It was a perfect suburban morning. The rising sun painted the big city of Metropolis gold in the glow of dawn. On Berwick Street, Jane Hamilton’s small house was silent and peaceful. It was a charming timber home, with a tulip patch in full bloom out front, and a white picket fence.

But the silence was shattered by the scream of an electronic alarm clock. Jane came suddenly awake. She wiped sweat off her face and stared restlessly at the ceiling – she had just had another nightmare. It was something about her house being on fire, but she couldn’t remember the details. She had been having a lot of nightmares, lately.

Jane staggered out of bed.

After a hot shower, she inspected her pale face in the mirror. Her blue eyes were bloodshot. She had worked until two in the morning the night before. Sunday night. Jane groaned. How she hated Mondays! She brushed her auburn hair and put on a little make-up. Soon, Jane looked the part of the perfect young businesswoman, in a smart beige suit and a white blouse.

She had her breakfast on the coffee table, scooping up print-outs of the computer program she had been working on the night before, as she ate, and stuffing them into her briefcase.

A few minutes later she was in the company car, pulling out of the driveway and turning onto Berwick Street, in search of a clean run to the freeway. Another day had begun in the modern life of Jane Hamilton.

 

Hewitt University was a busy place on Monday mornings. Jane drove quickly into the main parking lot, swung into an empty bay, and a moment later was marching toward the old Administration Building. Her business suit was out of place in the sea of jeans and T-shirts around her; hundreds of students were making their way between classes, joking with friends and enjoying the warm spring morning. Reaching the imposing stone building, Jane pushed open the heavy wooden doors and strode quickly down a maze of corridors until she reached the Registrar’s Office.

She knocked sharply on the door, and entered.

Neils Eriksson was not exactly her favourite customer.

Eriksson sat behind his impressive desk and waved vaguely at the chair in front of him. “Ms Hamilton. Please.”

Jane sat down. Eriksson glanced quickly at his watch, as if expecting storm troopers. Jane decided she had better get straight to the point. “Mr Eriksson. You’re having trouble with your Datafile system?”

Eriksson had a face like granite – grey, hard and not something you wanted thrown at you first thing in the morning. “Look. This university has over twenty thousand students. Do you know how many requests we get for academic records in a week? In a month? In a year? When we have computer trouble, the whole thing grinds to a halt. It’s a problem we simply can’t afford; your company is supposed to have fixed it.”

Jane replied calmly. “Mr Eriksson, we have spoken about this before. There is a simple solution.”

“You’re going to tell me to buy new computers? Funding is tight, Ms Hamilton. The high-flying departments get the money: Nuclear Medicine, not the Registrar’s Office. That is, unless you can get me a bigger pie.”

Jane sighed. “Your biggest problem is the software. The company that wrote it left a lot of bugs in the program. When the system hits one of those bugs, it crashes.”

“That company, Ms Hamilton, is out of business, which is why we hired Infosolve in the first place. Last Friday was the second time this month the system’s gone down.” Eriksson rose from his chair. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet! Come with me, if you will.”

A little surprised, Jane got up and followed Eriksson. A short walk further down the twisting corridors brought them to a small office. The door was open, and it was marked: Isabella Giovanni. Chief Clerk.

A young woman was sitting in the untidy room, frowning at a small computer screen. The office was jam packed with books, papers, and stacks of computer magazines which towered perilously in every corner.

Eriksson walked in. “Isabella. Can I interrupt you? This is Jane Hamilton, from Infosolve. I’d like you to talk to her about our Datafile problems.”

The young woman ran her fingers through her dark hair and fixed Eriksson with a steely glare. “We’ve met,” she said gruffly.

Jane smiled, but not so much that Eriksson would notice. “Yes. Hi. We ... met last month. Isabella’s the one who suggested upgrading the server in the print shop. Have you been happy with the results, Mr Eriksson?”

“Well, it does seem to be an improvement.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Jane, trying not to sound triumphant. “So, Isabella, do you expect the Datafile system to crash again?”

“Expect it?” Isabella threw her hands up. “I know it! This thing will be down again within the month. It’s like clockwork.”

With the self-confidence that comes from long experience dealing with difficult clients, Jane decided to take control. “Mr Eriksson, I don’t think we need to talk further about this. It’s obvious your software’s inadequate. What if I could put in a new program which would handle your existing requirements without crashing – would that be a worthwhile investment?”

Eriksson looked bewildered. “Yes, it would, but I don’t see how we could afford ...”

Jane cut him off, much to the amusement of Isabella. “As a matter of fact one of our best programmers, Steven Swift, just finished a package for Eden University, last year. It’s been running without a hitch for six months. We could have it in place for you in, say, six weeks. You’d get another two or three years of use from your existing computers, at a fraction of the cost of buying new hardware.”

Eriksson glanced at his Chief Clerk, whose face seemed to be twitching with mirth. “Well, I do have a limited capital improvement fund. I’m sure it would cover the cost of new software, but wouldn’t it be cheaper to patch up the program we already have?”

“Mr Eriksson, if I could, I would, but the fact is that old Datafile program is an industry dinosaur. It’s going to be quicker and cheaper to put in a new program, and I have one of the best programmers in the country to do it for you. What do you say?” Jane knew she had won.

Eriksson scratched his chin. Isabella’s eyebrows rose in amazement as her boss finally spoke. “Well, Isabella,” he said dryly, “I think we should go ahead with Ms Hamilton’s suggestion. Thank you, Ms Hamilton. We’ll hold a meeting next Monday morning to discuss the procedure. First thing.”

Isabella shrugged. “Okay. Right. Nine o’clock sharp. I’ll round up the troops and make sure everyone’s there.”

Her boss turned and left, leaving Isabella and Jane alone in the tiny office. The normally vivacious Italian was a little lost for words. Finally, she laughed. “You know, Jane, around here, we call him Erik the Viking. I can’t believe you got him to bury the hatchet. Maybe you’d better tell me about this new program.”

Jane sat down, with a smile. “You bet,” she said.

 

 

Jane focussed on the hands of her expensive wristwatch. She had left Hewitt University an hour ago. Now she was about to walk through the glass doors which led the way to Infosolve Software Solutions, the company she had worked at these last three years. It was only ten o’clock – not bad going, cross-town through peak hour traffic.

She pushed the doors open and strode into reception. Grace Le Mesurier, radiant as always, smiled broadly from behind the counter. Jane mused that Grace was wasted here; she could make a fortune in modelling. In her twenties, she was elegant, African, and self-assured. She had the tall good looks of a Nigerian.

“Hi, Grace,” said Jane, with a little wave.

“Hi, Jane. You look happy. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Jane. “Only I finally got Eriksson at Hewitt to upgrade his software. His Chief Clerk nearly kissed me!”

“Kissed you?!”

“Calm down,” said Jane, with a frown. “Her name’s Isabella.”

“Oh. You know, all work and no play makes Jane a dull girl. When are you going to find a nice man?”

Jane held up her hand like an angry traffic cop bringing an errant driver to a screeching halt. “Grace! I’m perfectly happy single. And if I have to sit through one more fishing story with one more pot-bellied lawyer, I’ll go mad! But when someone interesting shows up, I promise, I’ll listen to your advice.”

