Fluke

by James Herbert

  The sight of the one-floor factory itself, almost a mile beyond the town, stirred up old feelings, a mixture of pride, excitement and anxiety. It was small, but modern and compact, and I could see a fairly substantial extension had recently been added. A long sign, itself made of plastic and which I knew lit up at night, stretching along the face of the building, read: ‘NETTLE & NEWMAN – ADVANCED PLASTICS LTD.’

  Nettle & Newman, I pondered. Newman? Who was Newman . . .? Yes, you’ve guessed it. My killer had been my partner.

  It all began to take shape, all began to fall into place; and the thing that hurt most of all was that he wasn’t content just to take my business – he’d taken my wife too. I remembered him clearly now, his face – his person – clearly formed in my mind. We had started the business together, built it up from nothing, shared our failures, rejoiced together in our successes. He had the shrewder business brain (although he could be rash), but I had the greater knowledge – an almost instinctive knowledge – of plastics. It seems crazy now, a silly thing to be proud of, but proud I had been of that knowledge. Plastics! You can’t even eat them! We had been good partners for a time, almost like brothers, respecting each other’s particular flair. It was often I, though, as smart as my partner had been, who had a hunch on business matters and, as I remember, could be very stubborn if I considered a certain direction was the right or wrong one to take. I believe it was this stubbornness which began to lead to our disagreements.

  The facts of the disputes hadn’t swung into focus yet, but the image of heated arguments in the latter days of our partnership clung heavily to my mind. It had seemed our disagreement would lead to the breaking up of the company at one time, but then what had happened?

  Obviously I’d been murdered.

  Newman. Reginald Newman. Uncle Reg! That’s what Carol had said to Polly when she’d asked about keeping me – ‘Wait till Uncle Reg gets home.’ Something like that! The creep had really crept in! Had I been aware of his intentions before I’d died? Was that why I was different? Was I like one of those unfortunate ghosts I’d seen, tied to their past existence because of some grievance, some undone thing holding them? Had I been allowed (or had my own natural stubbornness caused it?) to keep old memories in order to set things right?

  I stood erect, vengeful, defiant of the odds. I would protect my own. (There’s nothing worse than an idiot ennobled by revenge.)

  The factory was closed for the day, but I sniffed around the outside wondering about the new extension built on to the back of the building. Business must have been good since my death.

  After a while I got bored. Strange to think that an interest which had been a large part of my life should seem so uninteresting, so trivial, but I’m afraid after my initial stirring of emotions it all seemed very dull. I went off and chased some rabbits in a nearby field.

  I returned to my home later on in the day and was surprised to find it empty. The car was gone from the drive and no noises came from the house. It seemed an empty shell now, just like the factory; they had both lost their meaning. Without their occupants, without my direct involvement, they were just bricks and mortar. I don’t remember being conscious of this sudden impersonal attitude in me at the time, and it’s only now, in times of almost complete lucidity, that I’m aware of the changes which have taken place in my personality over the years.

  Starvation became my biggest concern – at least, the prevention of it – so I trotted back to the main road through the village and the ever-open grocery store. A lightning raid on the ‘all-flavours’ secured me a small lunch together with a hasty departure from Marsh Green.

  I took to the open fields when a blue-and-white patrol car slowed down and a plod stuck his head out of the window and called enticingly to me. After my attack on dear Reggie the night before, I knew the local police would be keeping a sharp lookout for me; you’re not allowed to attack a member of the public unless you’ve been trained to do so.

  A romp with a flock of longwools (sheep to you) passed a joyful hour for me until a ferocious collie appeared on the scene and chased me off. The derision from the sheep at my hasty retreat irritated me, but I saw there was no reasoning with their canine guardian; he was too subservient to man.

  A cool drink in a busy little stream, a nibble at a clump of shaggy inkcaps – edible mushrooms – and a doze in the long grass filled out the rest of the afternoon.

