“Something that frightens the dead? I don’t like the sound of that.”

Dave shook his head. “You’ve had months and months at this, haven’t you?” he said. “You could have asked loads and loads of questions of the dead. You could have found out amazing stuff. Why didn’t you?”

I shrugged. “I’ve thought about this,” I said. “Death was my major interest when I was young. All I ever wanted to do was find out the point of it. I could never see the point, do you understand? I could see the point of life, but never death.

“I wanted to find out the truth. But when it actually came to it, when I actually found myself talking to the dead, I never had the nerve to ask. The first dead person I spoke to was my dad and he wanted to tell me something fantastic. But Barry cut me off and I never spoke to him again. I bottled out. I don’t know why. I think it’s because the living aren’t supposed to know and I didn’t want to know.”

Dave shook his head again. “You’re a real mess, Gary,” he said. “Other people, given the opportunity that you were given, would really have gone for it. They’d have found out.”

“So, have you found out, then? The truth about everything?”

“No,” said Dave. “I haven’t. But that’s because they wouldn’t tell me. But I know enough to know where to look. It’s all there at Mornington Crescent. And if you have the bottle to go there with me, we’ll find out together.”

“I have the bottle,” I said. “I’m not scared. I’m brave.”

“That’s good,” said Dave. “But you are telling me the truth, aren’t you? There’s no going back. When we do what I plan that we’re going to do, there will be no going back. It’s a total commitment.”

I sipped at my pint. “What exactly are you saying?” I asked.

“I’m saying that this is the big one. For you and for me. If we don’t do this, if we don’t do the Big One, do it and get away, it will be all up for us. They’ll get us, Gary. They’ll catch me and drag me back to boring Strangeways. And they’ll get you too. It’s only a matter of time before they get you. You’ve killed thirty-three people. No, it’s thirty-four now, isn’t it? Counting Sandra’s body-donor.”

“It’s thirty-five, actually.”

“Thirty-five?”

“There was this smelly old tramp yesterday as I was walking to work. He asked me for money. He was so ugly. God, I’ve always hated ugly people.”

“Then I’m glad I’m so damnedly handsome.”

“You’re not all that handsome.”

“But I’m not ugly.”

“No,” I said, “you’re not ugly, Dave.”

“Well, thank the Lord for that. So it’s thirty-five and by the end of this evening it will probably be thirty-six.”

“It will definitely be thirty-six.”

“So it’s time to be away. Do the Big One and away to Rio. We’ll shack up with Ronnie Biggs.”

“I’ll have to take Sandra. She can’t manage on her own.”

“We’ll take Sandra. It will be like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and the woman on the crossbar of the bike whose name no one can remember.”

“Why should anyone want to remember the name of a bike?” I asked.

“Was that some sad attempt at humour?”

“Possibly,” I said and I finished my pint. “So what you’re saying is that we pull off this huge Big One this weekend, then have it away on our toes to Rio.”

“If you’re up for it.”

“I am,” I said. “I’m absolutely up for it.”

“Good,” said Dave. “I’m so very glad that you said that.”

I shrugged. “Fine,” I said.

“No,” said Dave. “I mean that I’m very glad. Because, you see, you can’t go back to work at the telephone exchange, even if you want to. So I’m glad. All’s well that ends well, or, we hope, will end well, eh?”

“Hold on,” I said. “Slow down. What are you saying?”

“I was certain that you’d say yes,” said Dave. “Which is why I’m here.”

“Yes, I can see that you’re here. What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m here. I’m here now. At this minute, no one’s manning the bulb booth, nor will do ever again.”

“What do you mean?” I asked once more, but with a different emphasis.

“Ah,” said Dave, cupping a hand to his ear. “Listen.”

I listened and from the distance I heard the sound of bells. And sirens too, as well as bells.

“Fire engines,” I said.

“Yes,” said Dave. “The telephone exchange is on fire.”

“It is?” I said. “How do you know?”

Dave looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

“Oh,” I said.

Dave grinned at me. “And when I say it’s on fire,” he continued, “I mean it’s really on fire. Someone disabled the sprinkler system and emptied a whole load of petrol all over room 23. And barricaded the doors before crawling out of a back window. Oh, and really vandalized the bulb booth. Really badly. Nicked the bulb and everything.” Dave delved into his pocket and brought out the bulb in question. It was the XP103. “Souvenir for you,” he said.

I took the bulb. It felt really weird in my hands. Like some kind of symbol or something. Something that meant something, but didn’t, but still did, or something.

I put the bulb down on the table. “You torched the place,” I said slowly.

Dave just nodded and grinned some more.

“You torched the telephone exchange. But why did you do it? Why?”

“Well,” said Dave, “I don’t know about you, but I really don’t want to work there any more.”

I looked at Dave.

And Dave looked at me.

And then we both began to laugh.

21

I’ve never been a pyromaniac. The wanton destruction of property has always been anathema to me. But Dave and I did leave the Golden Dawn to wander down and watch the blaze.

And it was a very good blaze. Much better than the taxicab. The telephone exchange really went up.

Dave kind of skulked in the shadows. And that was all for the best, because in the midst of the conflagration, when people were coming and going and fire-fighters were making free with their hoses, Mr Holland appeared on the scene and came up to me all in tears.

“This is terrible,” wept Mr Holland.

“It’s a bit of a surprise,” I said. “But that’s life for you, always full of surprises.”

“But the bulbsman,” wept Mr Holland, “that nice new chap who does the night shift. He must surely have perished in the flames.”

“Sad,” I said. “That is sad. Oh, look at that.” Certain explosions came from the seventeenth floor and policemen told us to get back to a safe distance.

“Tragedy,” wailed Mr Holland. “This is a tragedy. Oh God, this is so terrible.”

“Terrible,” I agreed. “But life must go on, I suppose.”

“My life is finished.” Mr Holland sniff-sniff-sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “That exchange was my life.”

“That is very sad,” said I.

Tears ran down Mr Holland’s face. “I know I’ve been hard on you,” he snivelled. “I know you must at times have hated me.”

I listened to him but I didn’t nod, even though he was absolutely right.

“But the exchange was my life. Workers are just workers – they can always be replaced. There’s always more. But the exchange is everything.”

“Was everything,” I corrected him.

“Tragedy,” wailed Mr Holland some more. “My life is over. I wish I could depart this vale of tears.”

“Come with me,” I told him kindly. “Let’s go somewhere quiet and private and discuss this.”

And so, as one might an old incontinent dog that had been the beloved family pet but was now making too much mess on the duvet, I put Mr Holland out of his misery.

It was a very quiet alleyway and when I was done I turned to find Dave grinning at me.

“You certainly take pleasure in your work,” he said.

“He made me pee my pants the first day I worked at the exchange,” I said. “I don’t know why I waited so long.”