“Well, that’ll be a first. Anyway, Boss Man’s been pressuring Steve again. Speedy spent the night under the desk, in a sleeping bag.”

“Again?” Jane shook her head. “I know Speedy loves his work, but this is ridiculous. So what if he’s the fastest programmer in the west? He still needs to sleep. Michael should know better than to turn the screws on him.”

“Michael?” Grace steepled her hands and rested her chin, leaning lazily forward on her stool. She was quite an imposing figure behind the high reception counter. “Jane, Michael’s been tightening the screws so long he’s forgotten how to do anything else. The man’s not seeing straight.”

Jane nodded. “I know, Grace. Magnificent Michael. Well, Head Office will want him, sooner or later. He won’t be here forever.”

“Speaking of The Great One, he wants to see you in his office, ASAP.”

Jane winced, theatrically, and walked off down the corridor toward the programming room. When she arrived at the large chamber, she cast an eye over its neglected pot plants and familiar desks. The space was sliced into individual work areas by felt-covered dividers, and the whole scene was bathed in the false sunlight of fluorescent tubes. Her five colleagues were busy at their terminals.

Closest were three youngsters: Nira Kerford, Albert Price, and Janette Hofert. They were talented kids, Jane thought, but they had a lot to learn about dealing with customers. The old man of the group, Gary, occupied a desk in the corner; he and Jane had become friends. But Jane’s closest friend at work was the fast-programming genius, Steven Swift – better known as Speedy. Jane strolled over to his cubicle and slapped her hand down on his shoulder. He was typing in computer code at an incredible rate.

“Hey, Speed,” said Jane, jovially. “How goes the battle?”

Steven Swift looked around from his terminal and, with some difficulty, focussed on Jane’s face. There were bags under his eyes. At thirty, Steve still had a childlike quality about him, with his mop of black hair and his charming smile. Today, he looked uncharacteristically exhausted. A sleeping bag poked out from under his desk. “Jane,” he said simply. “It goes. It goes.”

“Did you pull another all-nighter?”

“Boss Man wants the Finch account finalised by five. Nothing a little coffee won’t fix. You know me. I’ve always worked best under pressure.”

Jane frowned. “It wouldn’t hurt to get a good night’s sleep, you know.”

Steve rested his chin on his hand. “I will, Janey, I will. If you say so.”

“When you’ve had some rest, I’ve got something juicy for you. Eriksson at Hewitt University has finally bitten the bullet. You can put the Eden system in for him next week. He’s ready to buy.”

Steve perked up. “Great! Nice little program, that, and very healthy for our incentive payments, too. Thanks, Janey. No problem. I’ll get over there.”

“Thanks, Speedy,” said Jane. “Have you seen the Boss Man around? Grace says he wants to rake me over the coals again.”

Steve yawned. “El Magnificente? In the boiler room – where else?”

Jane made her way to the State Manager’s office. Pausing at the door, she watched her unpopular boss through the glass: a portly man in an aging pinstriped suit. She took a moment to summon up the courage to go in.

They didn’t call it the boiler room for nothing. Michael Pavlovich was pacing behind his desk, shouting complaints into the telephone. Red faced and furious, he suddenly slammed down the phone in disgust.

Now or never, Jane thought, as she pushed open the door and walked in.

“Michael,” she said simply.

“Jane. Yes, what is it?”

“We’ve just closed a deal with Hewitt University. They’ll take the Eden program. Steve’s going to put it in next week.”

This stopped Pavlovich dead in his tracks. He looked at Jane for a moment, then flashed his little half-smile – a meagre gesture, to be sure, but it was the closest he ever got to looking happy. “But we’ve been trying to move them for months. Well done, Jane!”

“Thanks.”

Secretly, Jane felt sorry for the old tyrant. He was almost pathetic. Michael was forty-eight going on sixty-eight, a hard-driving workaholic from a poor Ukrainian family. He had risen through the corporate ranks by the sheer force of his iron will and an apparently superhuman capacity for work, but he saw little of his wife and children. Pavlovich wasn’t the only senior manager at Infosolve to have had cardiac bypass surgery, and although it had gone well, he was looking old. Even a superhuman has limits, Jane thought.

“Jane, I’ve just been on the horn to Head Office. They’re breathing down our necks again. I told them to back off. The Hewitt account will be just the good news they’re looking for.”

Jane nodded.

Michael took a seat and went on.

“Sit down, Jane. I wanted to see you. Head Office got my report on your progress. Everyone agrees you’re doing a great job. In fact, we’d like to start training you for a management position. This is strictly under wraps, you understand, but at the end of the year, I’ll be moving into the National Sales Manager position. Christina will be the new State Manager; we’d like you to take her position, as Deputy State Manager, Sales.”

Jane was surprised. She had been expecting bad news. After all, one never got good news from a visit to the boiler room. This was a shock. “Er ... thank you, Michael, and ... congratulations on the National Sales Manager position.”

For once, Michael was gracious. “No, Jane. You deserve the congratulations. We consider you the top problem solver in the company. You’ve got the people skills. Your sales results are first class.”

He stood up and shook Jane’s hand. “Well, Jane, the end of the year is a long way off, but it’s time to start your preparation. We’ll send you to a management course. You’d better see Christina about it this afternoon. Now, I’ve got to get back to these figures.”

Jane got up and left, closing the door of Michael’s office behind her.

She scarcely had five seconds to reflect that all her career dreams were coming true, when Christina Forward, the Deputy State Manager, strode out of her adjacent office and – in typical style – began to speak at breakneck speed without the slightest preamble.

“Jane. I see you’ve spoken to Michael. Congratulations. We’ve all thought you deserved promotion for a long time. It’s good to see it happening.”

Jane took a moment to collect her thoughts. Everything was happening so fast, she could barely believe it. She looked at her hero, Christina, whom she saw as the perfect career woman. Dark skinned, poised and stylish, Christina had a sharp business sense matched with an unshakeable desire to win. She was an impressive figure in her designer business suits; not even the big players in New York could intimidate her. With the exception of being single at thirty-eight, Jane thought Christina had an almost ideal life, moving in social circles where most up-and-comers wouldn’t even get a toe in the back door. Now, Jane was about to be promoted into Christina’s position. “Thanks, Christina. Thanks. And ... congratulations. I think we’ll all be pleased to have you as our manager, at last.”

“Yeah, I know Michael’s been a little difficult. He’s not the same since the triple bypass last year, Jane. He went through a lot.”

“Maybe the move to Head Office will do him good,” said Jane.

“Maybe. But there’s something else we need to touch base about.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve got a big customer with a big problem. It’s another program we inherited, only this time there’s far too much invested to replace it with a new package. I’d like you to troubleshoot it for us. Head Office have given it top priority, so we have to get it right, no matter what. I want you to handle it.”

Jane was intrigued. “Who is it for?”

“The Chief Pharmacist at City Hospital. You know her?”

“No.”

