drinker when he was alive. ‘You had me at freak accident,’ I grumble. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘Arthur Elliott.’ He extends his hand and we both stare at it, and then he slowly withdraws it when he realises that I can’t shake it.
‘Rookie mistake,’ I tell him. ‘What was the freak accident?’
Arthur shakes his head and studies his heavy, polished boots. ‘Worked for the brewery. Barrel fell on my head in the yard.’
That explains the high-vis vest then. I hold back from asking him if he’d been drinking the barrel’s contents at the time. ‘Okay, so that covers how you came to be dead. What it doesn’t tell me is what you’re doing in my new office.’
He looks around the room, nodding with approval. ‘Very nice it is too.’
I’ve met enough ghosts to know that they usually want something, so his attempt at flattery doesn’t get him far with me. I fold my arms across my chest and eye him steadily.
‘Fine,’ he says, stroking a hand over his bald head. ‘I went up front first off to talk to Dicey and she suggested I come talk to you.’
‘My gran sent you?’
What is she playing at? It’s not part of my business plan for her to send ghosts my way if she can’t be bothered to pass their messages on herself.
Arthur nods, ‘It’s about my lad, Arthur, see?’
‘You and your son are both called Arthur?’ I say, distracted. ‘Wasn’t that confusing at home?’
He shakes his head. ‘The wife called me Big Art and him Little Art. Worked fine until he grew to six foot two.’ He smiles sadly. ‘No need now, I don’t suppose. He’ll probably be just Art.’
I nod, sympathetic, still unsure where I fit into the story of Big Art, Little Art.
‘And you’ve come to see me about Little Art because . . . ?’ I prompt, because Big Art has gone misty-eyed and I know what’s likely to happen next if I don’t keep him on track. He’s freshly dead, which means he’s probably still getting used to the idea and prone to emotional outbursts.
‘Just Art,’ he reminds me morosely, wiping a hand across his eyes even though he’s incapable of crying.
I nod, and mutter quickly. ‘Art.’ Call me uncharitable but there’s a slim chance that if I can hurry Big Art along, I might be able to close my eyes and catch hold of the coattails of my RDJ fantasy. Iron Man could still be on one knee waiting for my answer somewhere in my dreams, but he’s not the kind of super hero to hang around for long.
‘He needs a job, like.’
I narrow my eyes, starting to see where this is headed. I’m going to kill my gran.
‘Art needs a job?’
Big Art nods. ‘He knows nothing about ghosts, course, but he’s a good lad and his mother worries about him. We both do, matter of fact. Think that’s why I got stuck here instead of going over. Bit of a shame really, it’s my dear old mother’s birthday today and I thought I’d surprise her, seeing as I’ve not laid eyes on her for fifteen years or more. Do they have birthday parties up there?’
I try to keep the conversation on track. ‘I’m not taking on staff, I’m afraid.’
He lifts his eyebrows. ‘Your gran said you would be. Just someone to carry your bags and make tea, that kind of thing.’ Art looks at me as beseechingly as a dead alcoholic in high-vis can. ‘You won’t have to pay him much, his mother keeps him well fed. Just enough to cover his bus fare and pay for mice for his snake and he’ll be a happy lad. You won’t find anyone more willing.’
‘Look, Big Art.’ I’m practising my diplomacy skills. ‘If I was in the market for a trainee, Art would be first in the queue, but I’m not. I’ll keep him in mind for the future, okay?’
Big Art’s face falls. ‘I’ve failed him. My only son, and I’ve gone and left him, haven’t I?’
‘Try not to blame yourself,’ I reason. ‘It’s sheer bad luck to have a barrel fall on your head. You can’t predict these things.’
He puts both his hands on