And Thereby Hangs a Tale Read online

  “My name is Mr. De Ath,” the man said, “and I represent a lower authority.”

  “How did you get into my office?”

  “Your secretary can’t see or hear me.”

  “Get out, before I call security,” said the chairman, pressing a button under his desk several times.

  A moment later the door opened and his secretary came rushing in. “You called, Chairman?” she said, a notepad open in her hand, a pen poised.

  “I want to know how this man got into my office without an appointment,” he said, pointing at the intruder.

  “You don’t have any appointments this morning, Chairman,” said his secretary, looking uncertainly round the room, “other than with the company doctor at twelve o’clock.”

  “As I told you,” said Mr. De Ath, “she can’t see or hear me. I can only be seen by those approaching death.”

  The chairman looked at his secretary and said sharply, “I don’t want to be disturbed again unless I call.”

  “Of course, Chairman,” she said and quickly left the room.

  “Now that we’ve established my credentials,” said Mr. De Ath, “allow me to ask you again. When you said you’d do anything to be given a second chance, did you mean anything?”

  “Even if I did say it, we both know that’s impossible.”

  “For me, anything is possible. After all, that’s how I knew what you were thinking at the time, and at this very moment I know you’re asking yourself, ‘Is he for real? And if he is, have I found a way out?’”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s my job. I visit those who’ll do anything to be given a second chance. In Hell, we take the long view.”

  “So what’s the deal?” asked the chairman, folding his arms and looking at Mr. De Ath defiantly.

  “I have the authority to allow you to change places with anyone you choose. For example, the young man working on the front desk in reception. Even though you’re scarcely aware of his existence and probably don’t even know his name.”

  “And what does he get, if I agree to change places with him?” asked the chairman.

  “He becomes you.”

  “That’s not a very good deal for him.”

  “You’ve closed many deals like that in the past and it’s never concerned you before. But if it will ease what passes for your conscience, when he dies, he will go up,” said De Ath, pointing toward the ceiling. “Whereas if you agree to my terms, you will eventually be coming down, to join me.”

  “But he’s just a clerk on the front desk.”

  “Just as you were forty years ago, although you rarely admit as much to anyone nowadays.”

  “But he doesn’t have my brain—”

  “Or your character.”

  “And I know nothing about his life, or his background,” said the chairman.

  “Once the change has taken place, he’ll be supplied with your memory, and you with his.”

  “But will I keep my brain, or be saddled with his?”

  “You’ll still have your own brain, and he’ll keep his.”

  “And when he dies, he goes to Heaven.”

  “And when you die, you’ll join me in Hell. That is, if you sign the contract.”

  Mr. De Ath took the chairman by the elbow and led him across to the window, where they looked down on the City of London. “If you sign up with me, all this could be yours.”

  “Where do I sign?” asked the chairman, taking the top off his pen.

  “Before you even consider signing,” said Mr. De Ath, “my inferiors have insisted that because of your past record when it comes to honoring the words ‘legal and binding,’ I’m obliged to point out all the finer points should you decide to accept our terms. It’s part of the lower authority’s new regulations to make sure you can’t escape the final judgment.” The chairman put his pen down. “Under the terms of this agreement, you will exchange your life for the clerk at the reception desk. When he dies, he’ll go to Heaven. When you die, you’ll join me in Hell.”

  “You’ve already explained all that,” said the chairman.

  “Yes, but I have to warn you that there are no break clauses. You don’t even get a period in Purgatory with a chance to redeem yourself. There are no buy-back options, no due diligence to enable you to get off the hook at the last moment, as you’ve done so often in the past. You must understand that if you sign the contract, it’s for eternity.”

  “But if I sign, I get the boy’s life, and he gets mine?”

  “Yes, but my inferiors have also decreed that before you put pen to paper, I must honestly answer any questions you might wish to put to me.”

  “What’s the boy’s name?” asked the chairman.

  “Rod.”

  “And how old is he?”

  “Twenty-five next March.”

  “Then I only have one more question. What’s his life expectancy?”

  “He’s just been put through one of those rigorous medical examinations all your staff are required to undertake, and he came out with a triple A rating. He plays football for his local club, goes to the gym twice a week, and plans to run the London Marathon for charity next April. He doesn’t smoke, and drinks only in moderation. He’s what life assurance companies call an actuary’s dream.”

  “It’s a no-brainer,” said the chairman. “Where do I sign?”

  Mr. De Ath produced several sheets of thick parchment. He turned them over until he had reached the last page of the contract, where his name was written in what looked a lot like blood. The chairman didn’t bother to read the small print—he usually left that to his team of lawyers and in-house advisors, none of whom was available on this occasion.

  He signed the document with a flourish and handed the pen to Mr. De Ath, who topped and tailed it on behalf of a lower authority.

  “What happens now?” asked the chairman.

  “You can get dressed,” said the doctor.

  The chairman put on his shirt as the doctor examined the X-rays. “For the moment the cancer seems to be in remission,” he said. “So, with a bit of luck, you could live for another five, even ten years.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard in months,” said the chairman. “When do you think you’ll need to see me again?”

  “I think it would be wise for you to continue with your usual six-monthly check-ups, if for no other reason than to keep your colleagues happy. I’ll write up my report and have it biked over to your office later today, and I shall make it clear that I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t continue as chairman for a couple more years.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, that’s a great relief.”

  “Mind you, I do think a holiday might be in order,” said the doctor as he accompanied his patient to the door.

  “I certainly can’t remember when I last had one,” said the chairman, “so I may well take your advice.” He shook the doctor warmly by the hand. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  Later that afternoon a large brown box was delivered to the surgery.

  “What’s this?” the doctor asked his assistant.

  “A gift from the chairman.”

  “Two surprises in one day,” said the doctor, examining the label on the box. “A dozen bottles of a 1994 Côtes du Rhône. How very generous of him.” He didn’t add until his assistant had closed the door, “And how out of character.”

  The chairman sat in the front seat of his car and chatted to his chauffeur as he was driven back to the bank. He hadn’t realized that, like him, Fred was an Arsenal supporter.

  When the car drew up outside the bank, he leaped out. The doorman saluted and held the door open for him.

  “Good morning, Sam,” said the chairman, then walked across reception to the lift, which a young man was holding open for him.

  “Good morning, Chairman,” said the young man. “Would it be possible to have a word with you?”

  “Yes, of course. By the way, what’s your name?”

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