“Name’s Margaret Hoffman. She’s a tough cookie. The hospital’s drug inventory system is the problem. We can’t afford to lose the account, Jane. We have to fix it.” Christina looked serious.

“I’ll get right onto it.”

“Good. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Christina walked off down the corridor toward the conference room, leaving Jane to digest the good news.

Jane made her way back to the programming room slowly. Promotion was soon going to be hers. She was pleased, but she was tired. She slumped down at her desk and wished, bitterly, that she hadn’t had the nightmare last night.

There was a cramp in her stomach that wouldn’t go away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter  2

 

Joe Mathews loved mornings, even Monday mornings. At this particular moment, he was whistling happily to the smooth sounds of Miles Davis. He savoured the rich aroma of Costa Rican coffee which percolated through his modern apartment, all the way from the large kitchen to the gleaming, steamy bathroom. Joe had finished his three-mile morning run, showered, and was now getting dressed for work.

He buttoned up a blue shirt, tightened the knot on a pale blue tie, and pulled on the jacket of his favourite black suit. He made a half-hearted effort to comb his short, sandy brown hair, and then went to the kitchen.

As he attacked a large bowl of cereal, Joe pondered the unsavoury fact it had been nearly a week since he’d managed to practise his jazz. A sleek, black electronic piano sat neglected in the living room. Joe pushed aside the rest of his puffed wheat and drank his coffee.

It was time to go.

At 6:55 am, he was safely cocooned in his company car, driving swiftly to his first sales call for the day. As a pharmaceutical representative, Joe was finding it easy to get appointments to see the doctors; he had a new drug to launch, Zemtril, and they were all eager to hear about it. Houses along the freeway seemed to whiz by the car window, a motivational sales tape played loudly on the stereo, and Joe put his foot down to get to Dr Jennifer Tyson’s surgery on time. It was a long drive across the city.

 

 

 

Dr Tyson, Joe thought, was one of the more colourful characters on his sales rounds. Feeling nervous, he walked into her consulting room and looked briefly at her tall figure. She was a knockout, twenty-something brunette, with the unorthodox habit of dressing in short skirts and skintight tops. Not the average physician, she was more like Cindy Crawford with a stethoscope.

“Good morning,” said Joe.

“Joe! It’s good to see you.” Jennifer Tyson didn’t merely shake Joe’s hand, as she breathed this sultry greeting; she squeezed his shoulder and smiled, with a twinkle in her eye that Joe had long since come to recognise ... and dread. Joe thought of what was now the standing joke at the office, that Dr Tyson wanted ‘more than just information about Zemtril’ from her local Biopharm rep.

“It’s good to see you, too, Dr Tyson,” said Joe, in a shaky voice, as he sat down on the chair normally reserved for her patients.

Joe knew the management at Biopharm frowned on any personal involvement with customers. Jennifer Tyson, however, had no such reservations, and Joe secretly felt it was only a matter of time before his professional resolve would weaken, and – despite the inevitable jokes which he would never live down – he would become yet another notch on the Good Doctor’s twenty-four-inch belt.

Jennifer brought her chair around and put it next to his. Seated comfortably, she reached out and slapped him on the knee. “Now, Joe! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Jennifer. None of that ‘Dr Tyson’ stuff here. So, how are you?” She leaned forward, her ample cleavage bulging obviously from the top of her blouse.

Joe leaned back and inched his chair a little further from hers. “Ahem ...” he cleared his throat. “I’m fine. How are you ... Jennifer?”

“I’m ... fine,” she said with a sigh.

Maybe, Joe thought, he should just give in. After all, there were worse things than succumbing to the attentions of a medical supermodel.

Before he could ponder the matter further, Jennifer spoke. “I thought you could bring me some more patient information handouts for Zemtril. Everyone wants them, you know.” Jennifer raised an eyebrow and looked deep into Joe’s surprised hazel eyes. For a moment, he began to feel hypnotised.

Joe swallowed. “But you already have six dozen, Jennifer.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t want to run out.” Jennifer leaned even further forward in her chair, until it looked as if her tortured blouse was about to pop a button.

Joe began to feel faint. Reaching into his case, he pulled out two dozen Zemtril information sheets, handed them over, and decided he had better get going while the going was good. “There you go. I guess that’s all I can do for you today.” He looked questions at Jennifer.

“Well ...” Jennifer paused for a moment, seemed to come to some kind of secret decision, then exhaled and slumped back in her chair. “Yes, that’s all, then. Until next time.” She patted him on the knee once more and jumped up from her chair, as if she had work to do.

“Right, then. See you.” Joe collected his case, squeezed past the buxom doctor on his way out the door, and tried not to look like he was rushing for the safety of his car.

Jennifer Tyson followed him out with her eyes, longingly. As he disappeared from view, she shook her head gently, sat back down at her consulting room desk, and toyed, thoughtfully, with a stethoscope.

 

 

Joe walked into the rear entrance of the small office block which housed the regional sales office of Biopharm Pharmaceuticals. He glanced briefly at the elevator before deciding to take the stairs; he had gotten a pager message from his boss and wanted to make it to her office without delay. Half a flight up, he met Stan and Harry, the old guard of the tiny local field-force. Friends and drinking buddies, they never exerted themselves unnecessarily in the line of duty. Dressed in their bland, ten-years-out-of-date suits, with thinning grey hair and club ties, they might have been brothers.

Joe tried to get past them without a conversation.

Stan saw Joe first. “Joseph, Joseph. And how are you today?”

“I’m fine. And you?”

“Excellent,” said Stan. “Just fine. We’re going to check out the Cafe Fiesta. Thought we’d hold a nice product launch there for our south-west doctors.”

“Thought we’d better check out the bar,” Harry added.

“Have one for me,” said Joe, as he raced up the stairs and out of sight.

Reaching the second floor, Joe swung the door open and walked into reception. He waved at the young receptionist and strode down the hallway, past the offices of the State Manager and the Assistant Manager, finally arriving at the untidy room in which the sales reps worked.

The reps room was kept deliberately dull, so no one would feel encouraged to spend time off the road. Several tiny desks sat around the perimeter, creaking under piles of memos and product literature. Boxes of product-name pens, pads, tissues, calculators and executive toys were stacked irregularly around the room, gifts for busy doctors willing to spare a few minutes of their time. No one was in, except Claudia Greerson, a young woman in a severe tweed suit. Joe dumped his briefcase on his desk and left, before she could bother him.

Halfway down the hallway, he met a young woman coming the other way. She had an impressive figure and a dazzling smile. Michelle Riley was Joe’s main competition as up-and-coming overachiever in the company. She was balancing a tower of several trade books and a small slide projector.

Michelle stepped aside, allowing Joe to pass. Then she stopped and winked at him. “Joe. I hear you danced the tango with Dr Tyson this morning. I’ll bet she loved every minute of it. Lucky her!”

Joe groaned. “Oh, gimme a break! It’s got nothing to do with me. She chats up all the reps.”

“Come now, Joe,” said Michelle, grinning seductively. “I have it on good authority from Helen, at Roche, that Dr Tyson has been talking about you. Can’t get you out of her mind, apparently. Face it, she’s smitten.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Joe.

