Dialogues of the Dead

He looked at her, looked at his watch, all the anxiety back on his face. He’s recalling what it was like, she thought. He’s thinking that with a bit of luck I’ll be out of his hair and his life in a very short while, so why not one for the road? If I reached out and touched him and said, “Let’s do it here,” he’d be on me like a flash. But she didn’t want a quickie on a dusty office floor.

She said, “You’re right, John. Family first, eh?” kissed him lightly on the cheek and walked away, aware that the sway of her end in retreat was probably making him ache with regret. But she didn’t want a man who’d be thinking of going even as he was coming. Tonight was an all or nothing night, and as she ran through a list of possibles in her head, it began to seem more and more like nothing. No one seemed to fit the bill perfectly …except maybe …but no, she couldn’t ring him!

She let herself into her flat and kicked off the murderously high heels she wore to work. Despite or perhaps because of coming at people like Penthesilia on the charge, she was desperately self-conscious about her height, particularly on camera. Her clothes followed. She let them lie where they fell and slid her arms into her fine silk robe and her feet into a pair of unbecoming but supremely comfortable soft leather mules. Too wound up to think of sleep, she went to her computer and rattled off ane-mail to the one person she could talk to with (almost!) complete freedom: her sister, Angie in America. It wasn’t sex, but it was a form of relief after a day spent weighing her words as closely as she’d been doing for the past several hours.

As she finished, the phone rang.

She picked it up and said, “Hi.”

A voice started speaking immediately.

She listened then said incredulously, “And you’ve actually got this third Dialogue with you?”

“Yes. But it will have to be handed in tomorrow. If you want to see it …”

“Of course I want to see it. Could you come round to my place?”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“OK. Five minutes.”

The phone went dead.

She put down the receiver and punched the air, a gesture she’d always thought rather naff when she saw footballers and gameshow contestants using it. But now she knew what it was expressing.

“Ripley,” she said. “Someone up there really likes you.”

9

the third dialogue

Ave!

Why not?

In the beginning was the Word, but what language was the Word in?

Spirits always speak in English at séances. Except probably in France. And Germany. And anywhere else.

So what language do the dead really speak if, as I presume, all the dead are capable of conversing with each other? A kind of Infernal Esperanto?

No, I reckon the dead must understand everything or else they understand nothing.

So how are things going? Comment ça va? Wie geht’s?

With me? Well, things are picking up speed. Yes, it’s harder. Don’t think I’m not glad to be getting more responsibility, but I won’t disguise, it’s harder.

I knew she would be back late after the broadcast, but I didn’t mind waiting. What’s a couple of hours in a journey as long as mine? And part of the pleasure lies in the anticipation of that moment when time will stop completely and everything will happen in an infinitely savourable present.