Soul Advocate Season 1: Soul Advocate, #1.1

By Ted Pepper

The full season 1 of The Soul Advocate.

 

Welcome to Purgatory. It has been a bad day. You died this morning of a routine and entirely preventable illness. This afternoon you found out that you will spend eternity in Hell. An existence of torment and regret.

 

I am your last hope. I am the Soul Advocate.

 

As you suffer in Purgatory, you have a 30 day period of appeal. I will use it to search the Earth for the evidence that you need to clear your name. I will be looking for truth or I will be looking for excuses.

 

Depend on me. There will be difficulty, but I shall overcome it. My reputation and your very existence depend on it.

 

This is the first season of the Soul Advocate series that follows the progress of one of Hell's investigators that represent souls that appeal against ultimate damnation. We will follow Tedward and a rag-tag assembly of lazy and at times foolhardy hellbeings as they clear cases and uncover a plot by rogue humans to change the unnatural order of things forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ted Pepper
• Release date: Feb 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224141739

Book preview

This book is independently published. If you enjoy it, please share a link to it with your friends so they can enjoy it too.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 by Guy Shearer writing as Ted Pepper

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

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Cover Art

Kittens image taken from Wikimedia Commons and used under Creative Commons license ( https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/ ) having had background removed and converted to monochrome.

Image of Heaven is a fresco by Sebastiano del Piombo in S. Pietro in Montorio from Wikimedia Commons used unmodified under Creative Commons BY 2.0 DEED License

Attribution 2.0 Generic license https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

Episode 1: SEND HIM TO HELL

Scene One

Ialways start with the funeral.

It may not be the most efficient approach; I never expect it to produce the clue that solves the case.

I just want to know who cares enough about this doomed soul that they will wear unflattering clothes to eat dry sandwiches in an unloved hotel. I helps me tune into the closing act of a life now ended.

Rest my forehead to the floor to feel the trembling vibrations. Love, hate, despair, hope. They rumble and hum. My job is to read their stories. Sift them.

On a more practical level it helps me sift the flood of often false information from my interview with the recently deceased, my client. We are asked to call the Forsaken Ones clients now. Apparently, it gives higher levels of client satisfaction. You can never accuse the forces of infernal damnation of not looking to improve the experience.

Our clients cannot be trusted. Recently dead and facing Hell with a capital H they can sometimes be irrational, unhelpful and downright liars. They lie under that harsh lighting as they sip dead water from the thinnest of plastic cups. Even at the Gates of Hell they try to bargain and squirm.

The denials still ring out.

Humans, we love them.

A funeral gives me a chance to put on my best suit. Ink black wool. Button on a pressed, starched white shirt, crisp and dazzling. Sport a soft silk tie, knotted just so. It took me two lifetimes to learn to tie that knot as it should be fastened.

I scrub up well.

Some cases require 29 days of intense effort to unlock. Others snap into view before the over-scrubbed priest has completed the homily.

But always the same. 30-days from the soul lodging an appeal, to the day of the Tribunal. The moment in the Infernal Courtroom that ends in Heaven or in eternal suffering and damnation.

This case was the best and the worst of them.

From the first words he said to me, this client had been busily hoisting red flags. I had more reasons to walk away at the end of the mandatory one-hour interview than I had to stay. But there was something in the constipated blend of desperation, expectation and entitlement of Henry Leek Pughley that made my impish tail tingle. Something that drew me in. Willing or otherwise I was curious.

That happens sometimes. It’s the devil in me. Well one of them. Sometimes I just have to take the cases that I know will be a ball-ache when I could just take the simple ones and have an easy life.

It was my allotted day at Hell’s Reception. I have one each month. As the senior Advocate available I have the right of first refusal on the list of condemned souls seeking representation. I could have picked any from the 12 on offer.

There was an obvious case of mistaken identity. Boring, an easy win and 29 days of relaxation.

There was one that I could argue the defence of passion which is a personal favourite. A speciality, if you will.

There was a vicar. I tend to select members of the holy orders more for shits and giggles than out of any expectation of an easy life. There’s never much pressure to get a priest acquitted.

I should have gone for the easier options.

But no. I picked Henry Leek Pughley. Like a fucking chump.

I generally give the English upper-class a wide berth.

Most of them deserve their place in Hell. Working to save them from damnation is both thankless and pointless. They lie like experts. They are the best gaslighters that ever walked the earth. They bristle with self-importance. The people they leave behind, the ones I must investigate, are bores.

But they do, as a rule, put on a decent buffet.

Also, the Tribunal rarely errs on the side of kindness, so the percentages of a win with a posh Brit are not good. Nobody likes the British, not even the demons of Hell itself. Well, I do, but I’m twisted even by our standards.