“Okay. I’ll change the subject. Vikram’s in a foul mood today,” she said, juggling a stray book that threatened to fall to the floor.

“Oh?”

“You bet. He’s been going over the sales figures, grumbling about getting rid of Harry and Stan. He’s got his door shut. Probably typing out a few more e-mails asking for promotion to Headquarters. He’ll be gone in six months, off to New York. Kerryn will be looking for a replacement, you know. Might be you.”

“No way,” said Joe. “You’re ahead of me. Just look at your market share. You might even win the trip to Hawaii this year, the way it’s going.”

“Thanks, Joe. You’re sweet. But you’re in the running, too. Who knows who’ll get promoted? It’s fifty-fifty. Anyway, I’ve gotta put this stuff away.”

With that, Michelle continued on her way to the reps room. Joe couldn’t help watching her. She was a beautiful woman, he thought, with her short, dark hair and milky complexion; the blue business suit she wore suited her well. She certainly made work interesting.

Joe made a mental note not to bother Vikram that day – he could do without one of the Assistant Manager’s regular temper tantrums. Joe had to admit, however, that if Vikram was mad at Stan and Harry, the ‘Dipsomaniac Duo,’ they deserved it. The sooner they retired, the better for the company. Sometimes, Joe was glad to be just one of the troops, and not to have the pressing responsibilities of a manager; the stress might drive him nuts. But he quickly chastised himself for thinking that way. It was no way to get ahead.

Joe came upon the open door of the State Manager’s office, and knocked. It was usually pleasant, chatting with Kerryn Sandercott, even if she was known in the industry as the Iron Lady. Joe liked her. She was tough, but fair.

“Come in, Joe,” said Kerryn. “How are you?”

Kerryn’s eyelids were puffy. She looked a little gaunt. Joe guessed she had probably been up half the night, worrying about sales targets, memos and rumours from the top. There was always something happening.

“I’m fine, thanks, Kerryn. How are you?”

Kerryn ran her fingers through her cropped blonde hair. “Tired. I’ve been up half the night working on plans for the Zemtril conference. The hotel booked the wrong conference room! We’re twenty seats short. Can you imagine asking twenty of our top doctors to stand up for six hours? But I’ve spoken to the manager and he faxed me a new seating plan. Here, take a look.”

Kerryn handed over the fax.

Joe noticed her hand was trembling slightly. It was an odd mannerism of hers. Too much coffee, he thought, coffee and overwork. Joe was sure that he would never make the same mistake; he would never flirt with burnout.

“Hmmm,” Joe hummed. “Well, if they really can fit the seats in, then I guess it looks okay. Might be a bit tight, but what else can we do?”

“I know what!” said Kerryn. “I’ll send Claudia over there, this afternoon. If anyone can see through a ruse, it’s Claude. She’ll put that hotel manager on the straight and narrow.”

Joe laughed. “So, I hear Vikram’s in a bad mood.”

“Yes, sit down, Joe. That’s what I want to speak with you about. You see, I’m not sure how much longer Vikram’s going to be with us. He wants to get into the Product Development Bureau in New York. Nobody knows exactly what’s going to happen yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if, sometime in the next six to twelve months, he really does make it there.”

“Oh,” said Joe, a little lamely.

“Yes, and if he does go, we’re going to need a new Assistant Manager around here. Headquarters have put forward Michelle’s name, and yours, as the two possibilities. But it’s all very tentative. Vikram might not even go.”

“Right, right.” Joe was beginning to feel inexplicably nervous.

“If the vacancy does come up, I’d much rather see you in the job, but Michelle’s considered the front runner by Headquarters. After all, she’s probably going to take out the national prize for best market share, and that’s hard to beat. On the other hand, you might be able to impress them, if you could pull off a little coup for me. No guarantees, but it just might help.”

 Joe hesitated for a split second. Somehow, he felt pressured by the sudden possibility of getting promoted. “Uh ... no problem. What do you need?”

If Kerryn heard the uncertain tone in Joe’s voice, she ignored it with consummate skill. “It’s this Zemtril conference coming up. We need a respected chairperson, or we’re not going to get the attendance we want. We need someone who’s really going to impress the doctors. I was thinking of ... Martin Jefferson.”

Joe leaned back in his chair. “Jefferson? Head of Cardiology at City Hospital? He’s a tough nut to get an appointment with, Kerryn, far less to get to chair a conference, but I suppose we do have a couple of openings we could try with him. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great, Joe. If anyone can do it, you can. Even Headquarters couldn’t ignore a gem like that. So, good luck. Remember now, it’s all very tentative. Nothing may come of it, but, on the other hand, it all might come together. Okay?” Kerryn seemed to have finished with the matter and was beginning to look impatiently at her paperwork. It was clearly time for Joe to leave.

“Okay,” said Joe. “Nothing definite. I understand.”

“Great.” Kerryn nodded. She scribbled on a notepad.

Joe took the hint, got up, and walked slowly back to the reps room.

This was a big day, Joe thought. Three years at Biopharm had finally paid off with an opportunity for promotion. Working on the Jefferson case, however, wasn’t going to be easy. And even if he were successful in getting the respected doctor to chair Biopharm’s Zemtril conference, it would still be months before he might know whether it was he, or Michelle, who was to be promoted. He had better start working pretty hard to get the edge. He would have to cancel the next couple of practice sessions for the band – the boys at the jazz club would not be happy. Reaching his desk, he sat down heavily, grabbed the telephone and punched in the number for City Hospital.

“Dr Jefferson’s secretary, please.” Joe rubbed the back of his neck. He listened to the music on hold. Despite all the good news, he suddenly found himself feeling strangely tired.

It was going to be a long day.

Chapter  3

 

Jane stood waiting for the elevator at the ground floor of E Block, City Hospital. She knew that, in sales, time was money, so she was pleased the Chief Pharmacist had agreed to see her at once. It was only a few hours since Christina had first mentioned Margaret Hoffman’s name, but Jane was already quietly confident she could fix the drug inventory program and thereby secure a major customer.

In the distance, marching down the polished white-floored passageway, effortlessly passing nurses and visitors, a tall figure in a black suit approached the elevator lobby. Jane saw him coming. His head was down, studying a diary feverishly as he walked, and he carried a large black briefcase. Finally, the man arrived at the elevator just as the doors were opening. Jane noticed his hair was ruffled and untidy, as he stepped into the elevator behind her. She pressed the button for the tenth floor.

Joe Mathews was lost in study of his diary. He hardly noticed there was anyone else in the elevator. He couldn’t believe Martin Jefferson, the esteemed Head of Department, Cardiology, had cancelled a previous engagement to see Joe – a mere drug rep – at such short notice. To make the appointment, Joe had to juggle his own schedule. He flipped through his diary one more time, making sure he had gotten it all right. Suddenly, he heard a woman’s voice speaking to him.

“Going up?” Jane asked. She found it amusing that this absent-minded man had walked into an elevator and forgotten to press a floor button. He was handsome, in a distracted kind of way, she thought, with his hazel eyes and pale complexion. There was a friendly look about him.

