42” Flat Screen Plasma TV £399 or nearest offer (3)

The office looked as organised as Boris Johnson’s vocabulary. There were few properties advertised for sale and the photographs of those that were, hung dog eared by a single rustic drawing pin or had fallen onto the floor. Rental properties were even less evident; a fact that I not only fully understood but was in complete empathy with. Only one, a rather salubrious estate, maintained its prominence and position on the main display.
There were papers strewn around the only desk with details of visits and sales that had floundered but with no logical reason. The single filing cabinet had more folders than actual documents. There was no evidence of any sales at all.
Why would a bunch of voracious bastards like Blaze, Bales and Buten permit the existence of a lame duck such as Flycure Estates? And why send me here? I had some bloody good figures behind me before the Richcroft Estate scandal - top six in the city every year for the past five. The scandal really had little to do with me – I was set up for the fall.
“Clair” said Buten, when they interviewed me in their mahogany mausoleum, “we appreciate that you were a victim of circumstance but unfortunately the authorities must have proof that we are putting our house in order”
“Yes Clair” interrupted Blaze, “It’s imperative for the integrity and standing of the company as a whole that someone is held culpable for the whole sordid saga”
“And you are the only one left alive” concluded Bales, “So you see” and he pushed both hands forward joined at the wrist.
“We’ll look after you though” Buten leaned forward almost whispering.
“Oh course we will - our top girl” Blaze beamed like a Dickensian Beadle.
“A year maybe two in a quiet backwater; a little project to exercise that extraordinary brain of yours and keep it primed” Bales made it sound so homely like an extended vacation.
“Then I come back – yes” I urged
“We’ll sacrifice the fatted calf” he promised.
“Salary?”
Buten put his forefinger to his lips and paused. The others made no attempt to pre-empt him. “We’ll honour your basic – that’s a given, but there may not be quite the opportunities to ‘shine’ as there are in the city”
“Let’s cut the crap guys…how much do I stand to lose?” I’d never have dared shouting at them before but with my career being flushed down the lavatory it was a more honourable way to resign.
Bales took up the conversation from here. Within the three ring circus he had adopted the voice of mediation. “Let’s approach the situation from a more positive standpoint. How much does it cost you to live in the city?”
I started to open my mouth but Blaze held out his hand to prevent my answer disturbing the thought processes of his colleague.
“A healthy chunk of your salary I guess, perhaps as much as sixty or seventy percent? Then there’s the social side of things - constantly upgrading your wardrobe, a new car every other year, dinner parties…”
“Is this supposed to be softening the blow?” I interjected ignoring Blaze’s pathetic shushes.
“How old are you Clair – thirty-four, thirty-five?”
That fucking hurt. “Twenty-nine – just!” I rasped.
“Precisely; the work load, long days and late nights have taken their toll on you my dear”
“Time to rest” said Buten “Put some fresh blood back into those veins”
“How long?” I said suddenly aware that I was grinding my teeth.
“Two years…” answered Bales, “…maximum”
Blaze was grinning again. “You won’t require a huge salary at Choppingchurch; rents are low, and the standard of living – well, it’s not London is it?”
“It’s not anywhere – where the hell is it?”
All three pointed toward the ceiling and said in unison: “North”

The first time I saw Choppingchurch from off the main A road I knew where their bullshit started and ended. The best restaurant would be the chippie and the local pub would have a snug where the gnarled and embittered would meet each evening for the wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Looking at the fall out beside me I compelled myself toward a positive mind set. Why worry about sales here I thought? Two a year and I’d have a 200 percent increase on my hands. Even with little commissions I could survive with ease. All I needed to do was to shut my mouth, see my two years out as the scapegoat for the Richcroft scandal and accept Messrs Blaze, Bales and Buten’s undying appreciation for the continuation of the company’s prestige.

I began to pick up papers from the floor and the desk and apply some sort of order to them. As I did so I shuddered as if Jack Frost had drooled spit down my spine. I turned toward the office window. There were half a dozen people, men and women, gazing at me with a variation of quizzical looks. It was like a police line-up in negative – spot the innocent party. I waved awkwardly at them, smiled and shouted so they’d hear me through the glass: “Hello there, nice to see you – just getting the place spic and span” I was sure banality would lend itself to a more convivial introduction, but they simply shuffled on like bystanders at a car crash who’d finally snatched a glimpse of blood or a mangled limb and subsequently satiated a primeval urge. It reminded me of a time when I was a child, walking with my father through our little town and stopping outside the Electrical Shop to look at all the TVs for no apparent reason except that they were there.
If I’m news this town is smaller than I think.

I finished tidying up. I had barely glanced at the paperwork, just took a quick reference to the content and applied a basic filing system. Despite the mess it didn’t amount to much in four neat piles. The houses for sale and rent were far quicker to arrange back on the sale boards numbering so few but, I figured, that left plenty of room to liven up the front and draw some business. Looking out through the glass the town seemed circumspect almost apologetic as if it couldn’t help its lacklustre demeanour and was waiting for one of those TV make-overs.
I was drawn to the picture of the rather large estate that was to let. It was a manor house and probably dated from the 16th or 17th century. I wondered where it lay in relation to Choppingchurch and pulled the details from the cabinet drawer.
Finding a wall map of the local area languishing behind a chair I found that it was part of a small hamlet to the east, Shade, which could be reached by a single-pass lane that forked off from an outlying road on the outskirts. The latter began almost immediately with leaving the sanctuary of the town centre and if that last lot were an example of its inhabitants Shade would remain unexplored country.
It was nearly four o’clock and I hadn’t had an enquiry or a phone call all afternoon. Just go home I thought and then I burst out crying because I knew I couldn’t. If my employers kept me here until they pulled the turf over my coffin, it would never be home. I missed inhaling the city. But the flat was, for the time being, preferable to this cold office so I locked up for the day.