Taking on the hard cases invites future problems. To retain my seniority, I must rarely lose. Nobody wants to be the second most senior Advocate for condemned souls once they have reached the top. It took a long time to climb my way to the top, I have no intention of making my way back down.

So, ‘posh’ and ‘Brit;’ two red flags to start with.

Leek was the next red flag. The third.

He insisted I continue to use his middle name. Held onto it like a man drowning in a cesspit, which I suppose he soon would be. Ashen-faced and disheveled, with teeth that did him no credit, he twisted and coiled. His ribs were showing through paper-thin grey skin. He shivered even under the stifling warmth of the institutional heating system of Purgatory. Through this pain and this shock, at no point would he allow me to utter his name without inserting that four-letter-fucking-appendage.

Each time I spoke his name, he corrected me. Reinserted that superfluous pair of consonants and vowels.

Henry Pughley. Henry, Leek Pughley seemed to have died an entirely predictable death. He had a year to set his affairs in order. Yet still, he seemed shocked to have had a life of privilege revoked. He was not quite enraged, but he was certainly irate. That was my fourth red flag. Any case where the defendant has had a long time to cover their tracks can push even my resources to the limit.

Sudden, unexpected deaths leave so many more lines of investigation open. I prefer to investigate a violent death, or better still a spectacular accident. It is simply easier. Easily simpler.

We both agonised over what he must have done to merit damnation. Well I pretended to. I sympathised and nodded at his grievances and he reeled off a score of benevolent works and donations to good causes that seemed to have not afforded him a golden ticket to the Pearly Gates.

He felt that an eternity in Hell was a touch unfair as consequence for some less than ethical investments and a series of infidelities. He admitted to both readily enough. People admit things to me with abandon. I have trustworthy eyes. Big, brown eyes. I like to accentuate them with a subtle touch of eyeliner. On Earth at least. Here in Purgatory my eyes are black in black and probably a little more horrific than they are charming. Anyway, I digress.

Charisma. I create a sense of client-advocate bond. I create a circle of intimacy, a channel of confession. They always seem to think that somehow putting their foul deeds into words and putting sorry at the end will cancel sins out. That is especially so with Catholics. It is a delightful and charming notion, but a false one.

Sorry scores no points in Hell.

People tell me things I really wish they wouldn’t. Sloth, perversity, unkindness, misadventure. They tell me it all. It grows tiresome.

After a few prompts and some thought, he suggested bribery might be his mortal sin. With hindsight, I would say he offered this a little too eagerly, but at the time there was a lot on the table and I was still in that first sift.  Corruption can indeed be the kind of sin a Judge latches onto like a furious crab. The kind of wonderful sin that leads others to commit further sins. Judges love those cascades of fault. For that reason, we get a lot of marketing executives pass through our books, and a therapist or two. But for it to be bribery, it would need to be something big and nasty. Something that had truly stinking consequences.

Hell is busy, we don’t just send anybody there anymore. We used to. Back in the Middle Ages you could be condemned for something mildly unpleasant. Not anymore. Nowadays we have so many potential customers, you need to be a proper arse to qualify for the eternal brimstone vacation.

Judges rarely bother with the small stuff, unless they have a particular reason to want that soul to drop onto the damnation and shredding pile. Or if it is very funny. Few humans interest them enough to bother.

Except politicians, we love to fuck them up.

When, against my instincts and my judgement I confirmed this was the case I would take, HLP’s response was to puff out his chest as if the world was returning to its right order. Yes, he would be represented by the first Advocate. The senior available representative. I nearly changed my mind there and then, but I rarely like my clients and he felt less toxic than some I’ve handled recently.

He showed a small hint of gratitude, relief then hope as I completed the triplicate form, an E200. It secured him 30 days in Purgatory, followed by a day at the Tribunal. If I was successful he would ascend to Heaven. If I failed then the short time in Hell’s waiting room would seem like a weekend by the sea. Somewhere bearable but unpleasant like Southend or Skegness.

I passed him his copy of the form on flimsy yellow paper, gave the over-seer the white card copy which was then stamped with great enthusiasm in Egyptian blue ink. I put the pink copy into a brown envelope for my supervisor to log against my account. The glue on the flap still tastes of dead horses. The tiny details of Hell matter and I was left needing a drink to erase the bitter stain on my tongue.

From that moment, until the Tribunal opened, Henry Leek Pughley’s immortal soul rested exclusively in my care.

