Not QUITE the Classics (15 page)

Eckersley raised an amused eyebrow. “Perhaps this is what you are trying to say, sir. No matter how strange our present and future might appear, we are rooted in what has come before.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

INSPIRED BY DAPHNE DU MAURIER'S

REBECCA

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley—again.
That's six days in a row with the same dream. It's bloody frustrating and bloody boring, I don't mind telling you. Maybe it will all sort itself out when I actually meet Manderley this afternoon. I made the mistake of mentioning the dream at work. Walters in New Foods says that it's a premonition. I said it can't be a premonition, since the dream isn't forewarning anything, except for a meeting that I had already scheduled. Then it's a déjà vu, said Matthews in Baby Food. Déjà vu is the illusion of having previously experienced something actually being encountered for the first time, I said. I haven't met Manderley for the first time, so how can I have a déjà vu? Walters retorted: Well, maybe it's a premonition of a déjà vu. Don't be so bloody literal. Blimey! Don't you have an imagination?

I wonder if every workplace is as barmy as the All Foods Test Laboratory. Or could it be we're all daft from allergic reactions to the foods we sample? Matthews and Walters (two wankers of epic proportion) got one thing right: I have no imagination. But that's probably for the best since my job is to taste and to test dog food. I don't
want
to imagine what such employment has done to my palate, and frankly, having an imagination wouldn't serve me well. My work deals with science and facts. I devise mathematical and chemical formulas to determine moisture, salt content, solubility, and sediment in dog food. My highly trained taste buds can tell the difference between Mr. Mutts Chicken Tasties for Senior Dogs and K-9's Poultry and Sweet Potato Hash for Adult Dogs. Facts and science have been very good to me, so what do I need with an imagination?

Anyway, it's off to Manderley, Austen, and Fishwick, Barristers-at-Law, to conclude a last piece of business for my dearly departed chum Ian.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4

Although it has been a month since Ian passed, there have been times I've forgotten and picked up the phone to call him. I suppose it was the suddenness of it all that has made his death so hard to fathom. Well, sudden for us who knew Ian, not so much for Ian himself. He knew he was dying but chose not to share it with anyone. That one so connected to his chums could carry such a burden alone fills me with complete and utter sadness.

The meeting with Manderley was unusual, to say the least. I drove to his office building, a modern concrete mid-rise in a nondescript office park. His secretary, a pleasant brown-haired woman with round cheeks, welcomed me at the door and offered tea. I refused. I can't drink liquids when I meet someone for the first time: I become hyperaware of the sound of my own swallowing. Manderley's secretary seemed a bit put out. I did accept a biscuit, which seemed to placate her.

Manderley, who was seated behind his desk when I entered, stood up to shake my hand. “Mr. Morley, so nice to meet you. I wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances.”

I looked out the window. “Quite a lovely day for September, though.”

Confusion flitted across Manderley's face. “I meant Mr. Becker's passing.”

“Yes, of course.”

He beckoned me to sit down. I folded my hands in my lap.

“I take it you found the office with no trouble,” Manderley said by way of small talk.

“Yes.” (Small talk has never been one of my strengths.)

“Well,” Manderley said, obviously flustered, “let's get down to it, shall we? Mr. Becker was fairly well off. His comic books—”

“Ian preferred the term ‘graphic novels,'” I interrupted.

“What's the difference?”

“About five pounds an issue, I should think.”

“Well, no matter the terminology, they sold quite successfully. Throw in the movie adaptations, the merchandising, and such, and Mr. Becker made a nice living.” Manderley looked at me, expectantly.

I smiled blankly, waiting for him to finish.

“He wasn't married and he had no heirs. No family at all, as I am sure you know. He had many friends, but it seems you were the one dearest to his heart.” Manderley paused dramatically. “He has left his entire fortune to you, Mr. Morley. A nice tidy sum totaling sixty-five million pounds. In addition, he has left you Becker House, his primary residence in Warwickshire, and his summer residence in the Cotswolds.” He eyed me meaningfully over his spectacles.

