Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'There are three types of dead,' said Spike, counting on his fingers. 'Dead, undead, and semi-dead. Dead are what we call in the trade "spiritually bereft" – the life force is extinct. Those are the lucky ones. Undead are the "spiritually challenged" that I seem to spend most of my time dealing with. Vampires, zombies, bogles and what have you.'

'And the semi-dead?'

'Spiritually ambiguous. Those that are moving on from one state to another or are in a spiritual limbo – what you and I generally refer to as ghosts.'

Parks laughed out loud and Spike raised an eyebrow, the only outward sign of indignation I had ever seen him make.

'I didn't ask you along to listen to some garbage about ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties, Officer Stoker.'

'Don't forget "things that go bump in the night",' countered Spike. 'You won't believe how bad a thing can bump if you don't deal with it quick.'

'Whatever. As far as I can see there is one state of dead and that's "not living". Now, do you have anything useful to add to this investigation or not?'

Spike didn't answer. He stared hard at Parks for a moment and then scrambled down the embankment towards a withered tree. It had leafless branches that looked incongruous among the summer greenery, and the plastic bags that had caught in its branches moved lazily in the breeze. Parks and I looked at one another then slid down the bank to join him. We found Spike examining the short grass with great interest.

'If you have a theory you should tell us,' said Parks, leaning against the tree. 'I'm getting a bit bored with all this New Age mumbo-jumbo.'

'We all visit the realm of the semi-dead at some point,' continued Spike, picking at the ground with his fingers like a chimp checking a partner for fleas, 'but for most of us it is only a millisecond as we pass from one realm to the next. Blink and you'll miss it. But there are others. Others who loiter around in the world of the semi-dead for years. The "spiritually ambiguous" who don't know they are dead, or, in the case of the President, are there by accident.'

'And—?' asked Parks, who was becoming less keen on Spike with each second that passed. Spike carried on rummaging in the dirt so the SO-6 agent shrugged resignedly and started to walk back up the embankment.

'He didn't stop for a leak at Membury or Chieveley services, did he?' announced Spike in a loud voice. 'I wonder if he even went at Reading.'

Parks stopped and his attitude changed abruptly. He slid clumsily back down the embankment and rejoined us.

'How did you know that?'

Spike looked around at the empty fields.

'There is a motorway services here.'

'There was going to be one,' I corrected, 'but after Kington St— I mean, Leigh Delamere was built it wasn't considered necessary.'

'It's here all right,' replied Spike, just occluded from our view. This is what happened: the President needs a leak and tells Mallory to pull over at the next services. Mallory is tired and his mind is open to those things usually hidden from our sight. He sees what he thinks are the services and pulls over. For a fraction of a second the two worlds touch – the presidential Bentley moves across – and then part again. I'm afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that President Formby has accidentally entered a gateway to the underworld – a living person adrift in the abode of the dead.'

There was deathly quiet.

'That is the most insanely moronic story I have ever been forced to listen to,' announced Parks, not wanting to lose sight of reality for even one second. 'If I listened to a gaggle of lunatics for a month I'd not hear a crazier notion.'

'There are more things in heaven and earth, Parks, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'

There was a pause as the SO-6 agent weighed up the facts.

'Do you think you can get him back?'

'I fear not. The spirits of the semi-dead will be flocking to him like moths to a light, trying to feed off his life force and return themselves to the land of the living. Such a trip would almost certainly be suicidal.'

Parks sighed audibly.

'All right. How much?'

'Ten grand. Realm-of-the-dead-certam-to-die work pays extra.'

'Each?'

'Since you mention it, why not?'

'Okay, then,' said Parks with a faint grin, 'you'll get your blood money – but only on results.'