The Walking Dead

The managers began to check the tags with old prices crossed out and new prices highlighted. The shop staff started to tidy the stock they had dumped in place after closing the previous evening.

A commercial-radio DJ, from a local station, was booked to declare the sale open.

Although it was more than an hour before the outer doors would be unlocked, a small knot of customers was already gathered on the steps that led up from the square, but the feeling, and the hope, of management and staff was that, by the magic hour, the steps would be packed tight and the queues would stretch away towards the town hall.

'I'm feeling good,' the centre's chief executive told whoever had time to listen to him as he walked the aisles. 'Quite honestly, I don't reckon the start of the Third World War would keep them away'

* * *

He had been to the bathroom, had used the shower and found a razor in the cupboard over the basin.

He'd dressed. Always carried with him in the holdall a clean shirt in a plastic bag and a pair of clean socks. Had to rifle deep down among his gear for them. The shirt was crumpled from burial under the grenade canisters, the first-aid box and the ballistic blanket, but hadn't been ironed anyway after its wash at the launderette in the high street near his bedsit. Trousers on and belt buckled, he'd touched the holster with the pistol in it, as a man did to be certain he had his wallet or a handkerchief in his pocket, or his cigarettes and lighter…had knotted his tie. He'd felt decent, like he could face another day. Banks punched the settee cushions back to shape and folded the blanket he'd been given, made it neat.

There was movement behind the thin wall, and he heard their low voices beyond the thinner door.

She came out, closed the door behind her. 'Morning, Mr Banks. Looks like a nice one. You sleep well?'

'Thank you, yes. Can't remember when I slept better.'

She was coy, rolled her eyes. 'We didn't disturb you?'

'No, not at all. A big battle wouldn't have, slept great.'

She wore only an old rugby shirt, faded red hoops on a faded blue background, a trophy, he assumed, and it stretched down to her upper thighs. Oh, yes, and flip-flops on her feet. It was too long for him to remember when he had last seen Mandy with that same satisfied, well-screwed look — and tired eyes that still held mischief, and the grin…There had not been another woman since his wife had gone.

'I was just going to make a pot of tea.'

'Thank you, I'd like that.'

'And do some breakfast, the full works.'

'Brilliant.'

'And what's the rest of your day?'

'Take him back where we came from.' He added, his voice dry but his expression impassive, 'Take him back after he's been to visit his sick parents…'

'He's a lying bastard,' she said.

'…then field the flak about escorting him away from the location for an overnight, put my feet up, then we're all off on a bus outing for the afternoon. It's an all right sort of day.'

'Actually, he's a complete shit,' she said, matter-of-fact.

She went to the bathroom. He sat on the settee and reached to take a magazine from a side-table. He started to read about a film star he'd not heard of, and the making of a film he'd never see. The toilet flushed. So bored, so unfulfilled, so wrecked. She went from the bathroom to the kitchen, and he doubted she regretted calling her bed-partner a shit. Turned more pages and started to scan a profile on a couple who had renovated a castle in west Wales, and were younger than him, and had spent a half-million on consultants and builders. So worthless, so inadequate. He heard the whistle of a kettle and the clink of crockery. Read about a seashore holiday let in Barbados, with guest chalets, that cost for a week's rental — without flights — what he was paid for seven months' work. Felt so bloody useless, washed up and a spare part that had been discarded. The mug was placed on the table beside him. Sausages had started to sizzle and hiss in the kitchen. Carelessly, he chucked the magazine on to the side-table and a little of the tea slopped from the mug on to its surface. He wiped it clean with his handkerchief.

'And a very good morning to you, Mr Banks. Sleep well?'

His Principal was behind him, in the doorway, wore only his underpants.

'Very well.'

No drop in the pitch of his voice. 'I tell you, no messing, she goes at it like a bloody tiger. Right, first I'm off for a crap and a bath and a scrape.'

'What's second?'

'Second I go for my little walk.'

'Where to?'

'Into the town.'

'What for?'

'God, are we playing the professional? I go into town, after a night of shagging — always the same routine — for a packet of fags and the day's newspaper. Then, if you want to know, she has my breakfast ready and I eat it and read my newspaper. Then it's over for another week. It's not all bad, you know.'

'Just tell me when you're ready.'

'You don't have to come with me into town. I'll be fine. Five minutes there and five minutes back, not a big deal. It's only to a newsagent's on the square.'