Embassy of the dead, p.12
Embassy of the Dead, page 12
Jake peered around the curtain. There, on the closest cart, lay his own body.
He suddenly panicked, wondering if the finger would stay with his body over there, but breathed a sigh of relief when he felt its form in his pocket. It was still wriggling slightly but didn’t seem so intent on escaping.
Eustace sensed Jake’s relief. “Certain objects will accompany your ghost. It depends upon your sensitivity.” He handed Jake a ticket. “You’ll need this to reclaim your suit.”
“Um, I’m not wearing a suit, just a”—Jake looked down at himself—“um, jeans and—”
Eustace interrupted. “Your meat suit, as we Bodyshifters like to call it, is your body! You can pick it up on the way out. But don’t be too long or you’ll end up in the graveyard out back.”
Jake felt the now-familiar feeling of alarm rise once again, but forced himself to ask calmly, “What graveyard?”
“Wistman’s Lodge used to have a chapel with a small family graveyard,” said Eustace, adding with a smile, “which is a handy place for us to put the bodies of the living who stay too long in the Embassy!”
Jake couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “How long is too long?”
“It’s different for every living person, but you’ll feel it—a sort of tug—and then you’ll need to come back here,” said Eustace, suddenly looking serious. “You’ll be able to stay longer on your next visit as your spirit acclimatizes to being without its body.”
Eustace drew back the curtain fully and led Jake through. Alongside the line of carts ran a long corridor with a plush-looking red carpet running down the center, at the end of which was a flight of stairs leading upward to an ornately carved wooden door.
Eustace accompanied Jake to the door, then bowed low and motioned for Jake to enter. “Welcome to being dead!”
As the door swung open, Jake was greeted by the sound of excited chatter. A line of around twenty people snaked through a large, brightly lit room. It seemed impossible to Jake that this room could be inside the ruined building that he’d seen from the outside. The woman in front of him turned around. Her hair was standing on end, and a wisp of smoke wound up, escaping from somewhere inside her singed coveralls. “I was electrocuted by a wind turbine,” she declared proudly. “Bet they don’t get too many of them.”
Jake smiled politely. It was hard to know what to say.
“Turns out you have to stand in line even when you’re dead. Unless you’re one of the lucky ones that gets seen by an auditor at the location of their haunting.” She handed him a leaflet. “Did you get one of these?”
Jake took it, surprised to feel the woman’s hand against his own. In fact, he couldn’t see through her at all, or through anyone else in the line. And his own hand was now completely solid. Perhaps in the Embassy all ghosts had form? He reminded himself to ask Goodmourning about it later.
Jake scanned the cover of the leaflet. A picture of a semitranslucent man in a cardigan underneath the title: So You’re a Ghost: A Guide for the Newly Deceased.
“You can have it. I’ve read it already.”
Jake handed it back to the woman, “It’s fine, thanks. I’m actually still alive.”
The woman smiled sympathetically. “It took me a while to accept things, too. We’re all on our own journey, aren’t we?”
Jake smiled politely again. He looked over the woman’s shoulder, down the slow-moving line. It led to a large marble desk, behind which a woman was talking to the ghost in front of her while constantly tapping on a huge, ancient-looking desktop computer. Hanging above her was a sign that read:
To the left of her was another desk, manned by a friendly-looking woman talking to a ghostly man holding a mop and bucket. She was sitting under a second sign:
To the right was a third desk with no line. Barely visible over the rim of the desk sat a small man wearing glasses and an extremely bored expression on his face. Above him hung another sign:
“Sorry, I’m in the wrong line!” said Jake, racing forward.
The small man’s brow was creased in concentration as he stared at the screen in front of him.
Jake cleared his throat. “Excuse me—”
“One moment.” The man’s finger paused over the period key. He didn’t look up.
Jake leaned forward. “It’s an emergency!”
The man’s eyes remained trained on the screen for what felt like forever until he pressed a final key and ripped a sheet from the printer next to him. “How can I help you?” he said, not looking up from the paper in front of him.
“I . . .” Jake lowered his voice to a whisper. “I need to speak to Goodmourning. It’s about . . .” He paused. How best to explain that he was currently in possession of the Damned Thing? “It’s about something of ”—he paused to pick the best words—“something of a sensitive nature.”
“I see,” said the man, still not looking up.
It took a lot to push Jake over the edge. Sab often tried for hours to make him mad and then got mad himself when Jake remained relatively relaxed. Jake guessed he was more of a “keep it bottled up on the inside” type. Probably not the healthiest way to be, he thought, as he felt the anger inside bubbling to the surface and about to explode.
“You do realize you’re in the Embassy of the Dead?” said the small man.
“Yes,” said Jake through gritted teeth.
The man finally looked up, smiling smugly. “All of the information we deal with is of a sensitive nature.”
“It’s urgent!” Jake blurted out loudly. The chatter in the room died out, and Jake felt multiple pairs of eyes turn to look at him. “I need to find Goodmourning,” he pleaded.
The door behind the desk opened and a boy about Jake’s age came out, pushing an empty cart. Jake watched as the boy switched his cart with another cart full of paperwork and went back through the door.
