Days

by James Lovegrove

  The only piece of equipment left in the locker is his Sphinx. He unplugs the slim black box from its recharging unit, switches it on, and as soon as the Days logo scrolls up on the screen, flicks the power button back to Off and slides the Sphinx into his trouser pocket.

  Ready. Another ritual over and done with for the last time.

  It is 8.43, and the morning briefing is imminent. Frank accompanies the other Ghosts as they drift out of the locker room, joining the rustling flow of bodies moving down the passageway which leads past the self-service cafeteria to the briefing room. One by one, without a word, eyes averted, the Ghosts glide through the briefing-room doors to take their places on the plastic chairs which are arranged in ten rows of ten, facing the podium at the far end. Sensibly they fill up the rows from the middle outwards, so that no one will have to step over another person’s legs, thus minimising the risk of accidental physical contact. They aren’t bothered whom they sit next to. Among Ghosts there are no friends, no favourites. All are equal in their lack of individuality.

  Seated, the Ghosts adopt postures of nonchalance or self-absorption. Some gaze in fascination at the ceiling, as though they see the work of Michaelangelo up there rather than grey-painted plaster, while others gnaw at their cuticles or scratch repeatedly at nonexistent itches.

  The last Ghosts enter, filling up all but a few of the chairs, and the briefing room whispers with the sifting-sand hiss that is the sound of almost a hundred pairs of lungs softly filling and emptying.

  At 8.45 precisely Donald Bloom, the Head of Tactical Security, appears. He eases the doors shut behind him and strolls the length of the room to the podium. He is a short man, amiably portly, with close-cropped hair that, apart from a tuft that clings indomitably to the top of the forehead, is confined to the sides and back of his scalp. He sports a white carnation in his buttonhole which he buys fresh every morning from a flower stall on his way to work, and he is carrying a clipboard with a sheet of computer printout attached to it. A folded handkerchief pokes out from the breast pocket of his houndstooth-pattern tweed jacket.

  The Ghosts focus their attention on Mr Bloom as he climbs onto the podium. Those at the rear lean forward in their seats in order to hear him better.

  Mr Bloom begins the briefing with the traditional bon mot.

  “Another day, another debt.”

  There are smiles, smirks. Some shoulders twitch in amusement. Traditions, no matter how time-worn, how trite, are respected here.

  Mr Bloom consults his clipboard.

  “Right. Nothing much out of the ordinary going on today. Expect lightning sales at 10.00 in Dolls, 10.45 in Travel Goods, 11.30 in Farm Machinery, 12.00 in Ties, 2.00 in Third World Musical Instruments, 3.00 in Religious Paraphernalia, 4.00 in the Funeral Parlour – I can’t see that one being particularly popular, but you never know – 4.15 in Perennial Christmas, and 4.45 in Trusses And Supports.

  “Next, those bogus spree cards we saw so many of last year are back. Technically this is Strategic Security’s problem, not ours, but if you see a customer using a spree card you might want to run a check on it. All spree cards issued since Monday have been tagged with new security codes which your Sphinxes have been reformatted to recognise, and everyone who has bought a spree card or won one in the lottery in the past six months has been contacted and asked to return it to us to be replaced, so anyone who isn’t using an up-to-date card probably isn’t on the level. Use your judgement, and don’t be afraid to err on the side of caution.

  “Same goes for bogus ID badges. The police tell me they’ve just busted a forgery ring, but they haven’t yet established how long the forgers have been operating and how many of the fake badges, if any, have been sold. So keep an eye out for any employees who don’t look like employees. I’m aware that in some cases the badge is the only thing that tells you that an employee works here. You’re going to have to trust your instincts on this one.

  “The good news is: arrests were up last month. Well done. The bad news is: shrinkage also went up. One’s immediate instinct, of course, is to blame shop-floor employees, and I fear a certain amount of pilfering does go on under the counter, despite the fact that we’re all account-holders here. I know it’s a cliché, but some people don’t seem to appreciate that stealing from the store is stealing from themselves.

