by Holt, Tom
‘Mum.’
‘Sorry? Oh, yes.’ The thing appeared to be concentrating, as if about to try something difficult. But it relaxed its grip a little, which was nice. ‘Now then, dear,’ said the thing. ‘Can you understand what I’m saying?’
Dear? ‘Yes,’ Paul mumbled. ‘Um, who are you?’
‘See, Mum, I told you. They can understand everything we say.’
‘Yes, all right.’ The thing frowned, a neat trick since it had no eyebrows. ‘Hello,’ it said, then hesitated. Tongue-tied? A shy monster? ‘Now then, there’s nothing to be frightened of, I’m not going to hurt you. Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ Paul gasped.
‘You won’t try and run away or anything?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Promise,’ he added.
‘All right,’ the thing said, and let go of Paul’s throat completely. He staggered back and landed in his chair, the one he’d been sitting in watching television before his life got all cluttered up with monsters. ‘That’s right,’ cooed the thing approvingly. ‘You settle down, and we’ll have a nice chat. Would you like that?’
No, Paul thought, absolutely not. ‘Yes,’ he said, feverishly maintaining eye contact. ‘That’d be great.’
‘See?’ said the other voice smugly. ‘They’re just like people, really.’
The thing didn’t sit down, mostly because it had nothing – at least, nothing specific – to sit down with. Rather, it sort of coagulated on an area of carpet. ‘I hope we didn’t startle you,’ it said.
‘No, not at all,’ Paul said.
‘That’s all right, then. Now, I expect you’re wondering who we are.’
Tact, Paul thought. ‘Well, a bit,’ he said.
The thing nodded. ‘I don’t think we’ve actually met before.’ Behind its shoulder, another round, featureless head bobbed politely. Paul tried to smile, but his face had gone numb. ‘We know you, of course, but you don’t know us.’
‘Sorry,’ Paul said, ‘but how do you know me? I mean, I’m not famous or anything.’
For a moment, Paul was sure the thing was about to bite him, but it was just a smile. Its teeth, he couldn’t help noticing, were brown. ‘The thing is, dear,’ it said, ‘we’re here to help you. That’s right, isn’t it, pumpkin?’
‘That’s right,’ the other one said, which seemed to clear that up.
‘Good,’ Paul said nervously. ‘How, exactly?’
The thing’s face reshaped itself into a kind of soggy pout. ‘I’m afraid you’re in great danger,’ it said.
That, in Paul’s view, was stating the obvious. ‘Oh yes?’
The thing nodded again. ‘We can’t tell you very much, unfortunately, so you’ll just have to take our word for it. But—’ It was thinking again. ‘Well, you saw just now on your talking-box thing . . .’
A sigh from the middle distance. ‘Telegraph, Mum. They call them telegraphs.’
‘The place where you work,’ the thing went on, ‘got blown up. Remember?’
‘Yes,’ Paul said. He’d forgotten. Being strangled by nightmare monsters can do that to a person. ‘I saw it on the news.’
‘The what, dear?’
‘Sorry, the telegraph. There was a report about it.’
‘Well.’ The thing appeared to have lost its thread. ‘Anyway, that explosion. It was in your room, the place where you sit all day. It was – I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it was meant for you.’
‘Oh,’ Paul said.
The thing’s narrow yellow eyes clouded slightly. ‘It was a – what’s the expression? A burbly-trap. Someone connected up the exploding thing to the handle of your big metal box for keeping things in, so that next time you opened it, you’d be blown up. But the goblins must’ve gone in your office and played with it, and set it off by accident.’ The thing looked grave. ‘I’m very sorry,’ it said. ‘This must be rather a shock for you.’
You betcha, Paul thought. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘Um, can you tell me who did it?’
Now the thing was looking very sad. ‘I’d tell you if I knew,’ it said. ‘But I’m afraid it was probably one of us. I’m so sorry,’ it added. ‘But you see, some of us are very frightened.’
‘Frightened,’ Paul repeated.
‘That’s right. And when they’re frightened, people can do some very silly things. It’s this dreadful war,’ it went on bitterly. ‘If we’re not careful, it’ll ruin everything. But they don’t see that, of course. All they can think about is trying to beat the other side. Quite ridiculous, the whole thing.’