“Very generous of him. Thank you for letting me know.” I got up and made to leave. But Manderley stopped me.

“Sixty-five million pounds, man. That's a lot of money.” His eyes widened, and he seemed to be waiting for something.

I cleared my throat. “Yes. It is a lot of money.”

“Actually, there's more. Though you have the money, free and clear, he did make a final request.”

“Well then, of course, I will do it for him.”

“You may change your mind once you have heard it. It is”—Manderley cleared his throat—“highly unorthodox.”

“Unorthodox or not, I'll do it. I'll grant his final request. It would seem rather churlish if I didn't.”

Manderley didn't respond. He gestured to a wooden box sitting on a table next to a large window overlooking the car park. It was roughly the size of a large jewelery box. It looked quite solid, mahogany, I think, judging by the color. Each side was covered in a carving of one of Ian's characters: Busy Beaver, the Warlington Strangler, Larry the Literal Man, and Ben-Bop Tweedleham. “Inside that box are Mr. Becker's ashes.”

“Seems like a bloody big box for someone's ashes,” I said.

Manderley picked up a large plastic bag from behind the desk. “There's more of Mr. Becker in this. People are often surprised at the volume of their loved ones' remains. It's generally more than you would imagine. And the mortician said Mr. Becker's ashes were unusually plentiful. He elaborated with an unnecessarily graphic detailing of the cremation process that I won't repeat.” Manderley lowered his voice conspiratorially. “If I can give you a small piece of advice, never talk shop with someone in the death business. They'll tell you stories that would make a goat vomit.” He straightened his tie, and when he spoke again it was in a more formal tone. “Mr. Becker has bequeathed his earthly remains to you.”

I tried to think of an appropriate place to keep them. My mantel, perhaps, or the sunny spot on the top of the piano? Of course, the plastic bag would fail to blend with my decor. Perhaps I could upgrade to a bigger container.

“As you probably know, the deceased usually requests that their ashes be spread somewhere meaningful. A holiday spot, the place they fell in love, or even a treasured private garden.” Manderley paused again. “Mr. Becker's assignation of his mortal remains is quite different. Quite different, indeed.”

Manderley opened his desk drawer, took out a manila envelope, and pushed it towards me. “Inside this envelope are the contact details of six people whom Mr. Becker felt had done him some injustice. He has requested that you meet with these people individually and…throw his ashes into their faces. Their eyes, if possible.”

“Righto,” I said.

Manderley stared at me. “Did you understand me correctly?” he asked, incredulous. “You are to take Mr. Becker's ashes…”

“And throw them into the faces, preferably the eyes, of six people. Yes, I believe I have it.”

Manderley stared at me, gobsmacked. “I have to say, Mr. Morley, I was expecting an entirely different reaction.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well…I suppose…any number of reactions, really. Shock, surprise, disgust.”

Manderley's disapproval was palpable, and I felt compelled to explain myself.

“Mr. Manderley, Ian is—was—my dearest friend. In fact, he was my only friend. We met when we were twelve. Ian was being bullied by a schoolyard thug, and since I was taller than most of my classmates, I intervened.”

“And saving him led to a lifelong friendship? How marvelous.”

“No, we bonded on the way to the hospital. I was plucky but uncoordinated and weak. I was beaten like an egg, and Ian walked me to the infirmary. By the time my bruises healed, we were firm friends. We were confidants; we were allies against the world. Ian would have done anything for me, and I, him.”

“Well then,” Mr. Manderley said, smiling warmly, “I suppose he chose wisely. But I have to say
I'm
still shocked at this. In my dealings with Mr. Becker, he never showed a predilection for revenge, he never struck me as a vindictive man. He was always very charming, quite lovely in fact. He remembered my birthday, and few clients do, I can assure you. Always a Christmas gift for me and Mrs. Wilkens out there.” He remembered something and looked at me, alarmed. “Did you accept her offer of tea?”

“No,” I confessed, “but I did take a biscuit.”

