In Your Dreams

by Holt, Tom

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Splendid. And you need my help because when I was alive I was one of a tiny handful of humans who knew almost as much about effective magic as the Fey, and because I’m your uncle.’

  Paul nodded grimly. ‘Partly.’

  ‘Partly?’

  ‘Yup. Mostly, though, because it was you who landed me in this shit in the first place.’

  For a moment, Uncle Ernie looked startled; then his face relaxed into a slight frown. ‘You certainly are perceptive,’ he said. ‘More so than I gave you credit for. Or did someone tell you?’

  ‘Countess Judy.’

  ‘Ah.’ Uncle Ernie pursed his lips. ‘That does seem to be the sort of thing she would do. A remarkable woman and extraordinarily talented, but with an unfortunate malicious streak; she does rather tend to regard cruelty as an end in itself.’

  Beside the point. Paul glared at him. ‘So it really is true, then,’ he said. ‘My parents sold me to the firm.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it was you who told the partners about me, which was why they made the offer in the first place.’

  Uncle Ernie shrugged. ‘Simple heredity,’ he said. ‘You could work it out on your fingers, if you wanted to. And, of course, I needed you. Both of you,’ he added, looking away for a moment. ‘The Fey have got to be stopped, you see, before they start doing serious damage. As soon as I realised that I was essentially on my own – there was even a traitor inside JWW itself – I knew that I couldn’t do what had to be done all by myself. I needed to get out of harm’s way for a while, and I needed someone to carry on the work while I was – indisposed. So,’ he added, ‘after a certain amount of heart-searching and misgivings, I involved you. Then I left.’

  ‘You died,’ Paul said.

  ‘As you say, I died. You must understand, I was at the end of my resources. The orthodox Fey, led by Countess Judy, were certain to kill me very soon. The dissident movement that I’d started among the more conscientious Fey had foundered; they weren’t prepared to follow me any longer, and I can’t say I blame them. I’m a reasonably talented magician, though I do say it myself, but I lack the quality most needed in an inspirational leader: courage. I’m a coward, Paul, I admit it freely. Certainly no hero. You, on the other hand—’

  There is only so much a person can take. ‘What is it with you people?’ Paul said. ‘First I’m a natural magician, then I’m a born bauxite-scryer, now I’m the last, best hope of humanity against whoever these Fey are supposed to be. All right, maybe that’s true. But for the last time—’ He was almost shouting by now. ‘For the last fucking time, I am not a hero. All I did was fill in forms and sit on a poxy little dragon. I can’t do the job and I don’t want it. What part of that are you having problems with?’

  ‘You,’ Uncle Ernie went on imperturbably, ‘on the other hand, are a textbook archetype; if I was still teaching, I’d take you along to lectures and point at you so the class could take notes. You’re the accidental hero, the dear little chap with furry feet and glasses who sneaks under the gap in the fence that’s too small for the musclebound swordsmen to get through. You should be, after all. I bred you that way.’

  Just when you think you’ve heard it all – ‘You what?’

  ‘Bred you.’ Uncle Ernie nodded serenely. ‘Hell of a job. Our family – your father’s side – have all the magic and no balls; your mother’s side have the hearts of lions and the brains of plankton. You have no idea how much effort went into persuading your mother even to go out with your father, let alone marry him. Thank God for JWW’s patent love philtre, is all I can say; and even then, it wasn’t easy. In the end I had to pump both of them so full of the stuff it’s a wonder they didn’t float down the aisle like a couple of Poohsticks. But that wasn’t what you wanted to talk to me about, was it?’

  For two and a quarter minutes, Paul couldn’t say a word. The cumulative effect was too overpowering. He desperately wanted not to believe a word of it; he’d have given anything for a tiny drop of scepticism, the slightest grounds for doubt. Unfortunately, deep down it was like finally remembering something that’s been on the tip of your tongue all day – a name or the missing middle bit of a song lyric – he’d known all this, somehow, and forgotten it a very long time ago. He knew for certain that it was true, though how he knew was another matter entirely. ‘You bastard,’ he said eventually. ‘You complete bastard. How could you?’

  Uncle Ernie raised an eyebrow at him, Spockwise. ‘I’m going to let you in on a little secret,’ he said, ‘something that very few people in the whole world know, but it’s very important and likely to prove extremely useful to you in later life, assuming you have any. In all human history,’ he went on, ‘there have been exactly two recorded and verified instances of a genuine coincidence; and there’s a considerable body of influential academic opinion that reckons one of them’s a fix. Accordingly, whenever you run into something that looks like a coincidence, the first questions you should ask yourself are: who’s buggering me about this time, and why are they doing it? There now,’ he added, ‘I’ve just given you a gift whose value is beyond rubies, and all you can do is stare at me with your mouth open, like a bad-mannered koi carp. You still haven’t told me what it is you want, and time’s getting on. We do have time down here, you know, lots of it; quantitatively speaking, the difference between here and Topside is like the difference between the Pacific Ocean and a paddling pool. Even so, I wouldn’t leave it too long, if I were you. It’d be an awful bore if Judy figured out what you’ve done before you get back to life.’ He gave Paul a jagged grin, like a rip in the canvas of a smiling portrait. ‘You do want to go back, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Paul said weakly. ‘Though it’s not nearly the same clear-cut issue it would’ve been a few days ago. All right,’ he said with an effort, ‘I suppose I’ve got to do it, whatever it is you want me to do. But—’ If he’d been listening to himself at that moment, he’d have been impressed, or thought it was somebody else talking; somebody brave and firm and forceful, a non-taker of crap from anybody; a hero, even. ‘But if I manage to get this bloody horrible job done, that’s it, all right? No more pulling my strings and secret destinies and little odd jobs that’ll kill me and that nobody else can do. The rest of my life’s my own. Understood?’

