Overtime. Part 62

'That's fine,' Guy said. 'n.o.body minds. n.o.body knows. n.o.body need ever know. Just ... sort it out, and that'll be that. Do you see what I mean?'

Melroth looked at him. 'You reckon?' he said.

'Yes.'

'Um.'

Guy squeezed the last drop of determination out of the spongy mess he was keeping his brains in these days. 'You'll never get a better opportunity than this, you know,' he said. 'Think about it.'

'All right.'

'I know, that's easy to say, but ...' He stared. 'What did you say?'

'I said all right,' Melroth replied. 'Satisfied.'

'Yes,' said Guy, startled. 'That's fine, thank you.'

'I mean to say,' Melroth continued irritably, 'we do actually listen to what residents, I mean mere mortals, tell us, you know. It doesn't just all go in a great big shoe-box somewhere, or if it does we have to empty it out every month or so and things sometimes fall out and we pick them up and sometimes we read them and ... I mean, there is feedback. Definitely.'

'That's very rea.s.suring,' Guy said. 'Really.'

'Good,' said Melroth. 'I think we understand each other.'

'Absolutely.'

'Well, then ...' Melroth hesitated. It's very rare these days for an angel to have to do something he's never done before, and he was nervous. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 'Thank you,' he said.

'Don't mention it,' Guy replied. 'Any time.'

Melroth turned and gave him a look. 'Any what?'

'Time.'

'Oh,' said Melroth slowly. 'That old thing.'

A wheelbarrow moving slowly across an infinite, blank landscape.

Behind it, doing the best he can with limited resources, a one-legged, one-armed, half-headed humanoid.

In the wheelbarrow, a large rubber sack with brightly coloured designs painted on it. Behind, a small knot of men carrying tea chests.

The servants of the Central Authority cannot, for fairly obvious reasons, be made redundant. But they can be redeployed, rationalised, rea.s.signed and, in extreme cases, promoted sideways.

Of the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes staff, about ninety per cent had been seconded to the Parks and Amenities Department, where they were set to work whitewas.h.i.+ng the stars and cleaning out black holes after interstellar conferences. They had been the lucky ones.

'Boss.'

The Antichrist looked round and noticed Pursuivant under three hundredweight of files and a typewriter.

'Well?' he said.

'What exactly are we going to do when we get there?'

'Shut up.'

'Yes, boss.'

n.o.body spoke for the next ten minutes or so, during which time Mordaunt dropped the packing-case that contained the fax machine (probably on purpose) and Mountjoy tripped over the flex of the electric fan. Then they saw it, stretched out in front of them like a magnified sky.

'Oh s.h.i.+t,' said Pursuivant.

'All right,' snapped the Antichrist furiously, dropping the handles of the wheelbarrow and discovering that it was directly above his big toe, 'you can pack that in from the start. I mean,' he added hopelessly, 'it's not as bad as all that.'

'It isn't?'

'No.'

'Oh.'

Pope Julian, of course, had had it easy. Since he was by definition an incurable temporal paradox he had simply ceased to exist. Jammy little toad.

They had been standing there for a while when the caretaker came out. He was carrying three huge tins of blue paint, six moulting brushes, and he was grinning like a cracked wall.

'Here they are,' he said, 'the boys from the blue stuff.'

They ignored him. He chuckled unpleasantly, like a blocked drain.

'There you go,' he said, plonking the equipment down in front of them. 'And watch the bits round the edges. Gone a bit mouldy there, it has. You'll probably need to rub it right down and fill it before you can start.'

The Antichrist didn't answer. Somewhere on the other side of this lot the rest of his erstwhile subordinates were toddling about in a leisurely fas.h.i.+on, daubing a bit of glitter on a star here, polis.h.i.+ng a red dwarf there. If ever he got his hand on that b.l.o.o.d.y de Nesle ... Well, there'd be trouble.

The caretaker handed over the keys to the tiny shed which was to be their home for the next ... for a very long time, and pottered away into the vast white distance, sn.i.g.g.e.ring. The Chastel men stood for a while, staring; just as stout Cortez would have gazed on the Pacific if he'd just been told that he was going to have to walk home.

'Oh well,' the Antichrist said. He took a handkerchief from the top of the wheelbarrow and gripped it in his teeth while he tied knots in the corners of it with his hand. Then he put it on his head. 'The sooner we make a start ...' he said, and his voice seemed to drain away into the immensity in front of him. 'Anyway,' he said.

Then he and the others began to paint the sky.

The jury room of the United Global Criminal Court.

'Whose is the giblets?' called out the foreman of the jury. Eleven hundred and ninety-eight people shook their heads in turn; and then somebody nudged the eleven hundred and ninety-ninth juror, who had been staring out of the window, and who turned, shook himself, and said, 'Sorry, I was miles away.

'Right,' said the foreman. 'Eat it while it's hot.'

The culture that had evolved in the jury room over the last eighty years was distinctive, to say the least. Only Mr Troon and Mrs Cartagena were left from the original panel; the rest were second, third or even fourth generation. When Mr Troon died - and he'd been in a coma for six weeks now, the poor old sod - n.o.body would be left who had heard the original evidence (Mrs Cartagena had, by her own admission, slept through the whole trial), but that was largely irrelevant. Opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the accused was now a matter of clan belief; and ever since the last outbreak of inter-tribal warfare, positions had become utterly entrenched. The politics of it all defied simple explanation; however, basically it came down to the fact that so long as the Macdonalds refused to give up their nine of the original twelve chairs and the Battistas clung on to their right to first choice of the bread rolls, further negotiation was a waste of everybody's time.

Stephen Ogilvy III (the foremans.h.i.+p had been hereditary in the Ogilvy family for as long as anyone could remember) banged on the table with the handle of his knife, and was rewarded with the usual silence.