Formalities over, I agreed to follow both his investments and errant sex life as possible leads and assigned them to my Drudge, Coff for research. Coff is effective in the same way that tides deal with cliffs. No mystery will resist his steady unimaginative barrage. He is neither creative nor inspired but he is thorough. Within two days I would have every barnacle on Henry Leek Pughley’s financial dealings and the pornographic snippets of his every stray ejaculation.

Coff loves to get to grips with people’s sex lives. The messier the better. I don’t even think it is envy on his part. Merely the most morbid of curiosities.

But I already knew that I would be wasting his time to avoid wasting my own. Coff needs to be busy, and I like to please him. The secret to save HLP’s soul from a permanent state of agonised half-existence would be found in neither money nor semen.

I knew that a secret must exist. Or else that I should have to invent one. As Soul Advocate I am both magistrate, investigator, enforcer and scriptwriter.

So, there I was, steering the unseemly length of a black rented car, German engineering at its finest, through the winding hedgerows of Somerset. I was gliding towards a family gathering in Payton St Judd. A bijoux little village nestled between Faulkland St Phillip and some of the most private and wealthy estates in Britain.

The leather seats felt good. The windows slid open whisper-smooth to allow the summer air to cool my face as I left the Midlands behind and headed for a gentler, kinder, greener setting.

The service was to be in the over-ambitious local parish church, delivered by junior clergy to the extended family, after which they would all pile into the function room of the Red Lion across the Green. Impeccably tasteful and low-key. My kind of function.

The proximity to Glastonbury was a bonus to this case, although I don’t recall it influencing my decision to take it. This is a corner of the world that has find memories for me.

Not so long ago it was the location of the final holiday I took with my Charlotte and I am never happier than when I pick at that particular scab. The more gruesome the flashbacks, the more bitter the regret, the better I like it. I managed a smile and perfunctory nod as I passed to road sign towards the Tor. But my route allowed no detour. Humming and tapping along to the Cuban Overture by Gershwin on Radio 3, I needed to get to the funeral a few minutes early. How people arrive to these things is a detail worth noting. No hint or clue is too small when a case is just warming up.

The village itself was small and perfectly formed. No two houses the same, every garden manicured to obsessive perfection. The Pughleys have lived hereabouts since an ancestor of theirs rode into the area in 1067 and started killing Saxons. They kept killing, appropriating and breeding until they had made space for the roots that the family proceeded to put down with energy and determination.

No space at the roadside was to be had. Every inch of kerb was taken by the hulking beast-cars and the cheeky dishevelled dog-blanket runabouts of the truly upper-class. I pulled the Mercedes into the empty driveway of a house that looked like it was unoccupied and hoped the owners would not return from the shops or a wonderful holiday to find their privacy invaded. I find parking to be a mystery, but leaving the vehicle where it would be convenient always seems the best policy.

One car stood out in particular. Clean. New. A hire car like my own, but this one a hulking beast of a vehicle. Two occupants. Women. Jumpers and jackets. Someone here had security with eyes on the site. Good to know. An interesting detail.

I do not smoke. Not habitually. I do however smoke professionally. I consider it my duty to care for the body as the body cares for me. I have no wish to trade this one in unecessarily. I rather like it. But smokers are a useful source of background, so I mingled with the young couple hovering by the lychgate. They were Art Students, dressed in the transient goth plumage of the restless, wealthy young.  They were full of juice and free of reserve. Tee, beloved daughter of the more modest Pughley cousins had vivid blue hair coaxed into a somber hat, and her boyfriend Paul, giver of an altogether too-firm handshake, had the looming presence of a sportsman going to seed on the fringe of alternative culture.

I’m an older man. Solidly built and manicured to fuck, but my long black hair and soft eyes make connecting with the young, and especially the marginal, simpler than perhaps it might otherwise be. They showed little interest in my reasons for being there and were all too happy to share theirs. They both spoke well of HLP, but in a casually unkind way. The man they had known could be relied on to pin others to the floor, and when you were not the target of his withering wit, he was apparently, good value.

Dinner with him was very much a spectator sport, provided you had not incurred his disfavour.

Tee told me some anecdotes of her childhood and painted a picture of a man that utterly dominated their corner of the world. A man that was not to be messed with.  A patriarch.

Well, he was being messed with now and would be putting up with a good deal of messing for at least 29 more days. Many more after that unless I could find grounds for appeal.

Family members and others rolled past us with a mixture of greeting and disapproval. My presence was now established. They did not know who I was, but they knew I was there. I formed part of the background. I know the funeral game. I aimed to be their friend by three and their confidante by six.

The whole family and many business contacts filed by. Dry eyed spouse, stone faced late-teen child. Managers, fixers, relatives. I would not lack for conversation.