Joe looked up from his diary. He was surprised to see a very attractive woman standing right next to him. Her hand hovered over the elevator control panel; the button for the tenth floor was illuminated. The woman wore a beige business suit and carried a laptop computer. Had Joe not been so desperately busy, he might have struck up a conversation with her. As it was, he settled for a simple reply.

“Oh – tenth, please. Thanks.”

Joe buried his attention back in his diary. If only he could get Jefferson on side, he might have a shot at that promotion Kerryn was talking about. It would be a great challenge, to win Jefferson over, but he would manage it somehow. True, Michelle would probably be promoted rather than him, but never think negative, Joe told himself – that’s the sales rep’s credo.

As the elevator began its upward journey, Jane’s thoughts returned to Margaret Hoffman. Chief Pharmacists were notoriously difficult to deal with. This wasn’t surprising, considering the pressure they were always under from hospital bureaucrats to cut costs, while doctors simultaneously demanded more of the best, most expensive drugs. It was a no-win situation and a thankless job. What you certainly did not want to deal with was a Chief Pharmacist whose computer system was fouled up and who was, therefore, having a very bad day. Even so, Jane managed to retain her optimism as the elevator slowed.

The elevator speaker sounded the little ping that hospital elevators make to announce the doors are about to open. Joe closed his diary. Jane tucked her laptop neatly under her arm. The doors slid open and the two busy young people set off in opposite directions, toward their respective appointments.

Had they turned back to watch the elevator, at that precise moment, they would have seen something most inexplicable.

The doors, rather than closing, as was their normal wont, remained open. Where there should have been nothing but thin air, in the vacant elevator, there was a faint cloud of green smoke. In a few seconds, a green blob, about four feet high, vaporous at first, then jelly-like, began to materialise. At last, the figure of a chubby, middle-aged, balding and very short man became clear. He had a jolly, untroubled face and wore a kitsch, green leprechaun suit, complete in every detail down to his polished leather boots. It was the sort of bogus leprechaun found in shopping malls: the kind of character small children love to have their photo taken with but who, secretly, is wondering if he gets paid enough per hour to be Santa, or, in this case, Shamus. This particular leprechaun, however, had anyone been able to see him, would have appeared to be taking his work very seriously. He dusted himself off, admired his boots for a moment, straightened his tunic, and then muttered contentedly.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Smiling a satisfied smile, the little man walked out of the elevator and wandered merrily down the corridor, poking his nose into various offices as he went. No one seemed to notice him. In fact, it was as if he were completely invisible; not a single glance was cast in his direction.

After a minute or two of this, satisfied that no one could see him, the strange and jolly leprechaun passed by the desk of a junior accounts clerk, a young man scratching his head in consternation at an uncooperative spreadsheet. The leprechaun, apparently finished his business, at least for now, began to dissolve into a cloud of green smoke. The smoke, unlike the little man himself, was quite visible. The clerk looked puzzled, as a wisp of green mist floated in front of his computer screen. He coughed, frowned, and returned to his calculations, wondering if someone in the next office was smoking one of those ‘other’ kind of cigarettes his mother had always warned him about.

 

 

Jane sat quietly in front of Margaret Hoffman’s desk. The Chief Pharmacist’s large, spartan office was, at that moment, as silent as a church. At one end of the room was a huge bank of accordion-like shelves, set on rollers, filled with literature describing thousands upon thousands of drugs. On Hoffman’s desk itself was a computer, and on the computer’s screen was a flashing message in large blue letters:

 

‘SYSTEM MALFUNCTION.

PLEASE CONTACT SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR.’

 

Margaret Hoffman’s sour face looked almost ghostly, bathed in the pulsing blue light of the error message. Hoffman turned her gaze slowly to Jane, and stared, with little patience, at Jane’s infuriatingly calm expression.

Jane spoke, to break the silence. “Hmmm. A total system crash. Second-rate programming, I’m afraid. We’ve had a lot of trouble with that company. It’s no wonder they went bust. The thing that really makes me angry, though, is the lack of respect they had for major organisations – like your hospital.”

“Tell me about it, Ms Hamilton,” Hoffman growled. “I’ve got a Formulary Committee meeting at the end of the month. If I don’t have reliable figures, there’ll be hell to pay. It’s hard enough, trying to please everyone, without the damned abacus spilling its beads!”

“Exactly,” said Jane. “Look, we both know this old system’s got big problems. We both know it’s not practical to replace it, right now. But what I can do for you is get it working again, fast. It won’t be perfect, but it will work. Was it the Chief Pharmacist at Ritterman Hospital who recommended us?”

“Yes. John said you did a fine job fixing their bag of chips. Same damned company did theirs as ours. Same mess. And you people put it right. That’s what I need you to do for us, Ms Hamilton.” There was desperation in Hoffman’s eyes.

Jane stood up. “And that’s exactly what I will do, Dr Hoffman. If I can speak with your Purchasing Officer, I’ll reboot the system and download the files I need. We’ll fix this thing. Leave it to us.”

Hoffman sighed, and stood up. She nodded decisively. “Right you are, Ms Hamilton, but for God’s sake do it quickly.” With that, she collapsed into her chair and looked, helplessly, at the error message.

Jane left, feeling confident that she could solve Hoffman’s problems and keep the account. Christina would be pleased, she thought.

 

 

Sitting in the tenth-floor waiting room of City Hospital’s Cardiology Department, Joe rubbed his hands on his trousers. He hated it when he broke into a sweat just before seeing an important customer; the last thing he wanted to do was greet Dr Jefferson with a wet, slimy handshake. He told himself he wasn’t really nervous, just alert, but the truth was there was a painful tightness in his chest. It nagged at him.

Joe knew Jefferson was a critically important figure. A favourable word from the prominent cardiologist, said even in passing, regarding Biopharm’s new product, Zemtril, would be widely heeded by the medical community. Jefferson was a respected physician and everyone knew he would not be swayed by irresponsible claims. He would only support a good product. It would mean a lot if Joe could get Jefferson to agree to chair Biopharm’s upcoming conference, at which Zemtril would be discussed. Joe simply needed Jefferson.

Suddenly, the man in question arrived.

“Mr Mathews?” The old doctor had a serious, stuffy demeanour and a dry voice. Pens of all colours bulged from the pocket of his immaculately pressed white laboratory coat, and his short grey hair was cropped in military fashion.

Joe – startled – quickly stood up. “Dr Jefferson! Nice to meet you. I’m Joe Mathews, from Biopharm. Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.”

“That’s all right,” Jefferson grunted. “Come this way.”

He led Joe left and right down a mind-boggling maze of gleaming white tunnels, so typical of a hospital environment. Eventually, they reached an office marked with his name. Once inside, Jefferson motioned for Joe to take a seat. Getting to a seat was not easy, since most of the small floor was covered with stacks of books, miscellaneous laboratory equipment, and scientific papers. Joe squeezed into a chair.

Jefferson went directly to his desk. He began manipulating the mouse attached to his desktop computer. After a few point-and-clicks, a voicemail message announced his lecture the next day had been moved from nine-thirty to ten o’clock. Satisfied, he turned his swivel chair to face Joe.