  Uncle Ernie laughed. ‘You remind me of your father when he was young,’ he said, ‘only without the colossal stupidity and total lack of charm. Yes, understood. After this is over, any messes you get into will be entirely your own fault. Will that do?’

  Paul thought about it, then nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I’ll settle for that. So, what’ve I got to do?’

  Brief, uncomfortable silence. ‘Why are you asking me?’ Uncle Ernie said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Why are you asking me? I don’t know what’s going on Topside, do I? I’ve been dead for months. You’re the one who came down here to ask me questions.’

  ‘Oh,’ Paul said. ‘But I thought—’

  ‘You were supposed,’ Uncle Ernie added sternly, ‘to have a Plan.’

  ‘Ah.’ Also, Paul added to himself, fuck. ‘Well, I did have a plan, but I seem to have lost it somewhere. Or your friend Judy wiped it out of my mind while I was asleep.’

  ‘You mean—’ Uncle Ernie stared at him for a moment as if he’d come across a winged chip snuggled up next to his battered cod. ‘You went to all this trouble, died, and you’ve forgotten what it was you needed to ask me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul said; and if he’d been a really heroic hero, he’d probably have scowled and asked his uncle if he wanted to make anything of it. But he didn’t.

  ‘Wonderful. Absolutely bloody marvellous.’ Uncle Ernie rolled his eyes. ‘In that case, my young apprentice, I have a nasty feeling we’re screwed.’

  That wasn’t really what Paul wanted to hear. ‘Hang on,’ he said desperately. ‘What if I had another look in that stone thing—?’

  ‘How?’ Uncle Ernie snapped. �
��What with? You’re dead. You can’t see, and you can’t take it with you. I take back what I said just now; you’re exactly like your father, except possibly not quite as bright. Dear God, how could anybody be so pathetically—?’

  ‘All right.’ The hero voice again. ‘Don’t go all to pieces at me now, I can’t cope. We’ll just have to do the best we can, that’s all.’

  Under other circumstances, it’d have been interesting watching Uncle Ernie pulling himself together; you could practically hear the nuts and bolts tightening. ‘Let’s do that, shall we?’ he said, with just the faintest of sighs. ‘Start at the beginning. You’ve got my box.’

  ‘Box.’

  ‘Box.’ Uncle Ernie managed to keep his balance on the edge of hysteria, but only just. ‘Cardboard box. I left it with some lawyers. You did get it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Visible relief. ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘They had the nerve to charge me a hundred . . .’

  ‘Quiet.’ Paul had the good grace to shut up. ‘Now then, in the box you should have found my personal shield.’

  Paul nodded. ‘Sea Scout badge.’

  ‘That’s right. Now, so long as you’ve got that, you really haven’t got anything to worry about, because—’

  ‘They’ve got it.’

  ‘What?’

  Paul bit his lip. ‘The enemy. They’ve got it now. I, um, left it on my desk, and they’ve—’

  Uncle Ernie closed his eyes. ‘This isn’t getting better,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the rest of it, though. Tell me you’ve got the other stuff.’

  ‘No. Well, sort of,’ Paul added quickly. ‘Someone’s looking after them for me, but it’s all right, I trust her.’ He caught the tail end of that and replayed it quickly. I trust Mr Tanner’s mum? I’m prepared to risk my life and the future of my species on the integrity of a nymphomaniac goblin. Bloody hell, I do too. Pretty well says it all, that does. ‘I can get the stuff back any time.’

  Uncle Ernie sighed. ‘I do hope you’re right; otherwise, if Judy were to get hold of it, the only sensible thing would be to stay here and ask Mr Dao to seal us up in our boxes and throw away the box-cutter. But here’s hoping. The chalks – you found them?’

  ‘Coloured chalk, yes,’ Paul said.

  ‘Burn them,’ Uncle Ernie said. ‘Find a really good hot fire, like a furnace or a boiler. You should also have my watch, my pen and my screwdriver, yes?’

  Paul cast his mind back. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘The watch does something silly to the space/time continuum, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Uncle Ernie said sourly. ‘With it, you can halt the progress of time. Be careful with it, though; it’s old and fragile, and if you break the winding mechanism, you’re stuck. I wouldn’t play with it if I were you.’