Two couples caught my eye. I filed them under interesting. Paul and Tee supplied me with names and scant detail as we completed our third cigarette and parted ways.

The Ewers were military. Apparently. HLP’s cousin had been in the Guards and I imagine killed foreigners with his bare hands whilst looking impeccable in a dress jacket. Now, he had settled into a rather over-athletic middle age. He was cordial and graceful whilst his unnamed partner, wore a black raincoat over a magenta dress and seemed aggressively detached and pre-occupied with a phone call. There was something about them. Something. I mentally filed them under ‘curious but probably pointless.’

Elisabeth Pughley and her plus one picqued me much more. HLP’s little sister was anything but. A presence so formidable as to make closeness inadvisable. She marched in lockstep with her elderly partner down the path. He was tanned to a crisp and with an impressive mop of bleach-white hair embellished with just the faintest hint of tobacco stain. He was striking. Alongside her physical power he exuded something more. This man tricked my memory into familiarity. There was a he and an I. An I and He. If I could only recall it. As she accompanied him to the doorway he noticed me.

I dislike being noticed. I disliked that glint in his eye and resolved to fastidiously avoid him later.

My phone rang. I frowned and pulled the bulk from my jacket. As a rule the Horde are not great with technology and we use humans to operate our machines, I am unusual in that I tolerate some relatively modern electronics on my person. My antique Nokia drew stares from my younger companions. Thankfully it was now considered retro chic rather than pointless and old-fashioned.

The call was from Anna. She is my corrupt associate. Well one of them. A supervisor for a vetting and security company based in a business park that lost its way somewhere near Slough. She probably knows more about me than is good for her, but is wise enough to affect a knowing ignorance that would make the Pope himself proud.

Ted?

Yes Anna, speaking.

Earlier this morning I had left her three over-long voicemails. I find one-sided conversations difficult and rarely manage to record coherent messages. She uses a burner phone for each job and dials into a voicemail service to pick up my garbled requests.

Cautious and competent.

I like her. I like her tact, her care and her ability to get things done.

You have a job for me?

I was stepping away from Tee and Paul. They needed to hear enough to think I was talking business, but not enough to understand anything of what that business might be. I managed my words as the distance from them grew.

Ah good, excellent, yes I did want to speak to you. Thank you for calling me. Yes.

As soon as I had clear air I lowered my voice. Removed the floral notes. Settled into my natural monotone.

Yes, I need a check doing. A deep check.

Usual rates?

Anna was always eye-wateringly expensive. Luckily money was something I could casually get hold of and use without caution. Some of that money she would in turn pass to her sources. She cultivates people who will operate their computers for me. She unearths them. Recruits them. Nurtures for them. She ensures they have no connection back to her, or from her to me.

That kind of discretion is expensive.

She has other needs too that at times require more effort on my part. Connections she asks me to make. Personal needs. Introductions. I am good at introductions with all the wrong people.

Yes, a bonus if you can turn this around by tomorrow.

A full check by tomorrow. Her voice was just as flat as mine. Empty of emotion. This was a routine, played out many times. OK who is the subject?

Henry Leek Pughley.

The one from the newspapers?

That made me pause. The unmarked security vehicle made sense now. Perhaps not security then. My mind jumped straight to press.

I never have time for modern media. There is just too much of it to take in. This would have been another red flag had I only known. It seems I am representing a soul with a fluttering field of red flags. Rich. Evil. Upper Class. English. Obstinate and entitled. Prominent and noteworthy. Hellbound.

Fuck.

I really missed my Charlotte. She would have known how to handle this with her mortal intelligence from the school of life.

I drew in a deep breath. Stroked my beard. It soothed me a little. I made that harumphing noise in my throat. Cleared the pipes as it were. I try to never drop a case once accepted. It is sort of a rule that I have. It helps preserve my seniority.

Front page news, or the business section. It matters. One is agony, the other discomfort.

She paused to think on that. Mostly business and obituaries end I think.

I pressed on. Not a dealbreaker then?

No. We can do it. It may raise some questions though. I was going to use Will. He’s my best and he is hungry for cash. He will wonder about checking on this one. Can I go a little higher on the rate?

Very well. Make it a third extra for him, same for you.

So full background check, social media, criminal, political, the works. Shall we say 9pm tomorrow? Hard copy, Leicester Forest East Northbound. We haven’t used that one for a while.

Excellent Anna. My thanks.

I did the sums in my head. I had enough in cash on hand without having to ask for more. Asking for more can be awkward. There is so much paperwork.

I smiled as I pressed the red button to end the call. I love that gentle pressure as it resisted my thumb. Human engineers. The best there are. All the best machines in Hell were built for us by humans.