“Sorry about that. I’m giving a lecture tomorrow. My secretary organises everything. Sometimes I think it would all grind to a halt without her.”

Joe chuckled. “I know what you mean. I think the secretaries really run everything. They just get us to sign the letters.”

Jefferson smirked a little, but said nothing.

Joe continued. “It must be very time consuming, to run a big group like the Cardiac Society, on top of all your clinical and research work. I guess a good secretary would be worth her weight in gold.”

“Yes.”

“Actually, I spoke to your secretary on the phone, this morning. She mentioned you’re planning your annual Cardiac Society meeting. Things are a bit hectic, apparently.”

“Yes, they are. Our Society meeting wasn’t supposed to be held so soon, but it got pushed forward a month. A number of our members are going to the Amsterdam Symposium, you see, so they wanted it moved.”

 “You’ve had to bring your annual meeting forward a whole month? That must be a logistical nightmare.”

“It is,” said Jefferson. “We can’t even get the venue we wanted. I’m not sure we’ve time to get an alternative. We may have to cancel altogether.”

“Maybe we can help you, there,” said Joe. “Biopharm has a whole department dedicated just to organising conferences, and we do have some sway with the big hotels. I’m sure we could find a good venue for you, despite the short notice.”

“Really?” Jefferson looked suspicious, but he couldn’t help being relieved at the prospect of not having to cancel his annual Cardiac Society meeting.

“If you like,” said Joe, “I could ask our Conference Department to look into organising your meeting for you.”

Jefferson’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I’m not so sure. To be honest, Mr Mathews, we had a bad experience, three years ago, with another company. It was more like Disneyland than a Society meeting. There were sales reps buzzing around all over the place like flies, handing out pens, quizzing us during tea breaks about which drugs we prefer to prescribe. I told myself then, ‘Never again.’ ”

“I know what you mean. That is what the average pharmaceutical company does, but we’re not the average company. Nobody wants reps running around, ramming company literature down people’s throats, arguing with doctors about which drugs to prescribe. Biopharm’s policy is just to be there, to answer any questions doctors might have about our products, and, other than that, to stay out of your way!”

Jefferson raised his eyebrows. “Mr Mathews, no offence, but that’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard a drug rep say in years.”

Joe laughed. “Did you hear about the Endocrinology meeting, last year? That was one we did. I think the doctors thought it went pretty well.”

“Yes, I spoke to Tim Ferrington from Endocrinology, last week. He was very happy with your work. Under the circumstances, I think we’ll give it a try, Mr Mathews. Why don’t you speak to my secretary? If your Conference Department can do it within our new deadline, then let’s go ahead.”

“Right,” said Joe. “No problem. I’m sure we can do it. I’ll call your secretary, first thing tomorrow, and go over the details with her.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, there is one other thing,” said Joe. “Biopharm’s holding a Saturday conference, discussing our new product, Zemtril. We were wondering if you might be willing to be chairperson. It might be quite a good day.”

“Well, I don’t see why not. You’ll need to clear it with my secretary. As long as my schedule is open, that would be fine.”

Joe couldn’t believe how easy this was. He had just gotten what he wanted: Jefferson would chair Biopharm’s Zemtril conference.

Jefferson yawned. “Well, Mr Mathews, I have rounds to attend, I’m afraid, and I’ll never live it down with the students if I’m late again.”

“Thanks for your time, Dr Jefferson.”

“No, thank you, Mr Mathews. And, by the way, I haven’t heard too much about that new drug of yours, Zemtril. I wonder if you could call my private rooms and ask Alice to make you an appointment to see me about it.”

Joe couldn’t believe his ears. Martin Jefferson was going to let a drug rep see him at his private rooms and talk product? He tried not to look elated.

“Sure,” said Joe. “I’ll do that right away.”

 

 

Five minutes later, Joe was smiling pleasantly at the young girl behind the counter of the City Hospital Cafe; he paid for a cup of black espresso and took it lovingly to a table near the back of the bustling restaurant. The dull pain in his chest still wouldn’t stop, which annoyed him. Perhaps five minutes of rest might do him some good, he thought. He had a little time to spare. He sat down, cradled his coffee cup in his hands, and sniffed appreciatively – it was better than any Havana cigar.

Joe looked through the windows at the garden fountain and the hospital grounds. Surrounding him, in the cafe, sat nurses, doctors, patients and visitors, quietly chatting.

He took a long, grateful sip of his coffee and began to relax.

“Ahem!” came a loud voice, clearing its throat. “Excuse me.”

Joe looked up, saw no one, and decided the voice was not directed at him. He thought it was a little odd that there seemed to be a fine mist of green smoke around his table, but strange things happened in hospitals. Maybe they were testing a new air conditioning system.

“Excuse me, but I believe your life is on fire!”

At this, Joe furrowed his brow. He wondered if someone had escaped from the psychiatric ward on the next floor. Finally, he glanced down and saw a very short, balding, chubby man in a cheap leprechaun suit. The little fellow was standing next to Joe’s table, smiling up at him sweetly.

Joe’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What ... what did you say?”

“I said, ‘Excuse me, but I think your life is on fire.’ ”

Joe decided this was either an escaped lunatic or some bizarre promotional gimmick, and either way he wasn’t interested. He had no time for talking to anybody wearing leprechaun suits. “That’s what I thought you said. Do I know you? Is there any reason for you to come up to me and say that? No. Now, if you don’t mind ...”

The leprechaun smiled benevolently and tipped his head to one side, ignoring Joe’s glare. “Well, you may not actually know me, but I’m a friend.”

“But no!” Joe insisted. “No, I don’t know you. No, there is no reason for me to talk to you, and, yes, this is my coffee break!”

“That’s okay,” said the little man. “Never mind. I’ll grow on you. You’ll get to like me, eventually.” He waited earnestly for a reply.

Joe laughed, as if he suddenly understood. “This is a joke, right? Singing telegram? It’s Karen at the office that put you up to this. I get it ...”

Deeply offended, the leprechaun snarled, “Ungrateful mortal! You don’t like the suit? Do you realise how much trouble ...”

Joe wasn’t listening. He looked across to the young surgeon sitting at the next table with two of her colleagues. “Hey, Dr Preston. Look at this guy! Karen’s up to her old tricks again. Last year, it was the Gorillagram, but this one really takes the cake.”

Dr Preston looked over. “What guy, Joe?”

“The leprechaun! I didn’t even know they had leprechauns.”

All three doctors laughed, this time. Dr Preston shook her head. “What are you talking about, Joe? I don’t see anyone.”

“That guy!” Joe exclaimed, pointing. “The little guy, right here.”

But the doctors were no longer listening to him; they had turned, chuckling, back to their own conversation, and ignored Joe completely.

At this point, the leprechaun decided it was time to get Joe’s complete attention, so he levitated himself above Joe’s table. Floating in mid air, he smiled wickedly at the hapless Joe. “Joe,” he chimed. “They caaaaan’t see me!”

Joe turned very grey. An icy chill ran up his spine. He wanted to scream, or run away, or something, but all he could manage was to emit a tiny, pathetic moan. There was a man floating above his table. It was impossible.

