Dead Man's Time

could do
God without doing church, right? God was inside you: in your heart, in your head, in your eyes.
    God was in the vision of Suki Yang. She was Chinese-American, over here working for an IT media company; he’d met her late on Friday night in Brighton’s hip Bohemia bar. They’d
slept together in the small hours of Saturday morning, and spent most of the rest of the weekend heavy-duty shagging, fuelled by all kinds of stuff they’d swallowed and snorted.
    The slight problem was the few lies he had told her. Like he hadn’t mentioned the other lady he was seeing, he didn’t actually own the flat, as he had claimed, but only rented it,
and he didn’t at the moment have enough dough for the next quarter’s payment – due in seven weeks’ time. And he’d lied about the great job he had in media. Well,
Mountainpeak was a media company. Sort of.
    There were six teams of five telesales people and a manager – all men – in this second-floor office on the industrial estate just outside the port of Newhaven, ten miles east of
Brighton. Each of them in shirtsleeves, some with ties at half-mast, some open-necked, seated at bland modern desks. No one in here, apart from the pleasant boss, Alan Prior, seated over the other
side, was older than thirty-five. Each of them had a flat screen in front of him, a keyboard, a phone, coffees and bottles of water. It was 9.30 and Gareth had only been at his desk for thirty
minutes, but the morning was already feeling several hours old. Nine calls so far and no sales. Maybe now he’d get lucky.
    Gareth sucked on a small scab on his right knuckle, then dialled the number in front of him, abdicating responsibility to God for the call when it was answered. Hey, despite everything, God owed
him a whole bunch of credits.
This one’s down to you, God
, he mouthed silently, his eyes momentarily closed.
    A female voice, sharp, brittle. You could tell from the way they answered if it was going to be a tough or an easy sell. This already felt tough. He looked down at the script in front of him and
read from it, sounding all bright and breezy.
    ‘Hi there, it’s Gareth Dupont here. I’m calling on behalf of the North Brighton Golf Club. May I speak to the business owner or whoever’s in charge of your marketing and
advertising, please?’
    Silence at the other end. He wondered if the cow had already hung up. Then she said, ‘What is this about, exactly?’
    He skipped down the script to the paragraph that dealt with this kind of a response, then read aloud, still sounding breezy and chatty. ‘The reason I’m calling is that we’re
producing the official annual corporate brochure for the North Brighton Golf Club in a couple of months’ time, and we’re going to be distributing extensively across the area. Thousands
of homes and most businesses in the area will be covered, not to mention the club itself.’
    ‘We don’t have any connection with golf in our business,’ she replied icily.
    ‘Well, you might not think that. But I’ve been asked to source well-established businesses and offer them an opportunity to get involved. With your particular category, we see it as
an ideal match. We’re targeting a demographic of wealthy and affluent people who have the money to pay for your services, and I’ve been asked to make sure that only reliable and
professional companies go in. What I’m doing is making it so there’s only one of each profession or trade available within the entire publication. It literally locks out all of your
competitors and means you’re the only company available to turn to.’
    ‘We are funeral directors,’ she replied. ‘Why would we want to advertise in a golf club brochure?’
    ‘The club is bound to have many elderly members. Sooner or later they’re going to die. I’ll give you the broad strokes, briefly—’
    There was a click.
    The bitch had hung up.
    Thanks a bunch, pal
, Gareth Dupont mouthed to God. He moved on to the next name on his list, took a swig of his water, and punched in the number.
    *
    By five o’clock, when the office was winding down for the day, Gareth had sold one half-page, to a flooring company in Portslade called D. Reeves. Not a great start to his
new job, he knew. But hey, maybe tomorrow would be better. It needed to be.
    He left the office, pulled on his Ray-Bans against the bright, afternoon sun, climbed into his leased black Porsche cabriolet, started the engine and lowered the roof. He