by Holt, Tom
‘I think so,’ Paul said.
‘Real coffee, not decaff?’
‘Um,’ Paul said. He’d met coffee snobs before, the sort who looked at you like you were a cowpat or something just because you didn’t have Lavazza Double Espresso or Jamaican Red Mountain grown on the southern slope of the hill facing the sea. ‘It’s only instant,’ he said. ‘Nescafé,’ he admitted, in a very small voice.
‘Perfect,’ said Mr Wurmtoter, visibly sagging with relief. ‘Tell you what, you just lead the way and I’ll make it myself.’
Ricky’s idea of the proper way to make decent coffee turned out to be filling the cup half full with coffee powder and adding just enough cold water to turn it into syrup. ‘Thanks,’ he sighed after his third dose. ‘I ought to be all right now.’
‘Pleasure,’ Paul said. ‘Um, it’s nice to see you again.’
Ricky leant against the kitchen worktop, then slid slowly down onto the floor. ‘Do me a favour,’ he said. ‘Just nip and fetch my sword, would you? Only, I don’t really feel like getting up, just for a moment.’
Rational explanation, Paul said to himself as he picked the sword up, using forefinger and thumb, as though retrieving a cigarette butt from a pint of milk. A bloke smashes in through the window in evening dress, cuts himself to ribbons but appears impervious to pain, falls over and demands very strong black coffee. Sherlock and Hercule and the boys wouldn’t have had to work very hard to figure that one out: Mr Wurmtoter has been out celebrating his release with the aid of intoxicating liquor, and is not feeling well. But Paul had seen enough happy drunks to fill a Students’ Union, and Ricky wasn’t drunk. He glanced at the sword, and shuddered. It was a remarkably sword-shaped sword: plain steel, smeared all over with some kind of reddish-black gunge, with several large chunks bitten out of the cutting edge. He held it away from himself at arm’s length as he returned to the kitchen.
‘You’re probably wondering,’ Ricky mumbled, ‘why the evening dress.’
Actually, Paul had been wondering just that. ‘You were on your way somewhere?’ he said.
Ricky nodded. ‘Couple of weeks ago? Can’t remember how long. You lose track of time, understandably. I was going to some bloody stupid awards ceremony – hell of a lot of them in the hero business, as you’d expect, always some pest in a tux chasing after you with the Which Armour? Lifetime Achievement Award for Manticore Management or some such garbage. Anyhow, I was just getting out of the limo, smiling for the cameras and all, and I suddenly felt terribly sleepy. Shit, I thought, here we go again; and when I came round, there I was, in the dark, rats shuffling, water dripping, that whole scene.’ He laughed shrilly. ‘I hate that, it makes you feel such an idiot, you know? Anyhow, I thought about it, had plenty of time for thinking, came to the conclusion that someone must’ve slipped a Mickey in my tea back at the office. The thing is, though, who? There’s only two people it could’ve been, and I can’t see either of them . . .’ He frowned, shook his head as if to clear it. ‘But on balance,’ he went on, ‘out of two really, really unlikely candidates, you’re just about the more believable, by a tiny margin.’ Moving so fast that Paul couldn’t follow how he did it, Ricky sprang to his feet and flipped the point of the sword up under Paul’s chin. It pricked. ‘Was it you?’ Ricky said.
What Paul actually said was ‘Squeak,’ rather than Of course not, don’t be bloody ridiculous. He hoped very much that Mr Wurmtoter was fluent in inarticulate noises.
Two seconds, maybe three; then Ricky lowered the sword and flopped back down onto the floor like a bag of bones. ‘It couldn’t have been you,’ he said quietly. ‘In which case—’ The sword slipped out of his hand and clattered on the tiles. ‘In which case, I must be wrong about the Mickey. I just can’t believe he’d do that . . .’ His eyelids were drooping, his head lolled sideways. ‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘help me stay awake. This is really quite important.’
‘Sure,’ Paul mumbled. ‘Um, how?’
‘Cold water. Splash. Please.’
Paul filled a saucepan from the tap, thinking, Well, how often does the boss ask you to drench him in cold water? He poured.
‘Thanks,’ Ricky said, shaking himself like a wet dog. ‘That’s much better. You’re being a great help, you know that? Carry on this way, you’ll be in the frame for Best Sidekick at next year’s Percies.’
