder-holster, an infinity symbol of canvas webbing and soft leather, he puts it on and adjusts the buckles until the straps sit comfortably around his chest and the sagging planes of his shoulderblades.
He reaches into the locker again and removes a gleaming stainless steel .45-calibre automatic pistol from a velvet-lined case. He prefers the lightweight version of the reglation store-issue handgun because it doesn’t drag down on the holster like the heavier guns do. A lighter gun means a harder recoil, but that seems a fair price to pay in exchange for greater ease of carrying, given that he seldom actually fires the thing.
Drawing back the slide, he checks that the chamber is empty, even though he never leaves a round in the chamber unless he is about to fire the gun – the habit of checking is as much an act of ceremony as it is a safety procedure. Then he lets the slide snap back into place. He cleans the gun religiously once a month, so the slide action is oil-smooth.
On a shelf at eye-level inside the locker there is a rack holding three clips of thirteen bullets, each with its black teflon tip grooved as though a tiny cog-wheel has been removed, and each with the Days logo stamped into its brass shell casing. Two of the clips Frank slots into the holster’s double off-side ammo pouch under his right armpit; the third he thrusts into the grip of the gun, ramming it home with the heel of his palm. He uses his Iridium to take off the gun’s safety, running the card’s magnetic strip through a centimetre-deep groove in the underside of the barrel. A green LED next to the trigger guard winks alight as the decocking lever disengages. He runs the card through the groove again, the light goes out, and the decocking lever snicks back into place. He holsters the gun beneath his left armpit and puts his card away.
Next, he takes out his Eye-link, and having unravelled the fragile-looking tangle of surgical-pink wires and components, slots the fitted audio pick-up into his right ear then leads the attached wire back over the ear and down behind the lobe. At the other end of the wire is a wafer-thin short-wave receiver/transmitter which he pins inside his shirt collar. Running from this is another wire that ends in a tiny microphone, slender and curved like a fingernail, which he clips into place behind the top button of his shirt, tightening the knot of his tie so that the microphone presses snugly against his throat.
Days Page 7