‘Excuse me,’ Paul interrupted tentatively, ‘but what war?’
The thing looked shocked. ‘You don’t know about the war?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Oh.’ The thing pursed its palpable absence of lips. ‘They haven’t told you about the war. Oh dear.’
‘It’s all right,’ Paul said. ‘They don’t tell me anything. What war?’
‘The civil war,’ said the thing wretchedly. ‘Us against them. Or really, us against us, which is why it’s so sad. The point is,’ it continued, lowering its voice, ‘we aren’t doing at all well, and you – well, you’re the hero, strictly speaking. Until the other hero gets back, the blond one with the nice eyes. So really, it’s just self-defence. Well, self-defence in advance, anyhow. They wanted to get you before you got them, is what I’m trying to say. Do you understand?’
Paul dipped his head. ‘Sort of like a pre-emptive strike, you mean?’
‘A what, dear?’
‘You think the enemy’s going to get you,’ Paul explained, ‘so you get him first. Like Pearl Harbor, that sort of thing.’
‘Pearl what?’
‘This war,’ Paul persevered. ‘Who’s fighting who? And what’s it got to do with me? I’m no threat to anybody, I can’t even squash spiders.’
The thing looked gravely at him. ‘Now that’s not quite true, is it?’ it said reproachfully. ‘You’re a Dragonslayer, I can smell its blood on your hands. At least,’ it added thoughtfully, ‘I can smell its blood.’
‘A—’ It sounded so silly, put like that. The thing had even pronounced the capital D. ‘It was an accident,’ he said. ‘Honest. And I’m not a – what you said, I’m an assistant trainee.’ He broke off. The thing was still gazing at him. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Really and truly, it was an accident. Mr Tanner’s mum—’ His voice dried up. Goblins fooling about, she’d said; some goblins had opened the filing-cabinet drawer, and got themselves blown up. In which case, they’d be dead. And he knew a goblin; not that she was his friend, more like an unmitigated pest, but he knew her, and she couldn’t be dead, could she? Things like that didn’t really happen—
‘Until the nice-looking one gets back,’ the thing was saying, ‘you’re the senior hero in this area. And we’re monsters,’ she said sadly. ‘Which means it’s your job to kill us, if someone comes along and asks to have one of us killed. And you slew the dragon—’
‘I sat on it, for pity’s sake,’ Paul protested.
The thing shook its head. ‘Doesn’t make any difference,’ it said. ‘But we haven’t come here to argue, we just thought you ought to know. You’re in danger, and so’s your—’ The thing’s bleached skin coloured faintly pink. ‘Your female,’ it said. ‘She’s in deadly peril too.’
‘Oh,’ Paul said; and realised that his first thought had been Melze. But. ‘Um,’ he said, ‘which one?’
Now the thing looked shocked. ‘Sorry, dear?’
‘Which, um, female do you mean? Only . . .’
He knew that expression. ‘Oh,’ it said. ‘My mistake. Only, I’d got the impression that humans mate for life. It says so in the encyclopedia.’
‘Ah.’ Paul wilted slightly. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘they’re supposed to, I guess. But it doesn’t always . . .’
‘I see.’ The thing had no lips to purse, but pursed them anyway. ‘Well, anyway. I don’t know which female they’re on about, but I have it on very good authority that she’s
in terrible danger, and we thought you ought to know. And now we’d best be going.’
They were looking at him again. ‘Goodbye, dear,’ said the Mum thing. ‘Do take care.’ Then he felt as though he was falling through the air; which turned out to be true, though in the event he only fell a little way, from his chair to the floor. He opened his eyes.
‘Bugger,’ he said.
No trace of any things; just the TV, burbling quietly to itself, and the clock, reading 1.25 a.m. He’d fallen asleep in his chair. Had a bad dream. On the table next to his chair he saw the empty pizza plate and coffee mug. Caffeine and mozzarella cheese; just plain biochemistry, nothing more.
Yes, but. Paul thought for a moment, then got up and went to the bathroom. In the mirror, he could see the red claw-marks on his neck, plain as anything.