  “However, I have another theory about the shrinkage problem, and like it or not I’m going to share it with you. My theory is that bargain-hunters have learned to take advantage of the confusion of a lightning sale to slip items into their pockets or bags, which is why it’s all the more important that Ghosts be on hand during a sale to monitor the crowd. Remember, no matter how hard we try to make it for people to boost from us, they’ll always find a way. We are up against mankind’s greatest virtue and greatest vice: ingenuity.

  “Lastly, I have it on good authority that the Books/Computers dispute is finally, finally coming up before the brothers today for arbitration. I know. Sighs of relief all round. It’s dragged on for, what, getting on for a year now?”

  “A year and a half,” someone says.

  “A year and a half, thank you. Well, the wheels of administration may turn slowly around here, but turn they do, so with any luck we can look forward to a swift resolution to that disagreeable little contretemps.”

  Mr Bloom glances down the list on his clipboard, making sure he hasn’t missed anything. “Oh yes, Mr Greenaway’s greatly-deserved holiday began this morning, so I’m going to be minding the Strategic side of things until he comes back. Lucky me. I feel like I’ve been put in charge of the gorilla cage at the zoo.”

  A ripple of laughter.

  Mr Bloom consults his clipboard one last time. “And that really is it, ladies and gentlemen. Have a good day out there.” He concludes with the Ghosts’ motto: “Be Silent, Vigilant, Persistent, Intransigent. The Customer Is Not Always Right.”

  The Ghosts intone the words along with him, a sibilant echo. Then they rise from their seats and begin filing out, shuffling in lines towards the exit, taking care not to touch one another. Mr Bloom steps down from the podium and makes for the doors too, moving slowly so that the Ghosts can assimilate him into their flow.

  He is halfway to his office when he senses someone walking behind him at the very limit of his peripheral vision, in what the driver of a car would call the blind-spot. Knowing better than to stop and address the Ghost, Mr Bloom keeps going. It isn’t until he is actually sitting down behind the functional, Formica-topped desk in his cramped, windowless office that he looks up to see who has followed him in.

  “Frank,” says Mr Bloom, both pleased and puzzled, and indicates that Frank should take a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  “No,” says Frank. “Thank you, I’m fine. I can’t stop for long. I’m here because I wanted to say –”

  But Frank isn’t sure how to put it. He scratches the crown of his head and hums to himself.

  “Go on, sit down,” Mr Bloom insists, but Frank shakes his head emphatically.

  “I have to be out on the floor in a moment.”

  Mr Bloom glances at his watch. “It’s 8.49, Frank. It surely can’t take more than eleven minutes to talk about whatever you want to talk about, and even if it does, I feel certain that the store will be able to manage without you for a brief while at the beginning of the least busy hour of the day.”

  “Yes, well, it might, Donald.” Frank thinks of his superior as “Mr Bloom” and refers to him as such behind his back, but to his face it is always “Donald”. “Look, I’ll tell you what, can we do this a bit later? I mean, you’re busy right now.”

  “Well, Greenaway’s lot are due for their pep-talk in a moment, then I’ve got to oversee a practice at the firing range, then I’ve got to brief a new bunch of sales assistants on the basics of security. But I’m never too busy to talk to you, Frank. What is it?”

  Frank wants to tell him, but something prevents him, and he thinks it might be fear but he a
lso thinks it might be guilt. He has known Donald Bloom for all of his thirty-three years at Days. There is a bond between them – he wouldn’t call it friendship, because the concept has as much meaning for him as the concept of air does for a goldfish in a bowl, but certainly they have developed a mutual respect over thirty-three years, and sometimes Frank has found himself thinking about Mr Bloom when Mr Bloom isn’t present, thinking it would be nice if they could perhaps go to a pub together after work and sit and have a drink and a chat, talk about things that have nothing to do with Days or shoplifters or Ghosts, the sort of things people normally talk about, whatever they are. He has never plucked up the courage to suggest the idea to Mr Bloom, and anyway, by closing time he is usually too exhausted to want to do anything except head straight home and go to bed, but the fact remains that he and Mr Bloom have a long history of acquaintance, and for some reason Frank feels sure that Mr Bloom is going to be upset by his decision to resign, and he is reluctant to deliver the blow.