The man slowly stamped the piece of paper in front of him, placed it in the empty cart, then turned to Jake and said, “If I could just take your details please . . . License number?”
Jake looked at him blankly.
“It’s on your Undoer’s license card.”
“Um, I lost it,” said Jake, thinking on his feet.
“Then you’ll have to fill in form 12b for a replacement card, which I’ll then send to the Undoers department, who’ll need a stamp of approval from Renewals and authorization from the Ambassador before it is returned to me, and you will then receive a new license within twenty-one to twenty-eight days, at which time you may enter the Embassy of the Dead. Now, I’ll just find the correct form.” He hopped down from his chair and disappeared from view under the desk, searching in one of the drawers.
After a few minutes he reappeared with a thick wedge of paper, but Jake was no longer there, and nor was the cart.
While the small man was beneath the desk, Jake had snuck around the side and grabbed the cart. It was hardly a disguise, but as he hurriedly pushed it through the door, he felt some comfort that at least he had something.
He found himself in another corridor, this one lined with doors. His heart sank—he had no idea which way to go. He winced as one of the doors swung open, nearly whacking him in the face. An elderly man stomped out, muttering, “As if ninety years weren’t long enough to be alive, and now I’m stuck as a Poltergeist! All I can do is make a scratching sound. The janitor at the old folks’ home thinks I’m a faulty air vent!” He looked up and redirected his rant in Jake’s direction. “It was forty years ago I last burgled. I’ve been straight a long time now. I wish I’d never nicked that flaming ring. But I’m a romantic and knew the wife would love it. The only way I can be Undone and stop those blimin’ longings is for it to be returned to its rightful owner, but the waiting list is twelve years! You don’t get that for murder these days.” He buried his head in his hands.
Jake nodded in sympathy and read the sign on the door:
Not sure that will help. He turned and read the opposite door:
That seemed like a better option. Jake tried the door, expecting it to be locked, but it opened with a click. A security guard sat reading a newspaper on the other side of the door. He looked up and nodded at Jake, who smiled politely.
Fake it till you make it, as Sab would say, thought Jake. Sab was the king of conning people. Jake was usually the honest one. Not today, though.
He was in a busy office with lots of desks and people on huge clunky phones. The chatter of multiple voices echoed around the room.
“I’m afraid your auditor is running late.”
“There is no appeal process available for death.”
“Hey!” A woman called at Jake from a nearby desk. “Has the Summerfield file showed up yet?”
Jake shook his head.
The woman shrugged. “Oh well. It’s only another ten years until an Undoer becomes available again. Summerfield will just have to wait.”
Jake felt a twinge of guilt, unsure what he’d done, but he needed to keep focused. He made his way across the office floor, trying to look like he should be there.
At the far end of the office was a door that led to yet another corridor, in which Jake found, to his delight, a huge map. He searched for the YOU ARE HERE arrow and then scanned the rest of the map, unsure of exactly what he was searching for until he found it: UNDOERS’ CHAMBERS.
Bingo.
Jake knocked on the door labeled GOODMOURNING.
No answer.
He knocked again.
Still no answer.
He looked around the empty corridor, then tried the door. It swung open. The Embassy really needed better security.
Goodmourning’s chambers were bare apart from a desk, a neatly made bed, and a bedside table.
“Goodmourning?” Jake called out. “Stiffkey? Cora?”
Jake sighed. He’d done so well to get here, but what was he supposed to do now? His cover could get blown at any moment. He suddenly felt very tired.
Jake sat on the edge of the bed, tapping his pocket again to make sure the finger was still there. It squirmed at his touch.
He stood up and walked over to the desk, sitting behind it and leaning back on the comfortable chair. Next to the phone was a directory. He opened it up and scanned the list of numbers until he saw a name he’d heard: the Ambassador.
That’s who Goodmourning was going to talk to! Maybe he was there with Stiffkey right now?
Jake picked up the phone and dialed the number quickly, waiting anxiously for it to ring. After just two rings, a voice answered. Not for the first time, Jake wished he’d mentally prepared for the conversation before picking up the phone. “Ambassador’s office, Maureen speaking. How may I be of assistance?”
“I’ve got a finger,” he blurted.
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“I beg your pardon.”
“My name is Jake and I have a very important deliv—”
Jake paused as a sudden wave of nausea washed over him and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. Almost as if something were pulling him backward. He remembered Eustace’s warning . . .
You’ll feel it . . . A sort of tug . . .
He had to get back to the coatroom before he became trapped as a ghost forever.
“Hello?” came a confused, muffled voice from the phone. “I’m afraid the line’s not very good, you’ll have to speak a little louder . . .”
“Hello, Ambassador’s office? This is Jake. I don’t have very long or I’m going to get trapped here, but is Goodmourning there? I need to talk to him. It’s an emergency . . .”
“Hello? Goodmourning, is that you? Where on earth have you been? We haven’t heard from you in weeks. The Ambassador is furious . . .” said the voice at the other end of the line.
Jake let the phone drop from his mouth.