Bloody hell, he thought. If I show up at the office with marks on my neck, people are going to think . . . And then he remembered. Explosion. What office?
Seven and a half sleepless hours later, Paul stood on the pavement opposite a hole where 70 St Mary Axe should have been. All in all, he thought, he was getting sick and tired of holes.
Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a hole. During the night they’d rigged up hoardings; in fact, this being London, the hoardings were already covered in red, yellow and green fly-posters. There was also a white-and-yellow police tape, a crowd of people staring, and a TV crew. A power-dressed female was talking earnestly to a camera, while a couple of kids tried to sneak behind her shoulder and wave. Curious, Paul thought; last week, if someone had told me JWW was going to get blown sky-high, I’d have grinned like an ape. No JWW, no employment contract, no more doing bizarre and scary things for fear of being tortured by Mr Tanner. Free. But now, standing looking at the scaffolding poles and plywood sheet, he felt a surge of anger, and a tiny voice inside his head saying, Welcome to the war .
War. And what fucking war would that be?
‘Mr Carpenter.’ Paul spun round so fast that he nearly knocked Countess Judy over. ‘I tried to telephone, but I guess you’d already left.’
She looked exactly the same as when he’d last seen her, except for a very faint green glow right at the back of her eyes. He tried to think of some way of asking the obvious question.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘this is rather fortuitous. You may recall what we were talking about yesterday.’
Yesterday; he could just remember that far back, if he tried. ‘Effective magic,’ he said; then looked round sharply, to see if anybody was listening. But none of the gawpers or media types was interested in them.
‘Quite so,’ Countess Judy replied. ‘And here’s an excellent example of it in action.’
Paul frowned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t follow.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry,’ she added, ‘nobody’ll see us.’
She walked straight in front of the TV camera, past the crowd, not over or under but through the yellow tape and into the hoarding. Oh well, Paul thought, and followed her. Sure enough, as he got close to them, they seemed to shift, like the end of a rainbow; and he was standing outside the front door of the office. As far as he could tell, it looked perfectly normal.
‘Effective magic,’ the Countess explained, pushing the door open. ‘Simple glamour; they think they can see a hoarding and an incident line, and that satisfies their curiosity – they don’t expect to see more. Well,’ she added, ‘come on. It’s perfectly safe.’
The door felt real enough; and inside, reception was just as it had been the day before. And there, behind the desk, was Melze, and she was smiling at him. ‘So really,’ he said, ‘there wasn’t a bomb?’
A cloud passed across the Countess’s face. ‘Oh, there was a bomb,’ she said, with unmistakable anger in her voice. ‘And the damage was quite extensive. Mr Suslowicz was here most of the night repairing it. But everything’s back to normal now.’ She paused, standing directly in front of the reception desk. ‘You’re aware, I take it, that the bomb was placed in your filing cabinet.’
Paul nodded. ‘I—’ How would he have known that, though? It hadn’t been on the news; Mum the thing had told him. ‘Was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh,’ Paul said. ‘I mean, why? Why would anybody want to kill me?’
The Countess frowned. ‘You’re assuming it was meant for you personally,’ she said. ‘Do you have any grounds for that assumption?’
‘I—’ Paul shrugged. ‘I suppose I just jumped to conclusions,’ he said. ‘So you don’t think—’
Her face was completely neutral. ‘It’s too early to form a reasoned hypothesis,’ she said. ‘However, you’ll be relieved to hear that nothing was damaged.’
It took a moment for that to sink in. ‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But – not even the cabinet? What about the files and stuff inside? Surely they must’ve been . . .’
‘Nothing,’ Countess Judy said again. ‘It’s not this firm’s policy to allow acts of petty vandalism to disrupt our work. Accordingly, we take precautions, as a matter of course. You will find that everything is precisely as you left it last night.’
Colour me impressed, Paul thought. Backing up files was one thing, but an entire building and its contents— ‘Well, then,’ he said feebly, ‘that’s good. No harm done and nobody hurt, that’s—’ He stopped short. There had been a flicker in her face when he’d said nobody hurt. ‘Nobody was hurt, were they?’
