In Your Dreams

by Holt, Tom

  Paul looked at the box. ‘You were his lawyers,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me anything about him?’

  Mrs Leary shrugged. ‘Not very much, I’m afraid. We were the executors, and actually there was only just enough money to cover the funeral and our costs. The nursing home got rid of the clothes and bits and pieces, apart from this. There’s photos and stuff – they didn’t like to throw them away without asking.’

  Paul hesitated. For some reason, he didn’t feel like going through the box at home, or even back at the office. ‘Would it be all right if I just sat here for a few minutes and had a look through?’ he asked. ‘If I’m not in the way or anything?’

  Mrs Leary smiled. ‘You go ahead,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to it, if that’s all right. I’m just next door, so when you’re finished, just knock and I’ll take you back to reception. This place is a bit of a maze, I’m afraid.’

  Compared to 70 St Mary Axe it was a Roman road across a desert, but Paul thanked her and she went away. He sat down, composed himself, and peered into the box.

  Someone had gone to the trouble of typing out a list.

  1 library ticket

  1 Sea Scout badge

  1 pen

  1 watch (broken)

  1 screwdriver

  1 packet coloured chalks

  3 photograph albums

  Flawlessly accurate, you had to give them that. He opened the box of chalks, closed it and put it back; shook the watch just in case; tried the pen, which had run out; flicked through two of the albums, which were both full of black and white photos of people he didn’t recognise. Then he opened the envelope, and learned that he owed Messrs Swindall, Frettenham & Shark a hundred pounds plus VAT. That sort of a day, really.

  ‘All done?’ Mrs Leary chirupped at him when he asked to be let out. ‘Was there anything nice?’

  Paul smiled thinly and handed her a cheque. She thanked him very politely, and held the door for him on the way out, since his hands were full of cardboard box. It was raining outside, and needless to say he hadn’t worn his coat.

  ‘Anything in there for me?’ Mr Tanner’s mum chirped at him as he trudged past reception. He stopped and smiled at her. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘In fact, you have a choice. Packet of coloured chalks or a screwdriver.’

  Her face straightened; the trade-mark smirk evaporated. ‘Let me see,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I was only kidding. It’s just some junk left to me by some uncle I never met since I was a—’

  ‘Let me see,’ she repeated, in such a stern and commanding voice that, for a moment, Paul pitied Mr Tanner for his childhood. ‘I may not be the most powerful rune in the charm, but I have got a sense of smell, and that box stinks.’

  It took a second for the penny to drop. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You can smell magic and stuff.’

  Mr Tanner’s mum sighed impatiently, then froze for a moment, as if she’d been turned to stone. Paul was about to panic and start yelling for help when she exploded with a window-pane-rattling sneeze. Apparently it was her turn with the office cold. ‘That’s one way of putting it. Take all day to explain, and most of it’d go over your head, you’d feel like a dwarf in a strip club. Let me see that box.’

  He shrugged and put it down on the desk. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you can keep it. Cost me a hundred quid I haven’t got, for one—’ He stopped, as Mr Tanner’s mum yelped with pain. The Sea Scout badge clattered on the desk. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘That,’ she replied, sucking her fingers. ‘Bloody thing. Could’ve done me an injury.’

  ‘What, you pricked your finger on the pin or something?’

  She gave him an icy scowl and lifted her hand for him to see. The skin on the pads of her thumb and forefinger had been melted, and blisters had already started to swell. ‘Shield,’ she explained. ‘What did you say your disgusting uncle did for a living?’

  ‘No idea,’ Paul replied. ‘Well—’

  ‘This shield,’ Mr Tanner’s mum went on, ‘is a really nasty, very rare and expensive piece of specialised kit. In fact,’ she added, pushing it across the desk at him with the tip of a pencil, ‘I’m fairly sure it’s illegal; bloody well ought to be, anyhow.’ She paused, sneezed again, then went on: ‘It’s to protect humans against creatures of darkness.’ She scowled at him. ‘Like me.’

  Paul could feel himself go red in the face. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said, ‘I had no idea—’

  ‘Well, now you know. Look, will you put that bloody thing away? It’s giving me a migraine just looking at it.’