  I awoke refreshed and single-minded. I returned to the factory and began my vigil.

  He showed up early next morning, much earlier than any of our – I mean his – employees. I was tucking into a young rabbit I’d found sleepy-eyed in the nearby field (sorry, but canine instinct was taking over more and more – I was quite proud of my kill, actually), when the sound of his car interrupted me. I crouched low, even though I was well hidden in the hedge dividing field from factory, and growled in a menacing, dog-like way. The sun was already strong and his feet disturbed fine sandy dust from the asphalt as he stepped from the car.

  The muscles in my shoulder bunched as I readied myself to the attack. I wasn’t sure what I could do against a man, but hate left little room for logic. Just as I was about to launch myself forward, another car drew in from the main road and parked itself alongside Newman’s. A chubby grey-suited man waved at Newman as he emerged from the car. The face was familiar, but it was only when an image of the chubby man in a white smock flashed into my mind that I remembered him to be the technical manager. A good man, a little unimaginative, but conscientious and hard-working enough to make up for it.

  ‘Scorcher again today, Mr Newman,’ he said, smiling at the foe.

  ‘No doubt of it. Same as yesterday, I reckon,’ Newman replied, pulling a briefcase from the passenger seat of his car.

  ‘You look as if you caught some of it,’ the manager replied. ‘In the garden, were you, yesterday?’

  ‘Nope. Decided to get away from it all and take Carol and Gillian down to the coast.’

  ‘I bet they appreciated that.’

  Newman gave a short laugh. ‘Yes, I’ve spent too many weekends going over paperwork lately. No fun for the wife.’

  The manager nodded as he waited for Newman to open the office entrance to the factory. ‘How is she now?’ I heard him say.

  ‘Oh . . . much better. Still misses him, of course, even after all this time, but then we all do. Let’s go over this week’s schedule while it’s still quiet . . .’ Their voices took on a hollow sound as they entered the building and the door closing cut them off completely.

  Wife? She’s married him? I was bewildered. And hurt even more. He’d really got everything!

  My fury seethed and boiled throughout the day, but I stayed well hidden as the factory buzzed into activity and became a living thing. A coldness finally took over me as I waited in the shade of the hedge: I would bide my time, wait for the right moment.

  Newman emerged again around midday, jacket over his arm, tie undone. There were too many factory workers around, sitting in the shade with their backs against the building, munching sandwiches, others lounging shirtless under the full blast of the sun; I stayed hidden. He climbed into his car, wound down a window, and drove off into the main road.

  I gritted my teeth with frustration. I could wait, though.

  The murderer returned about an hour later, but again, there was nothing I could do – still too much activity.

  I slept and evening came. The workers – many of whom I now recognized – left the building, relieved to escape its exhausting heat. The office staff, consisting of two girls and an administrator, followed shortly after, and the chubby technical manager an hour after that. Newman worked on.

  A light went on when dusk began to set in and I knew it came from our – his – office. I crept from my hiding-place and padded over to the building, gazing up at the window. I stood on my hind legs and rested my front legs against the brickwork, but even though I craned my neck till the tendons stood out I could not see into the office. The
fluorescent light in the ceiling was visible, but nothing else.

  I dropped to all fours and did a quick tour of the building looking for any openings. There were none.

  As I completed the circuit, I saw the lone car standing where he had parked it face on to the building. And as I approached, I noticed the window on the driver’s side had been left open. It had been a hot day.

  The thing to do was obvious: the means to do it a little more difficult. It took four painful attempts to get the front portion of my body through that opening, and then a lot of back leg scrabbling and elbow heaving to get my tender belly over the sill. I finally piled over on to the driver’s seat and lay there panting, waiting for the pain from my scraped underside to recede. Then I slid through the gap between the front seats into the back and hid there in the dark cavity on the floor, my body trembling all over.

