In Your Dreams

by Holt, Tom

  Fuck, Paul thought. It was a good, flexible, one-size-fitsall reaction covering a variety of issues, including genuine horror at Benny’s plight, and even more genuine terror at the thought that Paul himself was now, by implication, duty hero. ‘That’s awful,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed. But not,’ she went on, ‘entirely unexpected. I sent Mr Shumway to find Mr Wurmtoter.’

  ‘Ah,’ Paul said.

  ‘Mr Wurmtoter,’ the Countess said, ‘should have returned from his assignment three days ago. I suspected that something might be amiss, and last night I asked Mr Shumway to investigate. This morning, just before six o’clock, I found this outside my door.’ She produced – Paul didn’t happen to see from where – a long, narrow grey cardboard box. Inside was something that looked vaguely like the stuffing out of an old-fashioned sofa. ‘Mr Shumway’s beard,’ the Countess explained. ‘I fear there can only be one explanation. Mr Shumway has fallen into the hands of an enemy.’

  More fuck, Paul thought; fuck with double buggery, a cherry and a little red-and-white-striped umbrella. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘But what—?’

  ‘So it’s fortuitous,’ the Countess went on, ‘that you’ve completed your vocational training in pest control and are equipped to deal with this situation. Feel free, of course, to make use of whatever resources you need. Mr Shumway’s safe return is, needless to say, our top priority.’

  Yes, but — ‘Countess,’ Paul said nervously, ‘that’s absolutely fine, but really, I haven’t got any experience or anything like that, all I’ve done so far is a load of paperwork and sitting on one small dragon. Couldn’t someone else go instead? I mean, what about Mr Suslowicz, or Professor van Spee? They’re – well, proper wizards. I’m just a clerk.’

  She looked at him for a very long time, and he came to realise that there are worse things in the world than chasing off after dangerous lunatics; high on the list of such things was being stared at by Countess Judy. When at last she spoke, her voice was as cold and hard as a VAT inspector’s heart. ‘We have no definite leads,’ she said, ‘only suspicions. However, in the light of the current situation, it’s hard to see this as a coincidence.’

  What situation? Then Paul remembered; something about a war, us and them, dreams and nightmares. ‘You mean the war?’ he hazarded.

  ‘Precisely.’

  He nodded, then asked: ‘Excuse me, but what war?’

  She raised both eyebrows at him, a truly alarming sight. ‘The war, Mr Carpenter. The armed conflict among the Fey. Don’t you ever read memos?’

  There’s a time for lying and saving face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘At least, I thought I did, but apparently not. Will you please tell me: what war?’

  A tiny little sigh; then the Countess said: ‘It’s not so much a war as a rebellion. A dissident separatist faction among my people has seen fit to make a unilateral declaration of secession. It’s this faction that we believe is behind the bombing attempt and Mr Shumway’s abduction. It’d take too long to brief you on the issues involved. You’ll just have to take it from me that the separatists are callous, ruthless criminals who will stop at nothing to further their cause. Hence the need to retrieve Mr Shumway as quickly as possible.’

  Paul slumped a little. If Benny really was in danger, and if Paul was genuinely the only person who was qualified to go and rescue him, there was no point trying to wriggle out of it; and if Benny’s captors were these dissident Fey, they were by definition the enemy, and to hell with any issues. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I’ll go.’ He stopped, then added: ‘Um, go where?’

  Quite unexpectedly, Countess Judy laughed. ‘Now you’re actually beginning to sound like a hero, Mr Carpenter. Most encouraging. I was sure my faith in you wasn’t misplaced.’

  Well, he’d walked into that one, like a plate-glass window. ‘Really,’ he said, ‘I’m not quite sure . . .’

  ‘But I was.’ Her eyes were as cold as steel. ‘At your interview. You may recall that there were other candidates, and very impressive some of them were, too. I had to argue long and hard on your behalf with some of my partners. But I was right. And besides, you did answer the questions correctly. There was no other choice.’

  Um, Paul thought; that’s not the way I remember it. But what the hell. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered. ‘Now, what’ve I got to do?’