  He picked it up nervously, but he couldn’t feel anything unusual at all. He dropped it in his pocket and pulled down the flap. ‘That’s what you could smell, was it?’

  Mr Tanner’s mum grunted. ‘I remember you telling me once that your family are a load of bastards,’ she said. ‘Should’ve listened. Let’s see what else you’ve got in there, before you accidentally kill the whole office.’

  ‘Sure,’ Paul said. ‘Look, would you rather I held them up for you to see? In case there’s any more dangerous stuff?’

  She nodded, and he took out the packet of chalks. When she saw them, Mr Tanner’s mum opened her eyes wide, then grinned. ‘Stone me,’ she said. ‘Haven’t seen any of them in a long time.’

  ‘What?’

  But Mr Tanner’s mum just shook her head; still upset, presumably, because of the shield. ‘Put them somewhere safe and forget about them,’ she said. ‘They’ll come in handy one of these days, but they’re not something you want to go playing with. Anything else?’

  Paul held up the pen, the broken watch and the screwdriver. This time, Mr Tanner’s mum gave a low whistle.

  ‘And all this shit used to belong to your uncle, did it?’ she said.

  ‘Great-uncle,’ Paul replied. ‘I think. I never really knew him, to be honest.’

  ‘Count your blessings,’ Mr Tanner’s mum replied, dabbing at her nose with a Kleenex. ‘All right, here’s a couple of clues. That watch thing – you’ve probably noticed, it doesn’t go.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Paul said. ‘At least, I assume it doesn’t. I tried winding it—’

  Mr Tanner’s mum opened her eyes wide. ‘You didn’t try setting the hands?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  She smiled. ‘That’s another truly horrible gadget you’ve got there,’ she said. ‘Reason it doesn’t go is that it’s not meant to. Quite the reverse. If you pull out the little winder thing and set the hands, then wind it up till it starts ticking, it freezes time. Like I said, truly horrible and antisocial. I’d suggest you get rid of it, only that’d be really irresponsible. Imagine: you chuck it away, someone picks it up and tries it to see if it’ll go—’

  Paul shuddered. ‘What would you suggest?’ he said.

  ‘Strongroom,’ she replied. ‘In a sealed box, marked do not touch. I’ll put it away for you if you like.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Paul said, with feeling. ‘Is that the lot?’

  Mr Tanner’s mum shook her head. ‘The pen and the screwdriver aren’t quite so bad, but you don’t want to leave them lying about either. Probably best if I put the whole lot away for you. And the chalks,’ she added, maybe a touch too quickly. ‘Right?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Paul said. ‘Really, I didn’t have the faintest idea. How’s your hand?’

  ‘Painful,’ she replied. ‘Hang on, what’s that in the bottom of the box? Books?’

  ‘Photo albums. Maybe you could check them out for me. You know, just in case.’

  She hesitated, then grunted, ‘Oh, go on, then. Give them here, one at a time.’

  Paul put them on the desk. She used the pencil to turn the pages. ‘Anything?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Nah, just a lot of boring pictures of ugly people. Your family, presumably.’ She bent her head down and sniffed. ‘Can’t smell anything, so I’m guessing they’re all right. How did you say you came by this lot?’

  ‘I told you, it got left to me. Well, not me, my mum and dad
; but they didn’t want it.’

  She was looking at him very oddly. ‘He died, then, this uncle of yours.’

  ‘Apparently. I mean, I haven’t seen the body or anything—’ He’d meant it sarcastically, but the look on her face startld him. ‘What? You think there’s something wrong.’

  A debate of some kind was going on behind her eyes. No way of knowing which side won; but she lowered her voice and leaned forward a little. ‘A suggestion for you. Whatever you do, don’t let Countess Judy know about this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘Because I say not, that’s why. Right, you take on the photo albums, I’ll deal with the rest of it. Go on, then,’ she added, before he could say anything, ‘piss off. Shoo.’

  That was odd, too; normally Paul had trouble getting away from her. Still, he wasn’t complaining. He thanked her once again, and retired to his office. There was a note on his desk, in Countess Judy’s tall, slanting handwriting. He dumped the photo albums on the shelf and picked it up.