Anna being so matter of fact gifted me a slight easing of that pressure behind my eyes. A small reduction in the weight on my shoulders. She is my secret weapon. The prosecutor that marked HLP for an afterlife of agony and regret would probably have used exactly the same kind of vetting company to make their decision. HLP will have popped up on a blacklist as he departed the mortal coil. It could even be the same vetting agency as mine. It used to be that the Horde could handpick their chosen few simply by roaming the land with a scythe, black notebook and a sharpened pencil.

Now the volume and pace of human evil is so great that you need humans themselves to sift the wind for the unlucky few.

In business parks and data-centres across the world, bots and geeks crawl and sift to help us find the people that have been naughty enough to separate from the herd.

The impurities that cannot be allowed into Heaven.

Our quota of souls.

I paused, returned the phone to my jacket. Straightened with a slight sense of vertebrae clicking into place. Fastened my sad, understanding smile back into place.

Well then, Tee, Paul it’s been a pleasure to meet you, but I really should head inside. Perhaps I can buy you a drink later?

We nodded back and forth. Forth and back. They lit yet another cigarette with the careless lungs of immortal youth.

I walked over the artfully uneven paving stones and past the clipped lawn, into the welcoming darkness of the church.

I love churches. That’s a popular misconception in popular culture. Servants of Hell, or the Horde as we prefer to be called, are neither deterred nor harmed by consecrated ground or places of faith. We depend on faith ourselves to some extent, or at least that is what some of our philosophers think. We are old, and places like this are old too. Comforting. Dimly lit, well crafted. Humans are so good with wood, stone, glass, and metal.

You elevate us.

You raise us.

Literally, sometimes.

This church was an excellent example of its type. A village with more money than their peers and the desire to to show it. A patron wanting to leave a message for the future. I paused a moment to remember. I have a good memory for souls. Sir Randolph Pughley. 1798. Yes, he was one of ours at the end. He never had me to represent him the poor bastard. Well before his demise and eternal torture, he left many protestations of earthly virtue, and an impressive church. The wood was carved and stained dark. Just the right amount of dark. The stone, scrubbed clean and pure. Pale grit. The brass was  polished like a demon’s cock on date night.

There was a murmur of subdued condolent chitchat.

A youngish man hovered with folded photocopies and greeted each mourner as they entered. He seemed to think I should have one of his documents, and I needed to fit in. I approached. I made eye contact. I smiled. I am well-practiced in your ways.

But I couldn’t resist playing with him a little. There’s always the imp in me.

The groom’s side I offered with a gentle nod. He didn’t quite understand the joke, gave a smile that was forced and late. I took the paper from his offered fingers.

Thank you so much. So, so much.

I allowed a little more sincerity to flow. Decided he could offer me nothing of value. I moved to find a space.

Never choose the back row. One should always allow space there for the late arrivals. I was here to learn. I found an empty pew three from the back. I sat at the centre. Soon I would have informants on either side. Unless HLP was even more of a cunt than I suspected. He was rich, and that compensates for most things. I was sure to have company in the back of the church.

In the meantime I studied the booklet. Fronted with HLP’s name in beautiful Helvetica Neue. My favourite font. Always a nice surprise to find people with class. Funeral paperwork often lapses into Serif. His name was there. HENRY L PUGHLEY.

Ah, now that would have made him furious. That thought amused me. I suppressed a chuckle.

There was a portrait of him underneath. An etching. Beautifully done. He had a stronger and fuller face than the shredded remnant of cancer I had met. It was a well chosen image, crafted and balanced. I noted the artist. T Pughley. Ah, Tee. She had talent. I hoped she would live a good life.

There were some hymns listed with their lyrics.

I love hymns. I love to watch people as they sing along.

I always join in with all the might my lungs can carry. It makes priests grateful. They notice. They always appreciate a good robust baritone. Makes them easier to pump for information later if they remember you as a team player.

The rest was the usual. Comforting. A short address by the priest. A few readings, all well chosen passages. None that offered any clues. You would be surprised how much information about the deceased and their bereaved clan you can get from the readings that a family chooses. Last year I nearly abandoned a case after hearing the psalm the client’s son read. It made it plain, his father was guilty and hell-bound. I had to work doubly hard to get that one off the hook. No such luck with this service. All the quotes were vanilla biblical.

Then I had company. Terry sat next to me and said hello.