‘Gosh,’ Paul said neutrally. ‘Um, Ricky, do you think you could possibly tell me what’s going on? Only—’ He hesitated, intrigued beyond endurance. ‘Percies?’
‘Parsifal awards,’ Ricky said. ‘Scunthorpe Heroism Festival. Generally regarded in the trade as a good indication of form for the Freddies, but I never bother going unless I’m shortlisted.’
‘Right,’ Paul muttered.
Ricky Wurmtoter yawned. ‘Do you think you could make me some more coffee?’ he said. ‘A bit stronger this time, if that’s OK. Only, I think the last lot’s starting to wear off.’
There was only enough coffee powder left for four more cups, but Ricky announced that that would probably be enough to keep him going, at least until Starbucks opened in the morning. ‘Mustn’t fall asleep again, see,’ he explained. ‘Vitally important. Life and death.’
Ah, right, Paul thought; only — ‘Are you sure you should be drinking that stuff?’ he said. ‘Isn’t caffeine terribly bad for concussion?’
Ricky looked at him as though he hadn’t got a clue what Paul meant; then he laughed. ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘concussion’s the least of my problems right now. No, reason I mustn’t fall asleep is, mustn’t dream. No more dreams, not ever, if I can possibly help it. Had enough dreams to last me.’ He looked up. ‘You do know about dreams, don’t you? Dreams, the Fey, the whole shooting match?’
There comes a point when striving to cope and being a brave little soldier cease to have any meaning. ‘Dreams,’ Paul repeated. ‘You mean, like when you’re asleep?’
‘Of course that kind of dream,’ Ricky said, frowning. ‘Bloody hell, didn’t anybody tell you when you joined the firm? You mean to say,’ he went on, his anger growing steadily, ‘that you’ve been happily getting into bed and going to sleep and having dreams as though there was nothing to worry about, and you don’t know even the basic safety precautions?’
Paul stared at him. ‘Is there something to worry about?’ he said.
‘Are you kidding? Dreams, for God’s sake. That’s like saying, does it really matter if you dive into a swimming pool full of nitroglycerine holding a lighted stick of dynamite? I don’t know, of all the bloody stupid irresponsible—’
‘Oh, come on,’ Paul couldn’t help saying. ‘Yes, I get some pretty weird dreams these days, but that can’t hurt you, can it? I mean, it’s all just stuff getting played back in your subconscious, isn’t it? How can you possibly come to any harm if you’re just sleeping peacefully?’
For a moment, Ricky had trouble making his voice work. When he finally spoke, he was scarily calm. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘How do most people die?’
Paul didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Old age?’ he ventured. ‘Illness?’
‘Most people,’ Ricky replied quietly, ‘die in their sleep.’ He turned his face away for a moment, then looked back. ‘Sleep’s a bit like water, it’s fine so long as you don’t try breathing it. Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m a pretty courageous guy. You don’t have to take my word, I’ve got a shelfload of gongs and stuff to prove it, from Hero Monthly Bravest Newcomer of 1987 right up to my 2003 Freddy for Best Daredevil.’ He paused for a moment, simpering ever so slightly, then went on: ‘But you know what? There’s one thing that scares me so much I can’t bear thinking about it. I’m afraid I’ll die in my bed, with my eyes shut, sleeping. I know the Fey, and I trust them about as far as I could sneeze them out of my ear. Now do you understand?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, for crying out—’ Ricky pulled himself together with an effort. ‘All right, let’s take this a step at a time. You know about the Fey, right? What they are. Whe
re they come from.’
Paul thought about that. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Fine.’ Ricky settled his back more comfortably against the side of the fridge door, then went on: ‘The Fey are dreams, Paul. That’s the very essence of what they are. They start to exist when one of us, a real person, sees them in our sleep. And normally, that’s the only place they can exist, inside our dreams. In a way, it’s a good existence: they don’t need to eat or sleep or work, they never get old or sick, they don’t have to bother with relationships or office politics or guilt trips or even being bored out of their skulls; once we’ve created them, generally speaking they can be whatever they want, inside the dream. But they can’t exist outside that little cartoon speech bubble we make when we’re asleep; and they’ve got to have someone to dream them, carry on dreaming them, or they just go pop! and fade away. In a sense they’re like the dead; you know about them, they can only keep existing so long as someone remembers them. But the Fey never existed at all, they’ve never been solid or real, just pictures in somebody’s mind. That’s why they’re so resentful; and it makes them dangerous.’