She didn’t answer. Instead, she moved away from him and picked up some letters from the front desk. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘excellent. Your family history. Please wait in your office until I’ve had a chance to look at this. I’ll send for you.’ She walked out, leaving Paul standing.
‘What,’ Melze said, ‘was all that about?’
He’d forgotten she was there. ‘Search me,’ he replied. ‘Look, I’m not dreaming, am I? It was on the news last night, this place getting blown up?’
Melze shrugged. ‘Well, I thought so. And I was thinking, oh well, back to job-hunting again, and then Mr Tanner rang me at seven o’clock this morning. Just said be here as usual, and here I am.’ She looked around, then added: ‘Doesn’t look all that blown up to me. Like, for instance, everything’s exactly where I left it on the desk last night – you’d have thought that something would’ve got moved. But what was all that about it being your office that the bomb was in?’
Paul hesitated before answering. ‘You heard what she said,’ he replied.
‘Makes sense, I suppose,’ she replied. ‘After all, your office is pretty much in the centre of the building.’
‘Is it?’
Melze looked at him. ‘Well, yes. And I don’t know anything about demolition, but I suppose if you want to blow somewhere up, in the middle’s probably the best place to plant your bomb.’
‘Right,’ Paul said. That hadn’t occurred to him, of course, mostly because he still had only a very sketchy idea of the geography of the place; he knew that if he went up such and such a staircase, turned right then left then left again, nine times out of ten he’d find himself outside his office door. For all that told him about the layout of the building, however, it might just as well have been transdimensional folds in hyperspace. Paul had long since faced up to the fact that when he died, he’d probably manage to get lost inside his own coffin. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that explains that, then.’ He broke off. Melze was looking at him, her head slightly sideways. Her nose twitched. Oh buggery, he thought, she’s looking at my neck— ‘See you later,’ he mumbled, and fled.
He stood in the corridor outside his office for maybe a full minute before he found the courage to go inside. If they’d been right, and the bomb had been set off when an over-inquisitive goblin started poking about inside his filing cabinet, then it stood to reason, surely, that at least one goblin must’ve died there last night, in a particularly flamboyant manner. Paul had never seen a dead body, or been in a room where someone
had recently died; death was something that happened to superfluous relatives he hardly knew, in distant hospitals. He was aware that the partners were very clever at magical cleaning and tidying (or was it just effective magic, making the place look spick and span after the nightly revels of Mr Tanner’s relations?) but he didn’t relish the thought of spending time sitting in a chair that had recently been misted with a fine spray of vaporised goblin.
But there was nothing to see, no faint lingering smells, no tell-tale stickiness on the chair vinyl or the desktop. As Paul sat down, he reflected on how little he actually knew about goblins. Was it a safe assumption that getting blown up did actually kill them? Quite possibly not; in which case, he was curling his toes and puckering his guts for nothing. Mr Tanner’s mum would probably tell him, if he happened to run into her at some point. Assuming, of course, that she’d survived the blast—
‘Mr Carpenter.’ Countess Judy was standing in the doorway. He hadn’t heard her approach. ‘Follow me, please.’
She led him along corridors and up and down staircases that he couldn’t remember having seen before, to a small windowless room at the end of a long passageway. His sense of direction told him that they were down in some kind of basement. The room was bare-walled, uncarpeted, and empty apart from a plain pine table and two plastic stacking chairs.
‘I’ve only had time to glance at this,’ she said, holding up the paper she’d shown him earlier, ‘but it would appear that you’re qualified by birth to practise effective magic.’
‘Ah, right,’ Paul said. Apparently he’d passed, then. What joy.
‘However,’ Countess Judy went on, ‘an emergency has arisen requiring urgent input from a member of the pest-control division. Right now,’ she added mournfully, ‘you’re the only representative of the division on the premises.’
‘Am I?’ Paul said, startled. ‘But, what about Benny? I mean Mr—’
‘Mr Shumway,’ the Countess said grimly, ‘is currently indisposed.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘And that, in fact, is the emergency. Mr Shumway has been abducted and is being held hostage; most probably by the same terrorist group that planted the bomb.’
