The Ghost

I inspected my moist fingers for blood, there was only dirty London rainwater. It must have taken a minute for me to realize that I wasn’t going to die—that I was, essentially, intact—and then all I wanted was to get away from these good-hearted folk who had gathered around me and were producing mobile phones and asking me about calling the police and an ambulance.
    The thrill of having to wait ten hours to be examined in casualty, followed by half a day spent hanging around the local police station to make a statement, was enough to propel me out of the gutter, up the stairs, and into my flat. I locked the door, peeled off my outer clothes, and went and lay on the sofa, trembling. I didn’t move for perhaps an hour, as the cold shadows of that January afternoon gradually gathered in the room. Then I went into the kitchen and was sick in the sink, after which I poured myself a very large whiskey.
    I could feel myself moving now out of shock and into euphoria. Indeed, with a little alcohol inside me I felt positively merry. I checked my inside jacket pocket and then my wrist: I still had my wallet and my watch. The only thing that had gone was the yellow plastic bag containing Senator Alzheimer’s memoirs. I laughed out loud as I pictured the thieves running down Ladbroke Grove and stopping in some alleyway to check their haul: “My advice to any young person seeking to enter public life today…” It wasn’t until I’d had another drink that I realized this could be awkward. Old Alzheimer might not mean anything to me, but Sidney Kroll might view matters differently.
    I took out his card. Sidney L. Kroll of Brinkerhof Lombardi Kroll, attorneys, M Street, Washington, DC. After thinking about it for ten minutes or so, I went back and sat on the sofa and called his cell phone. He answered on the second ring: “Sid Kroll.”
    I could tell by his inflection he was smiling.
    “Sidney,” I said, trying to sound natural using his first name, “you’ll never guess what’s happened.”
    “Some guys just stole my manuscript?”
    For a moment I couldn’t speak. “My God,” I said, “is there nothing you don’t know?”
    “What?” His tone changed abruptly. “Jesus, I was kidding. Is that really what happened? Are you okay? Where are you now?”
    I explained what had happened. He said not to worry. The manuscript was totally unimportant. He’d given it to me only because he thought it might be of interest to me in a professional capacity. He’d get another sent over. What was I going to do? Was I going to call the police? I said I would if he wanted, but as far as I was concerned bringing in the police was generally more trouble than it was worth. I preferred to view the episode as just another round on the gaudy carousel of urban life: “You know, que sera, sera , bombed one day, mugged the next.”
    He agreed. “It was a real pleasure to meet with you today. It’s great that you’re on board. Cheerio,” he said, just before he hung up, and there was that little smile in his voice again. Cheerio .
    I went into the bathroom and opened my shirt. A livid red horizontal mark was branded into my flesh, just above my stomach and below my rib cage. I stood in front of the mirror for a better look. It was three inches long and half an inch wide, and curiously sharp edged. That wasn’t caused by flesh and bone, I thought. I’d say that was a knuckle-duster. That looked professional . I started to feel strange again and went back to the sofa.
    When the phone rang, it was Rick, to tell me the deal was done. “What’s up?” he said, interrupting himself. “You don’t sound right.”
    “I just got mugged.”
    “No!”
    Once more I described what had happened. Rick made appropriately sympathetic noises, but the moment he learned I was well enough to work, the anxiety left his voice. As soon as he could, he brought the conversation round to what really interested him.
    “So you’re still fine to fly to the States on Sunday?”
    “Of course. I’m just a bit shocked, that’s all.”
    “Okay, well, here’s another shock for you. For one month’s work, on a manuscript that’s supposedly already written, Rhinehart Inc. are willing to pay you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plus expenses.”
    “What?”
    If I hadn’t already been sitting on the sofa I would have fallen onto it. They say every man has his price. A quarter of a million dollars for four weeks’ work was roughly ten times