And so it began. Terry worked with HLP. They served together in the South Atlantic. Formed a bond of trust. I gently deflected his questions and asked my own. Terry was a lawyer. He had represented HLP in all his business affairs. His suit was bespoke and showed signs of alteration from many years ago. It decided it probably had been his fathers. I’d have wagered Terry’s father knew HLP’s. That is the way of things with these people, this tribe. Dark and somber except for his socks. Paul Smith. A good choice. I found myself liking him as I teased and enquired. All I heard was the respect of a business associate. Respect for a man who was robust. Strong. Decisive. Some might say an exploitative motherfucker, but the bar for going to hell for financial crimes is pretty high in these post-New-Testament times. I doubted that was the direction the case would lurch.

Their military service was more interesting. They were mature when they went to war. Officers. Leaders. Responsible adults taking charge of young men who knew no better. Terry was distinctly unforthcoming. I noted that there is not even a hint of the military about this funeral service. Usually the English bring out their medals and employ a ghastly bugler when any old soldier croaks. Even a soldier-adjacent corpse. Any excuse. Trust me, as a hellborn creature I have a high tolerance for the truly awful but I cannot abide the bugle.

No mawkish celebration of lost uniformed glory. So HLP did not celebrate his army years. This was interesting. Noted.

The best clues are often the things that are not said, rather than the things that are. That is another reason I love a good funeral, they are full of spaces where the truth should be.

I offered Terry a business card to ensure he gave me his. Followed that unwritten law of reciprocation. His were in a beautiful slender silver case. Mine from Pro-Print were stuffed into a brown paper envelope in my pocket. It amuses me to invent new ones. At the moment I was Tedward Proctor, Media Relations Management for Eavis, Lace and Proctor Ltd.

I would need to pursue Terry as a line of enquiry later. He was good company and knew more than I did.

Now I had a pompous woman squeezed to my left. It seemed my pew was becoming the unofficial home for people who were not family and did not have a +1. The disconnected shrapnel of HLP’s life. She had a black velvet jacket and skirt. Pearls. She also had an earthy aroma concealed by floral perfume. Horses. Yes. Big horses.

Ah you ride. My name is Ted, pleased to meet you.

She was a little taken-aback by my opening. I forget myself. It happens. But my eyes smiled and soon hers did too. Her hands were strong and rough. Long fingers. No rings. No bracelet. Clipped nails. Her name was Christine. She was saying precisely nothing other than to wish me good morning, so as Terry engaged in a text message conversation I quietly took note of Christine. I learned little because she was shrouded with a layer of funeral dress that was in no way typical. I speculated. Well one does. I wished I had paid attention when HLP listed his infidelities to me. As I recalled they were all either metropolitan or professional and Christine was neither.

Later I would stand outside the church. I would message my wonderful Anna on her burner phone. I would copy the mobile number from Terry’s card and ask her for copies of every text message to and from that number in the last 6 months. I was curious about Terry. He alone had made the trip worthwhile.

Scene Two

H enry would be glad to see you all here today. He loved his family and he adored his friends. The priest was working to wind up the rhetoric after a couple of mumbled hymns and an entirely lacklustre prayer.

Recovering the service as best she could.

Frankly, having spoken with HLP not that long ago, I very much doubted he would feel more than low-level passive-aggression right now. But it was good for them to pretend. Knowing his soul was slated for eternal damnation with a side order of prolonged torture and extinction might have put a damper on proceedings.

His generosity to this church, like all his forebears was always welcome. His faith strong. His support unwavering and invaluable.

She looked at HLP’s darling son as she said that. She had that sincere and longing expression. Doleful. The hopeful face of the true Christian with ideas about repairs to the roof. The boy had just graduated from the very best school that money can buy. He was steeped in the same dip as his forefathers. He would pay the same price even as he extracted it from others, just as soon as the estate was settled. Wealth drips from claw to claw through the generations.

I zoned out for most of the rest. I took a moment to enjoy the scents of the room. They mingled. Base layers of dust. Floral notes from the lilies. Smoke and burnt wax. I checked people’s shoes. I looked for nervous people or anyone in a hurry. I looked for those who weren’t listening. I sought out those whose thoughts were elsewhere. I looked for those that were looking. It was a sob-free affair. A house of dry eyes. They all knew HLP better than the priest it seemed.

After a long hour of wooden-bench-buttock-clenching we filed from the church to the tones of Elgar. It wouldn’t have been my choice but it fitted the faded imperialist grandeur rather well. I couldn’t attach myself to anyone as we filed to an impromptu receiving line so I just opened my eyes and ears for clues as I shuffled forward. I noticed a small smudge on my cuff, worried it with a little spit on my thumbnail.

Freddy, Frederick, my condolences, your father was a great man, he will be sorely missed I lied, taking his sweaty hand into both of mine and vigorously shaking. I was going to call his mother Amanda, but on the edge of my hearing I caught the person ahead of me calling her Mands. The boy’s eyes were blank. Valium or cannabis possibly. Perhaps both. I don’t judge.

