‘The Cindy problem,’ I said as the head of a long-dead carcass exploded in response to Spike’s shotgun. ‘Did you do as I suggested?’
‘Sure did,’ replied Spike, letting fly at another walking corpse ‘Stakes and crucifixes in the garage and all my back issues of Van Helsing’s Gazette in the living room.’
‘Did she get the message?’ I asked, surprising another walking corpse, which had been trying to stay out of the action behind a tombstone.
‘She didn’t say anything,’ he replied, decapitating two dried cadavers, ‘but the funny thing is, I now find copies of Sniper magazine in the toilet—and a copy of Great Underworld Hit-men has appeared in the kitchen.’
‘Perhaps she’s trying to tell you something?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Spike, ‘but what?’
I bagged ten that night, but Spike only managed eight—so he was the sissypants. We partook of a haddock chowder with freshly baked bread at a roadside eatery and joked about the night’s events while the SEB swore at us from his glass jar. I got my six hundred quid and my landlord didn’t get Pickwick. All in all, it was a good evening well spent.
24. Performance-related Pay, Miles Hawke & Norland Park
‘Performance-related pay was the bane of SpecOps as much then as it is now. How can your work be assessed when your job is so extraordinarily varied? I would love to have seen Officer Stoker’s review panel listen to what he got up to. It was no surprise to anyone that they rarely lasted more than twenty seconds and he was, as always, awarded an “A++”—“Exceptional service, monthly bonus recommended”.’
Dog tired, I slept well that night. I had expected to see Landen but dreamt of Humpty Dumpty, which was odd. I went into work, avoided Cordelia again and then had to take my turn with the employment review board, which was all part of the SpecOps work-related pay scheme. Victor would have given us all ‘A++’, but sadly it wasn’t conducted by him—it was chaired by the area commander, Braxton Hicks.
‘Ah, Next!’ he said jovially as I entered. ‘Good to see you. Have a seat, won’t you?’
I thanked him and sat down. He looked at my performance file for the past few months and stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
‘How’s your golf?’
‘I never took it up.’
‘Really?’ he said with surprise. ‘You sounded most keen when we first met.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Quite, quite. Well, you’ve been with us three months and on the whole your performance seems to be excellent. That Jane Eyre malarkey was a remarkable achievement; it did SpecOps the power of good and showed those bean-counters in London that the Swindon office could hold its own.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No, really, I mean it. All this PR work you’ve been doing. The Network is very grateful to you and, more than that, I’m grateful to you. I could have been on the scrapheap if it wasn’t for you. I’d really like to shake you by the hand and—I don’t do this very often, y’know—put you up for membership of my golf club. Full membership, no less—the sort usually reserved for men.’
‘That’s more than generous of you,’ I said, getting up to leave.
‘Sit down, Next—that was just the friendly bit.’
‘There’s more?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, his smile fading. ‘Despite all of that, your conduct over the past two weeks has been less than satisfactory. I’ve had a complaint from Mrs Hathaway34 to say that you failed to spot her forged copy of Cardenio.’
‘I told her it was a forgery in no uncertain terms.’
‘That’s your story, Next. I haven’t located your report on the matter.’
‘I didn’t think it was worth the trouble to write one, sir.’
‘We have to keep on top of paperwork, Next. If the new legislation on SpecOps accountability comes into force we will be under severe scrutiny every time we take a step, so get used to it—and what’s this about you hitting a Neanderthal?’
‘A misunderstanding.’
‘Hm. Is this also a misunderstanding?’
He laid a police charge sheet on the desk.
‘ “Pemissioning a car to be driven by personn of low moral turpithtude.” You lent your car to a lunatic driver, then helped her to escape the law—what on earth did you think you were doing?’
‘The greater good, sir.’
‘No such thing,’ he barked back, handing me a SpecOps claim docket. ‘Officer Tillen at Stores gave me this. It’s your claim for a new Browning automatic.’
I stared dumbly at the docket. My original Browning, the one I had looked after from first issue, had been left in a motorway services somewhere in a patch of Bad Time.
‘I take this very seriously, Next. It says here you “lost” SpecOps property in unsanctioned SO-12 work. Flagrant disregard for Network property makes me very angry, Next. There is our budget to think of, you know.’
‘I thought it would come down to that,’ I murmured.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said: “I’ll retrieve it eventually, sir”.’
‘Maybe so. But lost property has to come under the monthly current expenditure and not the yearly resupply budget. We’ve been a little stretched recently. Your escapade with Jane Eyre was successful but not without cost. All things considered, I am sorry, but I will have to mark your performance as: “F”—”Definite room for improvement”.’
‘An “F”? Sir, I must protest!’
‘Talk’s over, Next. I’m truly sorry. This is quite out of my hands.’
‘Is this an SO-1 way of punishing me?’ I asked. ‘You know I’ve never had anything lower than an “A” in all my eight years with the service!’
‘Raising your voice does you no good at all, young lady,’ replied Hicks in an even tone, wagging his finger as a man might do to his spaniel. ‘This interview is over. I am truly, truly sorry, believe me.’
I got up, mumbled a reply, saluted and made for the door.
‘Wait!’ said Braxton. ‘There’s something else.’
I returned.
‘Yes?’
He handed over a packet of clothes in a polythene bundle.
‘The department is now sponsored by the Toast Marketing Board. You’ll find a hat, T-shirt and jacket in this package. Wear them when you can and be prepared for some corporate entertainment.’
‘Sir!’
‘Don’t complain. If you hadn’t eaten that toast on The Adrian Lush Show they would never have contacted us. Over a million quid in funding—not to be sniffed at with people like you soaking up the funds. Shut the door on the way out, will you?’
The morning’s fun wasn’t over. As I stepped out of Braxton’s office I almost bumped into Flanker.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Next. A word with you, if you don’t mind.’
It wasn’t a request—it was an order. I followed him into an empty interview room and he closed the door.
‘Seems to me you’re in such deep shit your eyes will turn brown, Next.’
‘My eyes are already brown, Flanker.’
‘Then you’re halfway there already. I’ll come straight to the point. You earned six hundred pounds last night to pay back rent.’