  There’s heroism, which is basically just killing wildlife and retrieving missing persons and lost property, and there’s courage. Courage is setting sail into the turbulent currents of the North Circular Road, alone in a Volkswagen Polo, at the height of the rush hour.

  For some reason, the Countess had insisted that Paul should drive to High Wycombe rather than catch a train or a coach. He couldn’t imagine why, unless it was pure malice on her part. He wasn’t a very good driver and he had a mortal fear of roundabouts. The car wasn’t helping, either. ‘Pay attention,’ barked Monika’s voice from the car radio. ‘You could have gone then, but now it is too late ... Dritte Pferdegeschirr, third gear, for the love of the Almighty. Now look, you are in the wrong lane. No, this is wrong, links, links fahren ...’

  He’d tried switching the radio off, but it didn’t work; neither did ripping off the faceplate, or stuffing digestive biscuits into the tape slot. ‘Not now,’ he pleaded. ‘Shut up, Monika, please ...’

  Eventually he cleared the Hillingdon roundabout and the M40 enfolded him in her strong arms, sweeping him effortlessly out towards the setting sun. Once they were on the motorway, Monika seemed to calm down a little, which was a blessing. ‘I am studying here the map of High Wycombe,’ she announced crisply. ‘I have located Grasmere Drive, it will be very simple to find. First, we shall need to follow the signs for Marlow and Maidenhead.’

  Paul tuned her out and went back to asking himself: What am I doing here, for crying out loud? Think about it; if Benny was sent out here and he got captured, what sort of a chance am I going to have? Lamb to the—

  ‘You have no self-confidence,’ Monika interrupted. ‘You should be positive. It is not good to dwell on the likelihood of failure.’

  That was the last straw and a half. ‘Fucking hell, Monika,’ he snapped, ‘can you read what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Natürlich,’ she replied calmly. ‘I was before my transformation a fully qualified Seelritter – I do not know what it is in English. In Germany it is taught as a core skill. We are very methodical,’ she added proudly, ‘in our vocational training, not like in this country, where you must pick it up as you go past.’

  Unfortunately, he’d run out of digestive biscuits some time ago. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Would you mind terribly not doing it? Especially,’ he added, ‘when I’m driving.’

  ‘I am trying only to help,’ Monika said, offended. ‘To me it is no pleasure, seeing inside a mind like—’

  ‘Thanks,’ Paul said, very firmly indeed. ‘Look, is this our junction?’

  ‘Ja. Follow the signs for the town centre until we reach a double roundabout, then left—’

  Finding Grasmere Drive wasn’t quite as straightforward as Monika had predicted, and it was pitch dark by the time they got there. The headlights revealed a row of pebbledashed bungalows, white-weatherboarded, hedgeless, each with an Audi or a pristine four-by-four standing outside like stone sphinxes guarding a pharaoh’s tomb. ‘You sure this is the right place?’ Paul asked again.

  ‘Of course I am sure,’ Monika replied impatiently. ‘There is in High Wycombe only one Grasmere Drive, and here is number seventy-four. You should get out and ring the doorbell.’

  Paul sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose I should.’

  It’d have been just a little bit comforting, he thought, if he’d brought some equipment with him. Not that he really had the faintest idea how to use any of it – Benny had shown him how to wave the swords and load the guns and prime the bombs and all the rest of it, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to remember complicated technical stuff like that if anything actually happened – but at least he’d have had something to h
old on to, like those polystyrene floats when you’re learning to swim. Walking down the front path of a bungalow that’s supposedly a portal to the Land of the Fey armed with nothing deadlier than a single manila wallet file takes more than courage. You have to be really courageous – brave as two short planks, fearless as a hatter – to do something like that.

  He still wasn’t sure he’d come to the right place, though. In the middle of the lawn was a clump of those carved wooden mushrooms, surrounding the water feature, and the sign hanging from the porch read Brooksmeade. As if that wasn’t enough, the door chimes played Què Viva Espana.

  ‘Hello,’ Paul said as the door opened. The man who’d opened it was elderly, bald, wearing a fawn cardigan with frayed elbows. ‘Excuse me,’ Paul went on, ‘but I’m looking for the portal—’

  The man nodded. ‘Hold on,’ he said, ‘I’ll fetch her.’ He turned and shouted over his shoulder, ‘Vee, it’s some bloke about the portal.’