  My office 2.30. J di C-B.

  ‘One damned thing after another,’ Paul muttered under his breath, and checked his watch. He had ten minutes to kill, no work to do, and he wasn’t sure offhand what day of the week it was. He took the Sea Scout badge out of his pocket, meaning to hide it away in his desk along with the run-out biros and Polo-mint wrappers. It lay in his hand, harmless as a paper clip.

  Uncle Ernie, he thought. My inheritance.

  Just a stupid badge; but he couldn’t bear either to hold on to it or put it away. On an impulse that came from a part of his brain that he didn’t bother with much, he opened his jacket and pinned it to the lining. Then it was time for his meeting.

  Countess Judy looked older and thinner than she’d been that morning, as though she’d had too much on her mind to bother putting her face on. When he walked in she avoided his gaze, which was very unusual. In a way, she looked more real than he’d ever seen her before.

  ‘You’ll be delighted to hear,’ she said, ‘that the negotiations have been successful.’

  Probably because his brain was still awash with coloured chalks and being parted from a hundred pounds, it took Paul a moment to remember what she was talking about. ‘That’s fantastic,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘There are aspects of the matter that you aren’t familiar with,’ she said vaguely. ‘Rest assured that the negotiations were long and involved, and also cost this firm a great deal of money. However, the main thing is that Mr Wurmtoter and Mr Shumway, and your car, have been retrieved. Your part in this—’ She looked up at him, then abruptly looked away. ‘I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr Carpenter,’ she said stiffly. ‘Thank you.’

  Paul hadn’t been expecting that. ‘’S all right,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Also—’ The Countess was holding out a small rectangular piece of paper. ‘Reimbursement,’ she said, ‘for out-of-pocket expenses.’

  He took the paper: a cheque, for a hundred pounds. ‘Thank you,’ he said; and then, ‘Why?’

  She was practically fidgeting. ‘Come now, Mr Carpenter, you know what they say about gift horses. Do you want the money or not?’

  He looked at it again. One hundred pounds; and drawn on a proper bank, not the Bank of the Dead. ‘But you don’t have to,’ he said slowly. ‘I mean, what’s it for?’

  ‘I told you,’ she snapped. ‘It’s what you had to pay to get that box from the lawyers. Or have you suddenly come into money, and a hundred pounds is neither here nor there?’

  The signature was just a squiggle; pity. He’d have been interested in knowing which of the partners had signed the cheque. ‘But it’s my stuff,’ he said quietly. ‘The firm doesn’t have to pay for me to get my own things. I mean, it’s really kind of you and all that, but I can’t take it.’

  ‘For God’s sake—’ The look on Countess Judy’s face was terrifying. ‘Just take the goddamn cheque and get out of my office.’

  Paul shook his head and put the cheque down on the desk. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry, but I can’t. Really.’

  For a moment, he thought that the Countess was going to hit him; she stood up, but then it was as though an invisible hand had shoved her down into her chair. ‘Very well,’ she said icily, ‘that’s up to you. Far be it from me to lecture you about gratitude. I take it that now you’re independently wealthy, you won’t be needing the salary review that was scheduled at the end of the month. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

  She looked down at the papers on her desk. Paul could feel her willing him to leave; also, he could feel her failing. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make things worse. He turned, at last, to leave.

  ‘Oh, Mr Carpenter.’ He stopped, but didn’t look round. ‘If you don’t have anything else to do, there’s always the Mortensen printouts. It’s been quite a while since you did anything about them, so there’s probably quite a backlog. Julie will bring them down to you if you ask her.’

  Quite why that made Paul feel so angry, he wasn’t quite sure, but it did. He turned round slowly and faced her. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Will do. But it’s not fair, you not giving me a pay rise.’ He realised how ridiculous that sounded; after all, he was pathetically useless at his job, so fairness really didn’t come into it. He waited for her to make the point, but she didn’t. ‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘just because I wouldn’t take your cheque. That’s all.’

  A look had crept into Countess Judy’s eye that he couldn’t place; at any rate, she didn’t seem quite so apprehensive about looking at him. ‘Perhaps your principles do you credit, Mr Carpenter,’ she said. ‘However, I’d find this display of conspicuous integrity a little more convincing if I didn’t happen to know that you have indeed come into money lately. Obviously, it makes a difference.’