The leprechaun rotated upside down, until he was feet up and head down, then smiled a happy wrong-way-up smile.

Joe recoiled against his chair in horror. “Whoa! What the ...”

To add to the effect, the leprechaun waved his legs about, crossing his arms like a Russian dancer, and let out a few shouts. Then he spun slowly around and lowered himself gracefully to the floor. “Bet you’ve never seen an upside-down Cossack dance before. It’s a little trick I picked up in space. Great bunch of guys, those cosmonauts!”

Joe sat frozen in his chair, paralysed with fear.

Unconcerned, the leprechaun produced a tiny green pouch. He extracted a pinch of sparkling tinsel and scattered it in front of Joe’s face. Joe’s eyes widened for a moment, as a hundred miniature stars twinkled radiantly in front of him, then he became very tired.

Joe blinked a couple of times, and yawned. He found himself feeling utterly calm. “Cosmonauts,” he repeated. “Mmmm.”

Joe yawned again, closed his eyes, and dozed rapidly off to sleep. Obviously, he thought as he lost consciousness, everything that was happening was just a dream. But what a pretty dream!

Joe’s limp body slumped; his head tilted onto his left shoulder.

The leprechaun, well pleased, walked around until he was standing next to Joe’s right ear. He whispered into it. “Now, I want you to listen carefully and remember what I am about to say. When you wake up, you’ll remember it all without any fuss. It will seem the most natural thing in the world. Okay?”

“Okey dokey,” Joe muttered, his eyes still closed.

“I am your guardian angel. My name is Shamus Maguinty, and I’m a leprechaun. Oh, and by the way, you like my suit. Remember that. You like my suit. Now, I’m here to tell you that your life is on fire, and to help you put out the fire and get back on track. What am I here for, Joe?”

Joe murmured, “To help me put out the fire and get back on track.”

“Good. Now, I’m only allowed to appear for a few minutes, otherwise the Guy Upstairs gets hopping mad. Believe me, you don’t want to see that. Okay, so you are going to do something about your life being on fire. You’re going to start getting your life right. You’re going to work on this thing until you sort it all out. Got all that?”

Joe scratched his cheek. “I’ll ... get it right,” he repeated.

Then his head rolled forward and he began snoring.

Shamus Maguinty studied his gold pocket watch with a look of growing concern. Popping it back into his vest pocket, he disappeared, without further ado, into a cloud of green smoke, leaving Joe in a deep, sound sleep.

Joe hadn’t slept so well for a long time. It was delicious. He was dreaming, and loving the dream. It was something about a leprechaun, something about an angel, come to help him. Then, Joe felt someone bumping his shoulder. He wished it would go away.

He heard a voice. It was the voice of a young woman, a familiar voice. “Joe. Joe. Come on, Joe. Wake up!”

Suddenly, Joe came to. He opened his eyes.

Dr Preston was smiling at him. “Joe. I thought you were going to fall off your chair! Working too hard?”

Joe was completely lost for words. He looked around him. What was he doing falling asleep, in the middle of the day, in a hospital cafe?

He thanked Dr Preston with a mute smile.

The young doctor turned to rejoin her colleagues at the next table.

Joe rubbed his eyes and looked at his wristwatch. It was five-thirty. He had an appointment to make. Why was he wasting his time, dreaming about leprechauns? he thought. What nonsense!

Joe jumped up and rushed out of the cafe.

 

 

It was late afternoon, an hour after Jane had finished seeing Margaret Hoffman, when she finally made it back to her company car in the hospital parking lot. Jane got into the car, opened her laptop, and typed a few essential notes. When she was finished, she started the engine and reversed out of the parking bay. As she began her long drive across the city, Jane grimaced at the painful knot in her stomach that wouldn’t go away. Irritable bowel syndrome, her doctor had called it. She could still hear his words.

‘We can give you tranquillisers, if you like, but it really comes down to stress. Your body’s telling you it needs to slow down; you’re going to have to do something about it.’

As Jane motored down the freeway, she glanced anxiously at her watch. Damn! Running late, again, she thought. Still, even at that moment, she wondered if she should pay more attention to her own needs, not just to those of her company and her customers. She might be on the fast track to promotion, but her body had other ideas; it was cracking under the stress.

Suddenly there was a voice. A man’s voice. Loud.

“Indeed it is, ma’am. Indeed it is!”

The effect on Jane of this unexpected intrusion was electric. Visions of cut-throat stowaways and carjackings flashed through her mind, her hands gripped the steering wheel as tightly as a vice, and she jumped, as much as anyone can while strapped into a car racing down a four-lane freeway, then turned, her heart pounding wildly, to stare at the passenger seat beside her.

There was a man, sitting there. A short, balding man, with an inexplicably sweet smile on his face, dressed, even more incomprehensibly, in a leprechaun suit. She stared at him, in horror, for two seconds, before wrenching her head forward to avoid hitting a passenger bus; her white-knuckled grip on the wheel had sent her swerving into the fast lane. At that very moment, torn between the simultaneous terror of discovering a strange man in her car and nearly being pushed off the road by a speeding omnibus, she could find only one thing to say.

“Oh, shit!”

She fired a second glance at the intruder. He seemed very placid and happy. Although he wasn’t exactly what you would call a terrifying figure, Jane still felt compelled to break into a scream, but she was so scared that it came out more like a cross between a moan and a squeak. “Auggg ... auggg ... auggghh!”

The little man seemed pained by this reaction. He reached into his pocket, whipped out a small green pouch, and extracted something from inside it. He then held his hand up, ominously, toward Jane.

Jane’s eyes widened as she looked frantically between the road in front of her and the diminutive maniac sitting beside her. “Wait! Put away the gun. You can have the car ... it’s a company car ... you can have it ... oh, shit!” Jane closed her eyes in ultimate terror as the madman began to flick his fingers at her.

Strange, she thought. That wasn’t a gun.

The most peculiar golden tinsel, tiny snowflakes of the stuff, was falling gently all around her in the car. It seemed to hang in the air and sparkle, a thousand tiny stars, each one twinkling with a colour different to the next. It was entrancing.

“Rainbow Stars,” said the leprechaun, with a cheerful smile. “They never fail. You’ll feel better now.”

The sickening realisation hit Jane that not only was she being carjacked, but the guy was a complete lunatic. Rainbow Stars? This was obviously the end. Her life flashed before her eyes; she tried to keep the car careening down the freeway without crashing. Then, suddenly, she felt possessed by a strange and overwhelming calm. It was the oddest thing. If she were ever hypnotised, she guessed, this is what it would feel like.

“Now, Jane. Just keep driving. That’s right. Middle of the road. No swerving. Good!” The leprechaun was apparently relieved that all the screaming had stopped.

Jane’s heart settled back to its normal eighty beats a minute. The car glided smoothly, no longer a menace to passing traffic. In fact, Jane couldn’t remember when driving had been more enjoyable. And, yes, there was a lunatic sitting next to her, but she no longer cared. Come to think of it, he reminded her of the elves at Sudbury Mall last Christmas. Jane giggled like a drunk, but she drove like a teetotaller.