  The surge of bravado that carried him all the way into Mr Bloom’s office has lost momentum, receded, leaving him high and dry – hesitant, confused, embarrassed.

  Mr Bloom, with a patient smile, is still waiting for him to say something.

  His nerve cracking completely, Frank gets up to leave.

  Mr Bloom sighs. “All right then, Frank. Have it your way. The door’s always open. OK?”

  He gives one last enquiring look at the doorway through which Frank has just exited hastily.

  Strange behaviour, he thinks. Frank has always been one of the more level-headed Tactical Security operatives, not to mention one of the best. The constant lurking, the constant suspicion of others – has it finally got to him?

  No, Mr Bloom tells himself. He might expect that of any other Ghost, but not Frank. Never Frank.

  9

  The Seventh Son of a Seventh Son: traditionally regarded as gifted or lucky.

  8.51 a.m.

  SONNY’S BED HAS not been slept in. Perch would have been surprised if it had, but hope springs eternal. He tries the bathroom, and there he finds Septimus Day’s youngest son not, as expected, curled around the lavatory pedestal but stretched out in the bath, one leg hooked over the side, his head resting awkwardly against the taps. Dried vomit stains encrust the lavatory ring, but Sonny appears to have had the presence of mind to flush his spewings away before crawling, fully dressed, into the tub and passing out. Perch mentally applauds the young master’s self-control.

  He bends down and rifles Sonny’s pockets until he finds his portable intercom. Flipping it open, he keys 4.

  “Master Thurston?”

  “Perch.”

  “I rather fear that Master Sonny is not in a fit state to participate in the opening ceremony this morning.”

  A short silence. Then a sigh. “All right, Perch. Try and get him up and presentable as soon as you can.”

  “I shall endeavour to do my best, sir.”

  Perch breaks the connection and sets the intercom down on the lid of the cistern. A trace – just the faintest, remotest scintilla – of contempt can be discerned in his voice as he says, “Very well, Master Sonny. Let’s be having you.”

  He reaches up and makes minute adjustments to the angle of the shower head like an artilleryman sighting his target, until at last he is satisfied that the rosette is aiming directly down at Sonny’s face. Then he grasps the handle of the cold tap beside Sonny’s cheek, pauses a moment, savouring the sweet anticipation... and turns the water full on.

  8.54 a.m.

  “THE AFTERTHOUGHT ISN’T going to be able to make it,” Thurston informs his brothers.

  “Now there’s a surprise,” says Wensley.

  “Maybe we should have a blow-up Sonny doll made,” says Fred. “It could sit there in his chair and say nothing, and that way everybody would be happy.”

  “Sonny is blood,” Mungo admonishes Fred. “Never forget that.”

  “What Sonny is, is a pain in the arse,” Fred replies, unabashed. “He needed what the rest of us got from Dad when we were growing up.” He aims a respectful if wary nod towards the portrait of Old Man Day. “Discipline. If Sonny had been indulged a little less when he was a boy and beaten a little more, he might not have turned into the unspeakable über-brat he is now.”

  “I did the best I could with him,” says Mungo. “If anyone is to take the blame for the way he is today, it’s me.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” says Thurston. “We all had to be a father to Sonny is one way or another.”

  “For all Sonny’s flaws,” says Chas diplomatically, “we must accept him and love him for who he is. He is a son of Septimus Day. He is our brother.”

  “Don’t keep reminding us,” says Fred, rolling his eyes.

  “I think I could tolerate his behaviour,” says Sato, “if only he pulled his weight around here.”

  “That he is one of the Seven is enough,” says Chas.

  “I’m with Chas there,” says Wensley. “Sonny’s an obnoxious so-and-so, but we can’t do without him.”