The flat was less than ten minutes walk. The district to the south consisted of, mainly, narrow streets of terraced houses and flats. Litter was noticeably absent yet the hinterland assimilated dullness like a glutton swallowing a pie. The few decorative flowers bushes were either decaying or dead. Listless shrub or privet hedge demarcated most of the buildings and gardens. Beyond this the streets widened a little affording a few semis and the odd detached before the outer ring, beyond which lay the village of Shade.
It was curious to me that in early evening there wasn’t a soul abroad. As I ambled along the avenue there were a number of open curtains (some partially, my inquisitiveness confesses) allowing view of the sitting room of the residences. To my amazement they were as deserted as the streets, the only animation constricted to the shapes on the screens of televisions which, in every case, were switched on but with no audience.
My preponderance for enquiry intensified strongly and I was forced to snoop further. As I reached the end of the avenue I turned around to see if any human beings had actually joined the land of the living and satisfied there were none I stopped. The last house directly on my right had another open view but I noticed that curtains here had actually been dispensed with.
There was a small concrete area with a paved path at the front of the house surrounding by a brick wall around three feet high. A rusty gate hung off its hinges allowing entry to the front door via the paving. I ventured through but retreated immediately as the gate issued a painful sigh as I pushed past it. Nevertheless no irate householder ripped open the door to confront the trespasser, so I tried again.
This time I slipped by through the gap I’d made and padded slowly to the window. The décor was sparse; a small low brown table with a small sofa behind and a matching but equally threadbare chair at the far wall. A small bureau was deposited in the corner beside the chair but had few attractions except one framed black and white photograph and a vase with a withered carnation.
The television was situated in the left corner and I had to strain to see what was on. The screen looked misty as if it hadn’t been tuned in properly but quickly I realised that it was the same snippet I’d seen on my own purchase as it hung in Nick’s second-hand shop. Was it another trailer or was it the actual programme I thought and craned my neck a little more in an effort to get a more favourable angle to watch, but not before another self-conscious glance over my shoulder to reassure my singular presence in this ‘other world’.
There was the bridge again emerging from the mist like the Flying Dutchman manifesting itself from a thick sea fog to beckon those alive toward the dead. Two figures, a man and a woman, approached the bridge from the mist on the other side and I could see they were dressed in Victorian attire. My inadequate literary knowledge attempted to speculate about authorship and, like the majority of people limited culturally, I ascribed it to the stereotype, in this case Dickens. What the dickens it was, was beyond me; it certainly didn’t feel like Oliver Twist.
The two figures were now crossing the bridge. The woman was elderly and stocky and had her arm linked inside the gentleman’s and strode forcefully. He was extremely thin and wore a large square hat. He gave the impression of an over sharpened pencil labouring under a huge eraser and walked in a gait as if he were about to launch himself onto a small horse or perhaps it was a necessary manipulation in order to keep astride with his partner.
The window wasn’t double glazed so I dared place my ear against the window to try and catch some of the soundtrack but either the scene was being played out in a kind of 19th century expressionistic silence or the residents had turned down the volume.
I turned back toward the screen. The two stern figures had left the bridge and continued to press toward the camera which zoomed in toward them like the Hitchcock Vertigo shot until their faces filled the screen. Expecting a sudden cut to another scene I was surprised that they simply kept gazing out of the screen as if they were watching me. It was uncanny but I felt as if I knew them from somewhere and, in an instant, goose pimples exploded across my body.
As I stood there with decaying knee caps their faces appeared to grow sterner, their fixated eyes full of vehemence, willing their bodies free of the mundane period drama to enter my world and slaughter me with relish. Then the thin man mouthed something in my direction. That was the point where spookiness triumphed and I rocked back away from the window. It was also the same time I felt a hand grab my shoulder.

*

“Christ Nick” I spat as I turned to face the second-hand proprietor, who stood there grinning like a satyr.
“Clair, what did you get up to in the City?” he smirked
“Meaning?” I said, straightening my jacket back around my shoulders and exiting the concrete front in my best confrontational manner.
“Prying – it’s not something we engage in around here”
I scoffed silently recalling the parade at my shop window that morning.
“I don’t pry” and he looked at me askance but I doubted that it had anything to do with being caught peeking through the window of a dingy end-terraced house in Choppingchurch. “It’s just that I’d been walking 10 minutes and haven’t seen a soul around; I thought maybe the balloon had gone up”
“People are taking their tea”
“Everyone?”
“Simple folk, Clair”
“Except you Nick?”
“Just going home for mine now; had a little errand to do first”
“Oh” I said with majestic indifference.
“You can watch a bit of telly now, after your tea”
“You’ve done it…already” I blushed with embarrassment; Nick beamed with victory.
“Good evening Clair” he said skipping off down the empty street.
Get home Clair I told myself but in turning to go my eye caught a figure standing in the window I had just been looking in. I froze but lacked the stomach to look back because what I thought I saw was the stern thin man let loose in this world and because what he mouthed at me was my name. He had been calling me.