“Good, good, good. Now, Jane. My name is Shamus. Shamus Maguinty. We’ve never met before, but I’m your guardian angel, and I’m here to let you know something.”

“You’re my guardian angel?” said Jane, dreamily. “Okay. Look at that nice blue car that’s passing us. Isn’t that a pretty one?”

“Lovely. Now, listen carefully, because I’m not allowed to appear very often and not for very long. That’s the way being an angel works. Anyway, I have two mortals to look after, and you are one of them, and I’m here to tell you that your life is on fire.” The leprechaun scratched his cheek.

“My ... life is on fire?”

“Yes, your life is on fire. Now, I am going to help you put out the inferno and get back on track, before you burn out completely.” Shamus took in the landscape with an appreciative stare, his keen little blue eyes fixed, in turn, on the houses, the trees, the other cars, the sailboats on the adjacent large lake, and the cumulus clouds drifting serenely above it all. He made an expansive, sweeping gesture with his arm. “We don’t normally like to interfere in all this, but you and my other mortal are emergency cases. So, I’m here to help you out.”

“That’s nice,” said Jane. She was driving just on the speed limit; the other cars were passing her easily.

“Right. Now, when you snap out of it, you are going to remember that I’m your guardian angel, Shamus Maguinty. Okay?”

“Guardian angel, uh huh.” It all seemed perfectly plausible to Jane, in her entranced state. Rainbow Stars are powerful things.

“Good. And you’re going to believe that I am real.”

“Okay. What a nice day it is today, don’t you think?”

“And lastly, you’re going to realise that your life is on fire and do something about it. Okay? You got all that?”

Jane looked over at the chubby leprechaun. “My life is on fire. Got it. Where can I get some of those Rainbow Stars?”

Shamus pulled his watch out; it dangled on its little chain for a moment before he caught it. “Gotta go!” he said. “Damn! I’m on overtime. I mean, darn! If the boss finds out, there’ll be hell to pay, and you have no idea how literally I mean that!” The little fellow looked benevolently at Jane. “I’ll see you later. Remember what I said.”

With that, he faded into green vapour and disappeared.

Jane coughed. Gradually, her head cleared. Things seemed to return to normal. She looked around, suspiciously, but there was no sign of the strange intruder, other than a little residual green smoke. She fanned her hand a few times to disperse the emerald mist.

I’ve got a guardian angel? she thought.

But angel or no angel, she had to make her next appointment by six. Putting the whole thing out of her mind, Jane sank her foot onto the gas pedal. The company car accelerated down the freeway, mocking the speed limit sign which flashed by. Jane began to overtake cars again. Her pulse quickened, her breathing became a little more forced, and she focussed intently on the road.

The faster she drove, the less time there seemed to be to get there.

Chapter  4

 

The long Monday had finally come to an end for Joe Mathews, but he wasn’t resting; squash is not a relaxing game. Joe ran hard across court. Stretching to reach the ball, he whipped his racquet around and made a good passing shot.

His opponent, Paul Jamieson, backed up quickly but still had to watch in dismay as the ball bounced irretrievably behind him.

Paul didn’t miss many shots, even for a beginner. He had quick reactions and a strong, athletic build. His dark-skinned good looks had helped his success as a television actor. “You got me there,” said Paul, walking back to his side of the court. “Good shot.”

“Thanks,” said Joe. “Lucky shot, more like it.”

From the deserted gallery above, their mutual friend, Susan Stryver, called out. “Not lucky. Good shot. That’s seven-three.”

Joe looked up and smiled at her, grateful for the compliment. He knew he was arguably a better rep than Sue, who sold artificial heart valves for a surgical implant company, but there was no doubt at all that she was the better squash player, a fact she gleefully took every opportunity to remind him of.

“Good to see you taking a risk on your shots,” Paul quipped.

“I suppose,” Joe grumbled, bouncing the ball as he prepared to serve, “you’re going to try talking me into going skydiving. I’ve told you before – the answer’s no! I’d like to stay in one piece, if you don’t mind.”

Paul shrugged. “It’s very safe. You’d love it.”

“Why would I want,” said Joe, serving the ball high toward the back corner of Paul’s court-side, “to let someone pack my parachute who can’t even return my devilish loop serves?”

As if on cue, the ball dropped like a magnet, straight into the corner, and died without a bounce. It was impossible to return.

Paul rolled his eyes. “I skydive better than I play squash.”

“Will you two stop bickering?” Sue demanded, half-seriously. “I’m waiting to play the winner, here. Less talk and more play.”

The two men swapped sides of the court. Joe served the ball high, but this time Paul intercepted it before it reached the floor. A rally followed, with both players running frantically across the court to make shots, then scrambling repeatedly back to the centre ‘T’ to control the vital middle ground. Finally, Paul mishit the ball, sending it spinning harmlessly up into the wall, high above the red foul-line. The game had ended at nine points to three, an easy win for Joe. He walked over and patted his friend on the shoulder. “Thanks for the game, man.”

“No problem.” Paul pulled open the court door, somewhat dejectedly, and began the walk upstairs to the gallery.

A moment later, Sue appeared in the small doorway and stepped onto the court. “Okay, smarty,” she said to Joe. “Let’s see what you’re made of. I see you’ve been picking on helpless beginners again. Now you’re in trouble!”

Sue’s blonde hair was tied in a no-nonsense ponytail. She wore the confident expression of someone who knew she was good. Sue had played squash since she was twelve, and eighteen years of practice made for a tough opponent, whichever way you looked at it.

Joe decided to try psychological warfare. “When are you going to teach Alan to play? A bright young cardiology registrar should be able to swing a squash racquet. Or do you keep him too ... tired for sports?”

“Very funny,” Sue replied, as she a hit a few warm-up shots. “You can talk, Casanova. When was the last time you had a date? Hmmm? I don’t recall you telling us any spicy stories, lately. Things a tad dull, are they? All work and no play makes ...”

“Joe a dull boy. I know, I know.”

“That’s what I keep telling him,” said Paul, merrily, from the seats above. “He looks straight past all the attractive women. Too busy looking in that diary of his. From what I’ve heard, he even ignores the advances of Dr Tyson – a pretty foxy lady, so they say.”

“Oooooh!” said Sue. “Who is Dr Tyson? You never told me about her, Joe. I’m impressed. Well, well, well.”

Joe refused to dignify these comments with a reply. He tried to concentrate on the ball, as he and Sue lobbed warm-up shots to each other. Sue had begun to put topspin on the ball; it was bouncing back to Joe at more and more alarming speeds.

“By the way,” said Sue, “are you still getting those chest pains?” She stopped and looked over at Joe, letting the ball fly past her.

“Who, me? Chest pains? Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I thought so. I’ll get Alan to make an appointment for you. Look, Joe, you need a stress test, half an hour on the treadmill with all the wires hooked up. People drop dead on squash courts, you know. I’ve never met anyone so stubborn.” Sue shook her head. She knew it wasn’t that bad, now, but if Joe kept up the breakneck pace of his life, in another ten years it might be. Her boyfriend, Alan, had often told her stories of busy executives cut