  The television that had been burbling in the background cut out abruptly, and the man was replaced by a woman of similar vintage, wearing a lilac jumper and curlers. ‘You here for the portal, love?’ she asked. Paul nodded.

  ‘Right you are, then,’ she said. ‘Watch the step.’

  Paul duly tripped over the step, nearly flattening her, and followed her down a long, deep-carpeted hall. A small dog, possibly a Yorkshire terrier or some similar brand, yapped behind him as he trudged. She showed him into a sun-lounge, in the centre of which was a wagon wheel converted into a coffee table.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘Won’t be a tick.’

  She left, leaving Paul alone with the table, a large straw donkey wearing a Spanish hat, and the small yappy dog. It was some time before Paul realised that the dog had three heads.

  He stared. It was still a small, yappy dog, and round the place where its three necks met was a tartan flea-collar. One of its mouths held a small rubber ball, and its tail was wagging. Christ, Paul thought, and kept perfectly still until the woman came back.

  ‘You done this before?’ she asked. When Paul shook his head she smiled reassuringly (Paul wasn’t reassured) and said: ‘There’s nothing to worry about. All you got to do is drink this, sit down in the chair and close your eyes. Nothing to it, really.’

  Whatever this was, it came in a mug inscribed The World’s Best Grandad. It tasted like cold, sweet tea. There was also a plate of mixed biscuits, but apparently they weren’t compulsory. The chair was one of those canvas-and-steel-tube loungers, and the dog seemed to think that Paul was trespassing when he sat in it; it growled at him, but its tail was still wagging. Soon as I close my eyes, he thought, the bugger’s going to lick me to death —

  But by then his eyes had closed anyway; and at that juncture, things took a turn for the worse.

  It’d have been harder to handle if he hadn’t been to the Bank with Benny Shumway. The landscape was different – a vast brown heath stretching out as far as the eye could see – but the lighting and general ambience were pretty much the same. It was bleak and cold; it seemed to say that creatures who breathed weren’t welcome here. It was probably safe to assume that there were no public toilets.

  ‘We had better be going.’ Paul looked up in surprise, and saw he wasn’t alone. Standing next to him was a tall, dark-haired woman in a smart suit. She was maybe five years older than him, handsome rather than pretty, with glasses. Also, a marked German accent.

  ‘Monika?’

  ‘Natürlich. You see me as I was before I was transformed.’ She hesitated, and her manner suggested that hesitation wasn’t something that came naturally to her. ‘We must hurry,’ she said awkwardly. ‘But I do not know the way.’

  ‘I—’ What he wanted to say was that he was really, really glad she was with him; not because he expected her to do all the heroism, or even map-read, though he’d be prepared to bet money that she’d be better than him at both; but because this wasn’t a place where he wanted to be alone. ‘Neither do I,’ he said. ‘Let’s go that way.’

  Paul wasn’t even aware in which direction he was pointing. ‘Why?’ Monika asked, puzzled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But it’s a four to one chance, and perhaps we’ll be lucky.’

  ‘That is a very bad reason,’ Monika replied. ‘However, you are in charge. We should go.’

  She sounded braver than he felt. Lion-hearted as a brush. ‘Fine,’ he said, and started to walk.

  ‘But you are going west,’ she objected behind him. ‘You said to go north-east.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He shivered. ‘I have a feeling that it doesn’t greatly matter. Where we need to go will probably find us. Unless,’ he added with feeling, ‘we’re really lucky.’

  ‘That does not make sense,’ Monika objected, scampering a few steps to catch up with him. ‘This is not how we are accustomed to do such things in my country. First we research thoroughly the geography of the place we are going. Do you have a map?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘I don’t think this place would fit on a map,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s that sort of—’ He stopped dead. A nasty thought had just struck him. ‘How do we get back?’ he asked.

  She was staring at him. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No. How about you?’