  It was at least an hour before Newman decided he’d had enough work for one day and left the office. My ears pricked up at the sound of the front door being locked and I slunk low when the car door jerked open and a briefcase came flying through on to the passenger seat. The car rocked as he climbed in and I did my best to contain my eagerness to get at him. He started the engine, clicking the light switch, and reversed the car from its parking space. A hand fell over the back seat as he reversed and the temptation to bite his fingers off was almost overpowering, but I needed something more than my own strength if I were to claim retribution.

  I needed his car’s speed.

  He swung into the main road and sped towards the town. He had to pass through Edenbridge to reach Marsh Green and, as town and village were not too far apart, I knew I hadn’t too long to make my move. There was a long straight stretch of road leading from the town before it curved to the left towards Hartfield, and a smaller road to Marsh Green joining it from the right on its apex. Most cars speeded up on the clear stretch before the bend and it seemed likely he would do the same, for the road would be fairly empty at that time of night. That was where I would go into action – even if it meant being killed myself. I’d died before; it would be easy to do so again. After all, what did I have to lose? A dog’s life?

  The thought of what this evil man had reduced me to made the blood rush through me again, and the anger beat against my chest. A low rumbling started way down in my throat and began to rise, molten lava full of hate, seeking an opening, gushing up the hot passage of my throat and finally bursting through to the surface with a scream, an eruption of violence.

  I saw the fear in his face as he looked back over his shoulder, his eyes wide and white-filled, forgetting to take his foot off the accelerator, the car speeding on unguided. I had time to see the bend was almost upon us before I lunged forward and bit into his cheek.

  He went forward, trying to avoid my slashing teeth, but I went with him, catching and tearing his ear. He screeched and I screeched and the car screeched and we all went crashing off the road together.

  My body hurtled through the windscreen and suddenly I was bathed in a blinding whiteness as I skimmed along the bonnet and into the beam of the headlights. For a split second, lasting for at least a year, I felt as if I was floating in an incandescent womb; until darkness and pain hit me as one.

  Then I remembered all and knew I’d been so very, very wrong.

  20

  Reg Newman had been a true friend. Even after my death.

  The realization hit me along with the pain as I lay there stunned and breathless in the dusty lane – the small lane rutted and stone-filled, which ran directly on from the main road, used only by residents who lived further down its length. We’d been lucky: instead of running into the trees lining the sides of the bend, the car had plunged straight ahead into the lane, the rough bank at one side bringing it to a gut-wrenching halt.

  The fragments joined; pieces merged, the jigsaw made a whole. I knew why the bad memories of Reg had lingered on after death, why my very death had confused and distorted those memories. I saw how the stupidities of life could warp the senses in the afterlife, unsettle a soul’s peace. I lay there and let my mind welcome the memories, ashamed and relieved at the same time. I saw the images of my ex-partner had been only vague because he’d been connected with my death and part of me had wanted to forget why and how I had died. Because I had only myself to blame.

  We’d had many disagreements in our partnership, but one or other of us had usually given way out of mutual respect for the other’s special qualities: Reg’s business acumen or my knowledge of plastics. Only this time it had been different. This time neither of us was prepared to back down.

  The argument was one we were bound to reach at some time in our growth: level out or expand. I was for levelling out, maintaining our position in soft plastics, improving and diversifying only in certain areas. Reg was for expanding, going for hard plastics, investigating the qualities of polypropylene in this area. He maintained that eventually glass would be a thing of the past, that it would be replaced by the more durable plastic, first in the container market, then in most other areas where glass was now used. Polypropylene seemed to possess most of the qualities needed: clarity, strength, the ability to withstand a variety of temperatures, and it was durable in most conditions.

