Chase the Morning

I relaxed, though his voice gave me the crawls. His English had the same exaggerated perfection as his suit. Exotic, all right, with that accent; and yet – dammit, I knew it. I knew him, somehow – God alone knew where from. And I didn’t like him one little bit. It was a struggle not to let it show. I couldn’t remember the exact details of my daydream, but he’d have fitted into it rather nicely – the voice especially. Maybe I’d dreamed it up around that voice.

‘Well,’ I said, just a trace stiffly, ‘we’re here to be of service. As I understand the situation from our conversation earlier, Mr Peters, you want us to take responsibility for handling a consignment of a highly confidential nature, from the Caribbean area. We’re more than willing to do this, naturally, at conditions you’ll find competitive and with the highest standards of care. Provided –’ I tapped the desk gently with my ruler. ‘Always provided we ourselves know the nature of it, its origin, content and destination, and are free to inspect it at any time. In total confidence, it goes without saying. Confidence is the lynch-pin of our business –’

Peters held up a hand in deferential interruption. ‘I regret not having more fully informed you sooner,’ he smirked. ‘But it is not one consignment that is involved, but many. A continuous contract, in fact. The commercial forces I represent aim to become a significant force in the trade from this area – and, confidentially, to dominate it within a very short time.’ He stabbed the air gently with a black lacquer ballpoint.

The cane-tip lifted.

I blinked. What had I just –? A flicker of movement. Something I’d recognized momentarily – yet not now, somehow …

‘Understand,’ he added, ‘this is no idle ambition. It is a project in which you personally would do very well to become involved.’

Great. Was I seeing things? And I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing, either. I clasped the ruler in steepled fingers, and stared down at my bare desktop, trying to formulate a reply.

A spouting of yellow fire – God, a fireball! Racing across the barren ground – swelling – a swathe of his own people caught in it – fragmented silhouettes capering, blazing, falling – scythed down like smouldering grass – filling my sight –

And as if that wasn’t enough –

‘Go on!’ I said to myself. Literally. I knew my own voice when I heard it. ‘Answer him! Just as you would normally. This is where it’s all happening!’

I smiled. A bit sickly, maybe, but it wasn’t too much of an effort. Seeing things, hearing things I might be, but here at least I was on firm familiar ground.

‘You must understand, Mr Peters – in this I have to consider the interests of the company before my own. Neither on their behalf, nor on mine, have I any interest in breaching the law or the established ethics of the trade, even passively.’

I flung up my sword against the blast –

‘And however great the profit. That is our settled policy, and I agree with it wholeheartedly. We manage well by our own methods. We don’t need to change. We don’t want to.’

Scorching smell in my nostrils –

I looked down hastily at my terminal in case it was overheating.

Spots dancing before my eyes – burning colours – the fireball broken. Dust cascading.

‘Nice one!’ said myself to me.

I found I was panting, perspiring, my throat dry; I had the damndest urge for a drink. But Peters, appearing not to notice, spread his arms wide, waving the pen expressively. ‘That is regrettable. Deeply regrettable. Consider the interests of your firm, then, if you will. We have most substantial backing – and we will not hesitate to make use of the resources at our disposal. If need be, globally.’

The cane turned – pointed, twirled like a wand in a sweeping, luminous arc –

‘I must be frank. If, after all, we cannot make use of you, we must – how shall I put this? – replace you. You suit us admirably, but there are, after all, other agencies, other young men of your qualifications and bright prospects. If we with our influence chose to favour one such instead of you, it would inevitably blight your career, your success – would it not?’

Not at me, but at the left-hand fire.

‘Would it? Forgive me, Mr Peters, I don’t see how.’

Or to put it another way – are you threatening me personally, you little jerk?