  “In every rose-bed a nettle grows,” Sato murmurs with a hint of genuine bitterness. “In every Eden a serpent hisses.”

  “It’s five to,” says Thurston, rapping the table with his knuckles. “We should get started.”

  The brothers set down their cutlery and push aside their breakfast plates. Wensley wolfs down one last bite of bread and dripping, chewing furiously and swallowing hard. Fred closes the tabloid he is reading and lays it tidily on top of the pile of newspapers. Chas, on instinct, runs his fingers through his hair and discreetly huffs into a cupped hand to check that his breath passes muster.

  Silence descends on the Boardroom.

  Thurston speaks. “Welcome, my brothers, to another day of custom and commerce, of margins and mark-ups, of retail and revenue, of sales and success, of profit and plenty.”

  He makes a fist of his left hand, then extends the thumb and forefinger to form a stooping L, across which he places his right index and middle fingers. His brothers, with ostentatious and not entirely convincing solemnity, copy the gesture.

  “We are the sons of Septimus Day,” Thurston continues. “We are the Seven whose duty it is to manage the store founded by our father and to uphold his philosophy, that if it can be sold, it will be bought, and if it can be bought, it will be sold. That is our task, and we are glad of it.”

  Now he locks his right forefinger around his left thumb to form an S, bringing his right thumb up and his left middle finger down until they overlap, bisecting the S vertically. His brothers, as before, emulate him. Chas yawns.

  “Each of us was born, or induced to be born, on the day whose name he bears, and each raised in the knowledge that an equal seventh share of the responsibility of running the store and the rewards resulting thereof would be his. Each of us is a seventh part of a greater whole, and Mammon willing, long may it remain so.”

  Fred rolls his eyes at Wensley. Wensley responds with a broad smirk. Mungo glares at them both, but it is clear that he, too, finds this opening ritual, which their father instituted and insisted be maintained after his death, somewhat absurd.

  Thurston’s hands move again. He points the thumb and forefinger of his left hand upwards at an angle to each other, so that they make a Y-shape with his wrist, and just beneath the webbed stretch of skin where they join he lays his right index and middle fingers horizontally. His brothers follow suit.

  “We make the symbols of Sterling and Dollar and Yen,” intones Thurston, “three ordinary letters ennobled, raised to a state of grace by that which they represent, to remind us that money transfigures all.”

  He forms an O with his left thumb and forefinger, and lays his right index and middle fingers vertically over it. His brothers do the same.

  “We make the symbol of Days to remind us of the source of our wealth.”

  As one, the brothers lift away their two right fingers, leaving just the O’s.

  “And we m
ake an empty circle to remind us that without Days we are nothing.”

  There follows a moment of silence which is intended for sober contemplation but which, in the event, most of the brothers use to scratch an itch or grab another bite of breakfast.

  “Now,” says Thurston, “the clock ticks towards opening time once again, and as chairman for the day, the day that bears my name, I would ask you, my brothers, to join me at the switch.”

  All six brothers rise to their feet and walk with measured tread to the brass panel mounted on the Boardroom wall. Septimus’s good eye seems to follow them as they cross the room. The white dot of reflected light the artist put in his cruel black pupil glistens as though the eye is alive.

  Thurston unclips the ceramic handle from its rest and, lifting it up with some effort, screws it into the fitting on the crossbar of the knife switch. Each brother then reaches out with his right hand to grasp the handle, which is exactly long enough to accommodate seven male fists. Mungo fills the space for the seventh with his left hand.

  “I will pull for two,” he says.

  Thurston extends his left wrist from his sleeve to consult his watch. Less than a minute to go till nine. The second hand sweeps inexorably round. The brothers stand there patiently, clustered together, their arms radiating from the switch like ribbons from a maypole.

  “Fifteen seconds,” says Thurston.

  Beneath their feet the store waits, like a dead thing about to be reanimated.

  “Ten seconds,” says Thurston.