  We were using polyethylene mainly at that time for flexible packaging such as carrier-bags, frozen food pouches and containers for garden feed produce; to change from this to hard plastics would have meant a huge investment. While I agreed with my partner about the future of plastics, I argued we were not ready to venture into that field just yet. The company would need new extruders for the raw materials to be softened and moulded, the factory itself enlarged or a complete move made to a bigger site. In addition new technical staff and engineers would be required, and transport costs would rocket because of the larger delivery bulk. It would take an investment of not less than one and a half million pounds to bring it off. And that would mean bringing in new partners, perhaps even merging with another company. The business, I argued, was fine as it was; let other companies pave the way into these new areas. It would be foolish for us to take expansion risks so soon after the oil crisis anyway. If it happened again, or if there were any serious delays in bringing home North Sea oil, then many companies would be left out on a limb. Now was the time to maintain our growth, reach a good economic level, and bide our time. But Reg wouldn’t have it.

  He blamed my ego, my unwillingness to allow strangers into the business we had built up ourselves. He blamed my failure to see beyond the specific product I was dealing with, to see it in future business terms. He blamed my stubbornness, my lack of imagination. I scoffed and blamed his greed.

  We were both wrong about each other, of course, and secretly we both knew it, but you need words to sling in arguments, and words so often exaggerate.

  It all came to a head when I discovered he had already begun undercover negotiations with a hard plastics company. ‘Just sounding them out,’ he had told me when I confronted him with my discovery (I had taken a call, when Reg had been out, from a director of the other company who was unaware of my resistance to my partner’s plans), but I wouldn’t be pacified. I had a suspicion of business ‘practices’ even though I had a genuine respect for Reg’s flair, and now I began to be afraid that things were running too fast for me, that my technical skill was no match for business politics. Anger, spurred on by this fear, poured from me.

  Reg had had enough: so far as he was concerned he was acting in the company’s best interests, negotiating for our growth, afraid that if we didn’t expand into other areas we would eventually be swallowed up by the bigger firms. It didn’t worry him that we would lose much of our independence: there was no standing still in business for him, only progression or regression. And here I was holding him back, content to let the company slide into mediocrity.

  He threw the telephone at me and stormed from our office.

  It caught me on the shoulder and I fell back into my chair, stunned not by the blow, but by his
irrational behaviour. It took a few seconds for my temper to flare again, then I tore after him.

  I was just in time to see his car roar off into the main road. I yanked open the door of my own car, fumbling angrily for my keys as I did so, and jumped in. I gunned the engine as an expression of my rage and swept from the factory yard after him.

  The red tail-lights from Reg’s car were two tiny points far ahead and I pushed down hard on the accelerator to make them grow larger. We sped through Edenbridge, down the long stretch of straight road that followed, and round the curving bend at the end, then on into the unlit country darkness. I flashed my lights at him, commanding him to stop, wanting to get my hands on him there and then. His car pulled into a side road which would take him across country to Southborough, where he lived, and I slowed just enough to allow me to take the turn.

  I jammed on my brakes when I saw he had stopped and was waiting. My car rocked to a halt and I saw him climb from his car and stride back towards me. As he drew near, he hand stretched forward, he began to say, ‘Look, we’re acting like a couple of ki . . .’ But I ignored the look of apology on his face, his outstretched hand which was ready to take mine in a gesture of appeasement, his words that were meant to bring us both to our senses.

  I threw open my door, striking his extended hand, and leapt out, hitting him squarely on the jaw all in one motion. Then I jumped back into the car, snapped it into reverse, and raced backwards into the main road again. I looked forward just in time to see him raise himself on to one elbow, his face lit up in the glare of my headlights. I saw his lips move as though calling my name, and a look of horror sweep his features.

  Then I was in the main road and engulfed in a blinding white light. I felt the car heave and heard someone screaming and through the searing pain that followed I realized I was listening to myself. And then the pain and the light and the screaming became too much and I was dead.

  I was floating away, and my car was a mangled wreck, and the cab of the truck that had hit it was buckled and smashed and the driver was climbing from it, his face white and disbelieving, and Reg was crying, trying to pull me from the wreck, calling my name, and refusing to admit what my crumpled body swore to.