‘Oh,’ Paul said. It seemed the only appropriate comment in the circumstances.
‘Dangerous,’ Ricky repeated – he was talking mostly to himself now, Paul thought. ‘Which wouldn’t matter, only they’re so goddamned clever and resourceful. They found out, a long time ago, that if one of us dies in the middle of a dream, if they’re really quick they can slip through the gap and change places with the dying guy; they become sort of real, the dying guy’s stranded in the Kingdom of the Fey. You wouldn’t like it there, Paul. I’ve been there. It’s not so good.’ He swallowed and took a couple of deep breaths. ‘You know why my Viking ancestors were all so dead keen on dying in battle? You can’t fight in your sleep. It’s so much safer getting your head split open with an axe.’
‘I see,’ Paul lied. ‘So that’s why it’s dangerous going to sleep.’
‘Part of it,’ Ricky said, shaking his head. ‘There’s more. I said that if they sneak out when someone dies, they can sort of exist. Very much sort of. They still need someone to dream them, see; it’s just that while they’re being dreamed, they can walk about and talk and do stuff over here, in real life.’ He paused for breath, then continued: ‘Which means that whoever’s dreaming them can’t be allowed to wake up, or they go straight back to where they came from, and no chance of ever getting through again. So, you see, the ones who’ve managed to get through are completely ruthless. They’ll do anything to anybody to keep from getting sent home. And if it means getting hold of some poor bastard and putting him to sleep for the rest of his life – like a coma, I suppose, only it’s worse, because you can feel what’s being done to you, all the time – well, they don’t give a damn. That’s what the Fey are, Paul. They’re parasites and predators, and if they get their hooks into you, it’s far, far worse than being dead, believe me.’
‘But that’s —’ Paul shook his head slowly. ‘That’s awful. Hang on, though. The Countess: she’s one of them, isn’t she?’
‘She’s more than that. She’s the boss, the Queen of the Fey. Says so on the headed notepaper, in case you haven’t looked.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Paul said. ‘But if she’s that bad, that dangerous, why the hell don’t you all do something about it? Stick a stake through her heart or something.’
Ricky grinned feebly. ‘There are several reasons,’ he said. ‘I guess the main one is that she brings in about seven and a quarter million dollars in fees every year. We’re running a business, after all, and the overheads just keep on shooting up. I mean, take business rates—’
Paul made a sort of strangled noise, then made himself stay calm. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now I know about the bloody Fey. But that doesn’t explain why it’s so dangerous to go to sleep. I mean, why would they be after me, particularly?’
‘You can dream,’ Ricky replied. ‘In fact, you do it rather well. My guess is, that’s why Judy was so dead keen to hire you, when you came along for interview. She can smell a good dreamer upwind a hundred miles away. Now there’s things you can do to keep safe, charms and talismans and stuff, but nobody seems to have told you about them. That bothers me, you know?’
‘It bothers you,’ Paul echoed.
Ricky nodded. ‘Don’t get the idea they’re a hundred per cent bulletproof, by the way,’ he added. ‘Because they aren’t, or else I wouldn’t have needed to drink all your coffee. But they’re like a burglar alarm. Most of the time they’re enough to make the Fey decide you’re more trouble than you’re worth, so they go away and pick on someone else. But if they’re determined to get you, it’s pretty hard to keep them out. It’s like putting the chain on the door when the bad guys have a battering ram.’ He yawned again; such a huge yawn, he could’ve swallowed a cross-Channel ferry. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe for you while I’m here – actually, let’s be honest, it won’t be a hell of a lot safer for you after I leave, but it’s worth clinging on to those few probability points – and anyhow, I’ve got a whole load of stuff I need to do before I show up at the office on Monday.’ He frowned, his face reflecting the struggle he was having trying to focus his mind. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘how did you get on with that wyvern? In the cash machine.’
‘I sat on it.’