No, seriously I don’t. I am a creature of Hell made flesh and walking the earth. I’m never going to pass judgement on you or on anyone else, unless I am tasked to do so in a professional capacity.

It wears me out.

Mands looked cold and beautiful in black Dior. I resisted going in for her cheek before she could clock who I was. Instead I shook her hand and nodded with my best open and concerned expression. I spared her the scent of my patchouli and sandalwood aftershave.

It must be so hard now, I’m so glad you have Freddy to lean on. Do let me know Mands if there is anything, and I mean anything I can do. I gave her sincerity turned up to 11 and started to glide moved away before she could react.

She looked blank too. Fuddled. It was doubtful I would gain much from talking to her today. With the power of hindsight I should have questioned why the boy and mother appeared to be so heavily sedated, but in my defence it isn’t unusual at the best funerals. Private medicine is marvellous.

But I felt that I was getting to know HLP better here than I had in our guarded interview. The more I reflected and took at all the tiny details here, the less I trusted the bones of his account of his time on earth.

You should never lie to the person that is representing you. But everyone does. Everyone lies.

I held eye contact too long for either of us to be comfortable as I side-shifted through the arch and into the sunshine. There was a good sized crowd clustering there, keen not to be seen to dash across the road to the pub with unseemly haste. The hubbub of earnest conversation. Tobacco haired man was watching me altogether too intently. His head tilted to one side. His lips slightly pursed. He was ignoring the doddery pensioners talking to him and following my every move.

I didn’t recognise him, but he recognised me. He tried not to show it, but he did.

My sense of recognition was a reflection of his.

I prickled. Dismissed the sensation as irrelevant to the matter at hand.

Being recognised is never a good thing when I am at my work.

Recognition, ultimately, was the greatest problem with my preference to retain this same body for such an extended period. I dislike the dislocation of change, the confusion of different limbs. The shock of a new reflection. My insistence is misjudged by those of my kind that enjoy novelty and switch gender and age with every season. They feel I consider their constant appropriation of a new human body to be wasteful. They believe that I look down on the way they cast aside used corpses like three-day-old chicken and take others.

It truly isn’t that. I simply don’t like changing. This body fits. I like it and I hope it likes me. So, I elect to retain it.

The problem with that, of course, is that I always run the risk of being memorable. An occupational hazard and a vanity.

Denied the safety of the crowd, I resolved to re-use the smoker strategy and scanned the area to see if I could find Tee and Paul who must be gasping for a cigarette by now. As I looked for them an even better idea unfolded. I caught the glint of something reflected inside the watching car. The parked car. A long lens. The impertinence of the voyeur.

I strode with evident purpose across the churchyard and over the pavement. Flexed my shoulders. If I were able to extend huge bat-like wings, then this would have been my moment. Sadly this body comes equipped with no such accessories. The hire-car was still there, occupants dressed in business-uncomfortable. One had a curiously old-fashioned big camera with a long telephoto lens. The other sported some very stylish sunglasses. An Elisa Johnson design if I was not very much mistaken. As I approached, clearly intent on their vehicle they began to look distinctly uncomfortable.

I leant in. Smiled. Tapped on the window.

There was an awkward moment. A long awkward moment but I waited with the patience of vegetables until, with eyes rolling, the passenger pushed the button to smoothly lower the glass between us.

Hullo I muster.

I cracked a smile. I dimple well and I made use of it. Nice glasses I dropped to the driver. She had made an effort, so should I. A smile started before she could break it. I am charming, or so I am told.

I reached into my pocket and passed them another of my business cards. As they looked to read it I saved them the trouble by telling them what it said. I cannot help it. Exposition is a habit that is hard to break in my line of work.

Tedward Proctor. Media relations from Eavis, Lace and Proctor. Look, I know you’re just doing your job, but the family, well the family just want you to fuck off. So can we perhaps agree a way for you to....

I paused. Let it hang.

It almost got awkward before the passenger helped me out.

... fuck off?

I do love human interaction. Especially English human interaction. I haven’t stayed here for three centuries just for the food or the weather believe me.

Yes, they’d like you to fuck off. Now we’re all professionals here. What do you need to keep your editor happy?

The driver was annoyed and a little puzzled. She mouthed ‘Editor?’ To her companion, then leant across. She wanted me to know that she was vexed. It mattered.

I think you’ll find that your client, whoever they are, does not own this street. We’re parked on the public highway. We are here at the invitation of...

Ah, delicious. Another pause. I allowed my left eyebrow to raise. Then I put some effort into it. Let it arch properly. Held the brow. Fixed the stare. It is my second favourite facial gesture after my cum face. I practice. Both. I can do for hours as and when required.