Manderley looked relieved. “That should be fine, then. As I was saying, Mr. Becker seemed the easygoing sort. The only thing he was ever rigid about was this codicil.”

“Obviously it was important to him. So I will honor his wish, and he will not be disappointed.” I stopped for a moment. “Although, being dead, I suppose he will not be anything. So…six people, you said. Depending on their relative proximity, I suppose I could get it done in four weekends.”

“Why week
ends
?” Manderley asked, looking up from his papers.

“Why, weekdays are impossible because of work.”

“You're going to keep your job?” Manderley asked, quite astonished. “You're a millionaire. You never have to work again.”

“I hadn't thought of that.” Could I get through the rest of my days without formulating and testing pet food? Yes, I realized, I could, and quite happily too. I took out a notepad. “I had better write this down.
No…job
. Now, what else should I do, do you think? What would you do if you had sixty-five million pounds, Mr. Manderley? I can't imagine what to do with that much money. Do you have any suggestions?”

I sat poised, my pen in the air.

Manderley stared at me over the enormous plastic bag and wiped a speck of dust from his desk.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5

Today I quit my job. Old Perkins scowled and said that it was actually better for the firm that I was leaving. It's totally untrue, of course, for who else has my grasp of the perfect ash/protein ratio, but Perkins is a bloody fool. He's on the top of the list for my own ash scattering. Right between his trouty little eyes.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8

One of the few things I am good at is planning. Given the importance of Ian's final request, I want to make sure that its chances for success are quite high. I am fortunate, indeed, given Ian's extensive travels, that the six people who wronged him are not scattered across the world. One of the six is dead. Four of the remaining five are still in the U.K. Two reside directly in London, and two others are within a three-hour drive. The contact information for the fifth seems to be out of date. But since I now have unlimited funds, I suppose I can hire a private detective to find him.

I can do the first four in six days, including travel time if I opt for a leisurely pace. Three days if I rush and double up on the two in London. I think the more relaxed approach might be nice. Since I am now rich, I could certainly take advantage of the time and make a vacation out of it. After this job is done, I may go abroad for a while. I've never been outside of London in my life. I have never taken a plane. So many firsts to look forward to! Of course, this will also be the first time I've ever thrown the ashes of a friend into someone's eyes, but I'm fairly positive I'm in the majority there.

The dead one is a Mrs. Bernice Lafontaine. I remember her, actually. She brazenly stole Ian's father from his mother, and she was quite despicable to Ian on the days his mother didn't have custody. I'm happy her death was ignoble.

Bernice was a world-renowned unicyclist, and on the day of her death, attempted to become the oldest cyclist to cross the Thames on a tightrope. She also would have been the
only
cyclist to cross the Thames on a tightrope, but I digress. Unfortunately, she was absolutely bladdered. Stinking of gin, and flashing antique bloomers, she fell from her tightrope at midpoint over the river and plummeted head first into a speedboat full of German tourists. Good riddance, I say.

As I was poring over the tube maps and circling the appropriate stations to compile my itinerary, I realized that I should probably practice my ash-throwing technique. I'm fairly certain that there are no manuals to study, so it was incumbent upon me to come up with a competent method. I set up my dartboard and stuck a page torn from a magazine upon it. It was a picture of Simon Cowell. I don't have any particular animosity towards the man, but it was the only life-sized headshot I could find.

The first thing I discovered was that throwing ashes accurately is next to impossible. I had to be right on top of my victim if I were to have any chance of hitting his face, never mind his eyes. And I was determined to get the eyes as per Ian's request. I also learned that there could be no windup. Try standing a foot away from a target and throwing a ball at it. You naturally follow through, which means you end up with scraped knuckles or a sprained wrist. Another impediment: I tend to have sweaty palms. Which means that more of Ian sticks to me than to the corneas of my target. And then one must take into account wind conditions, the height of the victim, etc. What a messy, complicated business. But I'm determined to get it right.

I spent the evening sweeping up all the bits of Ian that I had practiced with and collected them in a little plastic baggie. Tomorrow, I will pick up latex gloves.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 9