Ricky nodded vaguely. ‘Way to go,’ he said. ‘Best foot forward, and if feet aren’t going to cut it, use what it takes to get the job done. Is there a back door or a fire escape?’
‘No. I mean, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen one, but—’
‘Forget it. You got any rope?’
In the end, Paul knotted his dressing-gown cord to his spare belt to the extension lead for Sophie’s hairdryer (she’d taken the dryer but had forgotten the lead), and hung on for grim death as Ricky scrambled down from the bathroom window onto the flat roof beneath. The last Paul saw of him was a quick wave of the hand before he vanished into the darkness.
Jesus, Paul thought, and, since he was all out of coffee, made himself a cup of tea. Clearly there were enough implications in what Ricky had told him to scare him to death fifteen times over. The sensible course of action, therefore, was to think about something else. Also, it was imperative that he stay awake for the rest of his life. Absolutely no question about that. Whatever else he did or didn’t do, closing his eyes, even for a split second, was out of the question. Sleep-free zone. Just say no.
Zzzzz.
He dreamed that he was sitting at his kitchen table, his head cushioned on his arms, fast asleep, with an untouched cup of strong sweet tea six inches from his left elbow. He dreamed that as he slept, Countess Judy di Castel’Bianco walked in through the shattered window, and behind her followed a dozen or so very tall, very blond children, cloaked and hooded and carrying strange objects that he didn’t recognise but which he knew were various kinds of weapon. It’d be really nice if I could wake up now, he thought, as Countess Judy stood over him, grabbed his hair and pulled his head up; how the hell can I sleep through all this? he wondered. That thing with the hair has got to hurt like buggery, you’d have thought I’d wake up screaming right now. No such luck, though; he watched as Judy tilted his head over to expose the side of his neck, and held out her other hand, into which one of the tall children silently placed a long, thin knife. What was it Ricky had said about people dying in their sleep? Judy was positioning his head just so, with what looked like the skill that comes with an awful lot of practice; she was looking for the whatchamacallit vein; because his head was full of dreams, Paul couldn’t think of the right word – not arterial, because that was roads, not vernacular, that was slang, not judicial, that was laws and stuff. Jugular, that’s it, looking for the jugular vein. Didn’t take her long. The knife looked like it was plenty sharp. That was a good thing, right? Won’t feel a thing. Promise.
Pity, he thought. My life’s been like a book you borrow from the library but never get around to reading until it’s due
back, and in a second or two it’ll be over. Not that I’d ever have got around to doing anything with it, justifying my existence, making the world a better place. It was just a life, and most of the time it was either boring or horrible. Even so; I hadn’t finished with it yet, and already here was the waiter to clear away the dirty plates. Pathetic, really. And now her hand was on his shoulder, gripping like a G-clamp, shaking him—
‘Wake up,’ Ricky Wurmtoter shouted in his ear. ‘Wake up, for fuck’s— That’s better. Now, look at me.’
Paul opened his eyes. ‘Am I dead?’ he asked.
‘Only from the neck up. Bloody hell, Paul, what did I tell you about not falling asleep?’
‘It was— Excuse me.’ Paul floundered to his feet like a newborn foal and sprint-slithered to the bathroom, where he was sick with spectacular energy, though his projectile placement was indifferent. Then he staggered back to the kitchen. ‘She was here,’ he muttered, dabbing at his face and neck with a towel. ‘She was just about to—’
‘All right,’ Ricky said, wincing. ‘Spare me the full narrative. Just as well I forgot this and had to come back for it,’ he added, showing Paul the sword. ‘Oh, and I got you this on the way, from the all-night shop up the road. Doewe Egberts,’ he explained, carefully placing a huge jar of coffee granules on the table top. ‘Since you’ll be pretty much living on the stuff for a while, I thought you might as well have a brand that doesn’t taste of bitumen dissolved in piss. In fact, if I were you I’d get a proper cafetière and some Whittards Mocha. False economy is not your friend.’
Paul nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I – I believe you now,’ he added. ‘But why would she want to kill me? I never did her any harm.’
Ricky was looking at him oddly. ‘Are you sure about that?’ he said. ‘Or maybe it’s the other way around entirely. Maybe you did her a really good turn, something very useful indeed. In which case,’ he explained, ‘that makes you an accessory.’