  ‘I have never done anything like this before,’ Monika admitted. ‘I do not know the approved procedure. You should have researched it before you left the office.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘Don’t suppose it’s going to matter much,’ he said gloomily. ‘You know what?’ he added, as he pulled his foot out of a pool of black mud. ‘I think this is even worse than the Bank.’

  She frowned. ‘I do not understand,’ she said. ‘My father works for the Rhenische Stadtsbank in Stuttgart. It is nothing like this.’

  ‘No kidding.’ He stopped again and looked round. Nothing to be seen for miles and miles except desolate moorland, with here and there a black, stagnant tarn or a cluster of granite rocks. Suddenly Paul felt tired, as though six months of weariness had only just caught up with him. Showing off, he said to himself; effective magic; either they can hurt me or they can’t, but I haven’t got the time or the energy for all this stupid ambience. ‘Bugger walking,’ he said. ‘Let’s just wait here and see what happens.’

  ‘But—’ Monika began to object; and then she stopped talking and stared at a low, grass-covered mound, no more than ten yards away to her left. ‘That was not there before,’ she said quietly.

  ‘No,’ Paul agreed. ‘Told you all we had to do was stay put and be patient. Ah,’ he added, as a door opened in the side of the mound, leaking pale green light. ‘That’ll be for us, I expect. Well, come on. We haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Paul, wait.’ Unless the German for Paul was scheisskopf, she’d never called him by his name before. ‘We cannot go in there, it is not safe.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘it’ll just turn out to be a dungeon or a tomb or something. Or maybe a really amazing hall with torchlight and pretty furniture. Makes no odds, one way or another. You coming, or what?’ Without looking round to see if she was following, he stepped through the door into the green light.

  In spite of his new and hard-won cynicism, Paul was impressed. It was as though Peter Jackson and Laurence Llewellyn Bowen had been hired to make over Hell, with a long list of product placements to fit in wherever possible. A long green fire ran the length of a broad Hollywood-medieval hall, oak-panelled and hammer-beam-roofed, painted and gilded. Polished tables and carved benches flanked the hearth, and the walls were masked by acres of richly coloured tapestries, a grotesque combination of flowers, wildlife, court and battle scenes. Though the flames from the hearth were taller than he was, the place was icy cold, like a flame-effect electric fire with the elements turned off. Paul yawned ostentatiously and called out, ‘Hello? Anybody home?’

  ‘You should not shout like that,’ Monika hissed beside him. ‘It is not respectful. We must not anger them—�
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  Paul grinned and walked down the hall towards the high table that crossed the T at the end. He’d have been more impressed if he hadn’t seen it all before; in his mind’s eye, when he was twelve and they’d had to read Tolkien at school. True, he hadn’t imagined it in quite such detail; the quaint carved bosses and misericords, for example, with their funny little faces and cartoon-like monsters and dragons. He’d been rather vague about how the beams actually kept the roof up, whereas whoever was responsible for this lot had done his homework, read up about plates, purlins, studs and ties. Still, the overall design was simple plagiarism, and they were going to have to do better than this if they wanted to get his disbelief suspended.

  As if on cue, a side door opened and a small child came in: a girl, about ten years old. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Like it?’

  Paul shrugged. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘The gilding’s rather tacky and the green fire is probably a mistake, but you’re on the right lines. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to see the manager.’

  Paul could feel Monika tensing up next to him, but the girl just grinned. ‘You sure you want to do that?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Paul replied, looking past her at a tapestry of silver unicorns on a field of golden flowers. ‘But it’s not up to me. Can we get on, please? I’d like to be home in time for Buffy, if it’s all the same to you.’

  The girl raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re impressed,’ she said. ‘We were expecting a snivelling little wimp. If you’ve suddenly come over all brave, it could save us all a lot of time.’

  ‘Not brave,’ Paul replied. ‘Just bored. Scared stiff too, of course, but not impressed, if you see what I mean. I’m guessing that the scary stuff is what I can’t see. Would that be right?’

  The little girl didn’t answer; instead, she swept him an exaggerated curtsy, and went out the way she’d come in. Nothing much happened for a while, and Paul sat down on the nearest bench.

  Monika was horrified. ‘You must not do that,’ she said. ‘We do not know what dreadful enchantments there might be.’