Passenger broke first. She snapped in a sadly unspecific way. ...another family member. Driver gave a disapproving glance. She was made of sterner stuff.

I made a slight leap. I considered who might be the press-caller. I took an educated guess.

You mean Elisabeth? It was her that told me to dispose of you actually.

They looked confused and crestfallen at that. So Elisabeth invited the journalists? Good choice on my part. Odd. But she was the only one of them that looked like she had the devilment in her to do something like that. Why, I could not say.

So, now we’re all clear, and you’ve got your photos, how about I give you a quote to print and then you.... Fuck off? Yes, write this down.

Passenger had a reporter’s notebook and HB pencil sharp enough to kill a pigeon. She obliged. Driver moved to drop the camera onto the back seat. I smiled. Extended my arm inside their car, uncomfortably close to Passenger’s face. Is that a Canon? I used to so want one of those. May I look?

You would never give your expensive camera to a stranger would you? I can be very persuasive. The use of magik is forbidden to us but some rules can be bent. I pushed her, just a little. Just enough.

It took less than two heartbeats. She gave it to me without knowing quite why. I have always been very persuasive in a suit. Fine tailoring can make the bluntest of instruments into a precise weapon of persuasion. Wow. It is much lighter than I expected. Have you had it from new?

I rotated it in my hands. The inventory label was a foil barcode and told me nothing, but that and the patina of scratches and wear told me this was a hard-working tool.

As I slowly and sonorously dictated to Passenger I extracted the memory card and folded it into two with a satisfying plunk-snap.

The Pughley family are all deeply moved and shocked by the loss of Henry Pughley. Correction, Henry LEEK Pughley. STOP They wish to be allowed to mourn in peace COMMA and arrange his affairs STOP They also wish for you to STOP STOP STOP STOP fuck off.

We had another delightful pause. I raised my eyebrow again. Smiled. Flicked the broken fragments of memory card to the pavement. Driver started the engine and I returned the camera. I stepped back and straightened as the window hummed up. As their car started to glide forward with its modern electric whirr I scanned my horizon.

Good, people had noticed.

As a particular bonus I spotted Terry looking my way and making no effort to hide a smile. He gave me a wave and a thumbs up and made a move for the pub. As if stirred by some magic signal the gathering began to follow in his wake. Clusters broke off and wandered or strode at their chosen pace. I lagged looking for anyone staying behind or slipping away that I might need to catch, but the only holdouts were the ever reliable Tee and Paul with their little cloud of blue-grey smoke.

The reception itself was nice enough. I do enjoy a buffet and I allowed myself a half hour off the clock to take a good run at the cold cuts, sandwiches and quiche. Cheese balls and prawn cocktail crisps. All very standard issue, but tasty and suitably morose food to mark HLP’s extinction. There is nothing quite as vulgar as a vol-au-vent at a funeral, but I love them with an indecent passion and cleared that tray entirely. I allowed myself a glass of red, full bodied and New World. Good enough for an afternoon. Then slowly and systematically I worked my spiral about the room.

I avoid key players early at an event like this as they probably will stay to the end. I need to get context and light colour from those who know little but will not loiter long. Minor details and connections are so useful to drop into later conversations, they add authenticity.

I heard tales of work. Of holidays. Of a man who was generous when it bought favour and a miser with those who had nothing to give in return. HLP was really not a good person. But he amused. He impressed. He gave the family leadership and the slightest frisson of fear when they needed a reminder to stay in their swim-lane.

The Ewers turned out to be a real disappointment. The cousin was indeed military and had served with both HLP and Terry in the South Atlantic, which was apparently a bad business. He hinted. I took note. His wife sized me up and found me wanting. Led him away to talk to some ghastly headmaster in a regimental tie, much to my relief.

As the group thinned a little I noted Terry with an entirely superfluous raincoat, top button set free. He was making a low-profile move for the world outside. I slid into his wake effortlessly but before I could put my arm around his shoulder and steer him to a stop, he did the same to me.

Whiskey. I caught a hint. From his breath. Dilated pupils. Damp upper lip.

It always impresses me when someone chooses to buy their own liquor when there is a free bar. It speaks of a true dedication to alcohol.

Wanted to thank you Ted, thank you very much. Thank you for bouncing off the interlopers earlier. I usually end up picking up the dirty work for this lot. Nice to see someone else step up. It seems they no longer require my services, so I’ll be off. Was it for business or pleasure?

I parsed the question on the surface and the one that lay underneath.

I calculated a little. "Purely helping out, I dislike the carrion seekers at the best of times, but a funeral