  You what? Paul thought. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite—’

  ‘Come, now,’ she went on – crafty, that was it; she was looking crafty. ‘You’ve been – supplementing your income, let’s say – which is why you don’t need the money; that’s what’s behind that little exhibition we had just now. You must have a farily low opinion of our intelligence, Mr Carpenter.’

  ‘I really haven’t got the faintest—’

  ‘Indeed. You were sent to deal with a wyvern, on behalf of a client. You dispatched the creature, so I gather, but I don’t seem to have any record of you surrendering the eye-stone. Did it simply slip your mind, Mr Carpenter? Or weren’t you aware how valuable they are? But of course you must be, or else why did you go to the trouble of prising it loose, a squeamish individual like yourself? Clearly, that’s where your new-found wealth derives from, and I have to say, it’s not the sort of behaviour we expect from our employees. I’m disappointed. However, in light of your contribution to the release of Mr Wurmtoter, we’re prepared to overlook it on this occasion. You’d do well, though, not to express your contempt for us in future by brandishing our own money under our noses. Tactless, Mr Carpenter; you should know better than that.’

  It was probably just as well that Paul’s voice appeared to have been turned off at the mains. Instead of replying, he fished out the matchbox containing the stone (it’d have been rather more impressive a gesture if he hadn’t had to turn out both his jacket pockets before he could find it) and tossed it on the desk in front of Judy di Castel’Bianco. Her hand shot out and covered it, then lay quite still.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said quietly. ‘Now, the Mortensen printouts.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Mortensen printouts,’ she repeated. ‘Go and deal with them, please.’

  Paul didn’t say what he wanted to say; instead, he nodded and left the room. He didn’t start shaking until he was halfway back to his office, which was in the wrong direction for Julie’s room anyhow.

  Cow, he thought. Horrible, evil, entirely justified cow. Not that I wanted the stupid thing anyway, but getting caught out like that — He pulled himself together. He wasn’t the first person e
ver, he reflected, to discover the harsh truth that our enemies are never more loathsome than when they’re in the right—

  That was it; the vague suspicion that he’d been carting around with him for so long had finally slotted into its allotted place, and he knew : Countess Judy was, somehow or other, the enemy. Suddenly he remembered the Sea Scout badge, pinned inside his jacket. So that was why she’d been – well, practically afraid of him. Creatures of darkness, and all that. He wondered if it’d burn her hand, the way it had burned Mr Tanner’s mum. Only she, for all her faults, wasn’t the enemy.

  Julie had the Mortensen printouts all ready for him; bundles and bundles of them, all tied up with stationers’ red tape. ‘That ought to keep you out of mischief for a while,’ she said, as he hefted the load and staggered to the door. ‘I’ll be down with some more when you’ve done those.’

  An afternoon sorting printouts into date order turned out to be exactly what Paul needed: mindless repetitive work to occupy his hands and the superficial areas of his brain, while the rest of his mind slowly chewed over recent events. When going-home time finally drifted by and he set off for his flat, he discovered that he’d reached a decision (and without even trying to).

  He’d believed Countess Judy when she’d told him that the prisoners were coming home. Fine. Unaccountably, but probably because he was an idiot, he’d taken it upon himself to assume a certain level of responsibility for them. But that was all over and done with now, so whatever the big thing was that was going on all around him – civil war among the Fey, vague threats from bicycles with Moses complexes, bizarre and powerful artefacts just happening to drop into his lap at precisely the right moment (Paul believed in coincidences, but he’d also managed to believe in Father Christmas until he was nearly eleven, so it was a good bet that anything he believed in was therefore, by definition, untrue) – whatever it was and whoever was involved, it was none of his business and quite definitely not his fault. Not his mess to tidy, not his dishes to wash, not his sink to unblock, not his socks to pair. Screw the lot of them. Because he wasn’t allowed to quit, he’d just sit there nice and quiet and sort Mortensen printouts until either he or the partners retired or died. As a plan of campaign (he told himself, as he set his alarm and switched off the light) it was utterly flawless. It would work. It had to.