Goodmourning had said he was going straight there. And that he’d already spoken to the Ambassador, who had pardoned them . . .
Jake was confused. And then he felt the tug again, sharper this time . . . He couldn’t have long left.
“Look, I don’t know if you can hear me, and I don’t really know what’s going on, but this isn’t Goodmourning, this is Jake Green. I was with Goodmourning half an hour ago and he told me he was meeting the Ambassador. I’ve got the finger. Someone’s been trying to steal it from me—the person who’s stolen the body, I think—and I gave them the box instead to fool them, but it won’t fool them for long and I have to . . . Hello? Hello, can you hear me?”
The line went dead.
Jake doubled over as the pain tugged at his chest. He had to get out now! But which way?
He searched his jeans and pulled out the coatroom ticket he’d been given in exchange for his “meat suit.” Maybe that would tell him what to do? Where before he could have sworn it had said 214, now it said 178. Had he been mistaken? He blinked as the number changed before his eyes:
It was counting down.
He turned on his heel and bolted for the door, quite literally running for his life. Abandoning the cart he’d left outside Goodmourning’s room, he started to retrace his steps.
The Embassy was like a maze, and at some point in his rush, Jake had taken a wrong turn. He stopped for breath, leaning against the wall for support. There was no time to go back. He’d never make it. He had to find a new way.
He was now in one of the building’s older outer corridors, with large windows punctuating one of its walls. The rain lashed against the glass. Jake paused and peered into the darkness, feeling hopeless. Maybe this was it? Time to accept his death? But then he saw the camper van. Dad. Mom. Home. He couldn’t get this far and then give up.
He ran on, glancing down at the ticket.
Time was running out.
A door opened at the far end of the corridor and a man walked through carrying a garbage bag. He lifted a large flap in the wall and placed the garbage bag inside. Then he turned and disappeared back through the door.
“Wait!” cried Jake. He ran toward the door, flinging it open to reveal yet another corridor of doors. The janitor was nowhere to be seen.
He went back through the door and over to the flap in the wall. Above it was a sign that read GENERAL WASTE. It was some sort of garbage disposal chute. He opened the flap and peered down into a dark, smelly tunnel.
No way was he getting in there.
He looked at the ticket again.
Clenching his jaw, Jake wriggled feetfirst into the chute before deciding that the whole plan was stupid. He had no idea where it led. Maybe to an incinerator? He tried to climb out, but it was too late. He was falling . . . Falling into the blackness, rattling down the metal chute. He pressed himself against the edge, using his body as a brake, and for a second he slowed, then immediately sped up again as he fell, screaming all the way, before landing in a pile of garbage bags in a dumpster. A door opened, flooding the room with light.
“Well, that’s a new one!” came the voice of Eustace. “I was starting to worry about you, but I heard the screaming and here you are. Welcome back!”
Eustace took a sip from his cocktail glass and sauntered over to Jake, offering him a hand. This time, Jake took it gladly and stood up, pulling himself out of the dumpster. He peeled something slimy off his face. Gross.
Eustace led Jake out of the room and straight into the coatroom. He walked over to one cart and whipped off the sheet with a flourish, revealing the Jake-not-Jake lying motionless. Then, in the blink of an eye, Eustace disappeared and Jake’s body got up from the cart and walked over to him. Then Eustace emerged once more.
“Your vessel awaits!” he said, motioning Jake to step forward. Jake took a deep breath and stepped inside his own body. He looked at his hands.
He felt nothing. No change at all.
“I’m back in my body?” he said, patting his pocket to find the finger once more.
Eustace nodded. “It’s as simple as that! I hope you enjoyed yourself in the Embassy. You’ll be able to stay longer next time.”
A screeching noise sounded through the night. Eustace walked over to a window and peered out. “That animal! It’s been screeching nonstop. Sounds like a fox or something . . . Most annoying when one’s trying to relax.”
Jake gasped. Zorro!
He sprinted to the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor.
Eustace waved at him through the closing doors. “So you won’t be joining me for a cocktail, then?”
Jake exploded from the Embassy out into the cold night air.
“Zorro!” he called. “Zorro?” He peered into the night, hoping to see his friend come bounding through the darkness toward him. But there was no sight or sound of the fox.
He was alone. No Zorro, no Cora, no Stiffkey, and no Goodmourning. Goodmourning had lied to him. He hadn’t gone into the Embassy or even spoken to them for months!
Then he remembered the look that had flashed across Goodmourning’s face after Stiffkey told him not to hand the box over.
How he’d sent a message before he left and how, minutes later, Rayburn had turned up, knowing just where to find Jake . . .
And the box!
How could he have been so stupid! Goodmourning was Rayburn’s boss. And now Stiffkey and Cora and maybe Zorro, too, were with him and in danger . . . Jake had to find them.
Just then, the finger started squirming wildly in his pocket. Jake put a hand over it, feeling it flex and twist, trying to squeeze free. It was like it was seeking something out.
Jake realized what it wanted. “The body. It’s looking for its body! And if I find the body, I’ll find the others . . .”