  ‘I wasn’t proposing to—’ Paul calmed down. ‘Understood,’ he said. ‘What about the pen, and the screwdriver?’

  ‘Oh, they’re straightforward enough. The pen writes only the truth. It’s a clever little gadget, but totally illegal, ever since an ancestor of ours lent one to Gladstone so that he could finish writing an important speech. The screwdriver’s probably the single most useful thing; it’ll—’

  The bead curtain was wrenched back, and Mr Dao came in. ‘Apologies,’ he said to Paul in an agitated voice, ‘but if you wish to leave you must do so now.’ From his sleeve he took a tiny bottle. ‘I’ve just been told that the auditors have arrived and are waiting for me in my office. This is highly irregular; they have the power to make surprise visits, but this is the first time they’ve used that power in twelve thousand years. I suspect that someone who is not well-intentioned towards either of you has arranged this. You,’ he went on, nodding to Paul, ‘are not yet registered, so they must not find you here; it would embarrass me, and of course it would mean you could never leave, in spite of what is in that bottle. As for you,’ he said to Uncle Ernie, ‘I suggest that you get back in your box and keep absolutely still and quiet until they’ve gone. In theory, the contents of safety deposit boxes are confidential. In practice, if they wanted to open a box, I can’t see how I could stop them. Now,’ he added, reaching out for Paul’s sleeve then stopping abruptly, as though remembering something at the last moment. ‘Drink the blood and go. The doors should open for you automatically, but try not to imagine them, just to be on the safe side. The fewer of them you can envisage, the better.’

  Paul nodded, then turned to say goodbye to his uncle; but there was no trace of him, and his shoebox was back where it’d been on its shelf. Paul looked back at Mr Dao. ‘What’ve I got to do?’ he said.

  ‘Drink the blood. Hand me the bottle. Run.’

  It felt horribly strange having a body again; like putting on the oldest, smelliest clothes you could imagine, the sort of things a scarecrow would give to a charity shop. He’d never been happier, however, with his previously despised legs. Thin, puny and turkey-like they might be, but at least they worked. In fact, he was impressed at the turn of speed he was able to get out of them as he sprinted across nothing at all in the direction (he fervently hoped) of the door of the cashier’s room.

  Paul could’ve wept for joy when he saw it: a faint outline in the gloom, fringed with an almost impossible greyish glow. Sagging with relief, he grabbed the handle, turned it and pushed.

  Nothing happened. Then he remembered. Of course it wouldn’t open. He’d nailed it shut himself, to keep the fake Melze from bursting in on him while he was making his illicit search of her filing cabinet.

  He tried kicking it, shoulder-charging it (ouch), pushing against it with his back, using the muscles of his legs (scientific approach; useless), swearing at it and asking it nicely. He tried prayer, tears, and calling for his mummy. He tried bribing it. He broke the blade of his knife trying to cut through it, one shred of wood fibre at a time. He was just about to try crouching down beside it in a huddle and sobbing hysterically when somebody said his name.

  He looked up. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You again.’

  ‘Paul?’ The fake Melze was standing over him, looking concerned and vaguely maternal. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you okay? You look – Paul, last time I saw you, I thought you were dead.’

  Paul nodded. ‘I was. I probably still am. Long story.’

  ‘Oh.’ She frowned. ‘What did you mean a while back when you called me a liar?’

  ‘What I said. You aren’t the real Demelza Horrocks. I don’t think you’re even human.’ He swore, and kicked savagely at the door, thereby damaging his other foot. ‘Now look what you made me do.’

  ‘Paul, I don’t know what you—’

  ‘You’re one of them, aren’t you? The dream creatures, Countess Judy’s lot.’ He looked up at her; her eyes were deep and full of pain. Why? Because— ‘She made you, didn’t she?’

  Slowly, the fake Melze nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Somebody told you, right?’

  ‘No, just for once I figured it out for myself. Actually, I had help; the real you phoned me. Apparently she’s living in Saffron Walden, wherever that is. But I should’ve known, shouldn’t I? Right from the start. Or at least, as soon as you began—’ He hesitated, not wanting to say the word. ‘As soon as you started liking me. You were only ever bait, or a distraction.’

  She made a sort of gulping noise, then started crying messily; tears and sniffs and hiccups all jumbled together. ‘It’s not my fault,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t help it. That’s just the way I was made. I really do—’

  ‘Quiet,’ Paul snapped. ‘I don’t want to hear it. You’re not real.’

  ‘But I am,’ she wailed furiously. ‘I’m completely really real, and I completely really love you.’ Guilt and anger don’t mix well together; the combination made Paul want to smash her teeth in with one hand and hug her with the other. ‘Tough,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that you’re nothing but a glorified mousetrap. And you’re on her side. We
ll, aren’t you?’

  She snuffled a couple of times, then nodded. ‘She made me,’ she said. ‘I can’t help it. It’s not fair,’ she added, as two fat tears rolled down her cheeks and onto her chin. ‘I’ve got to do what she tells me, I’ve got no choice at all, but I can still feel – That’s real enough, I promise you.’

  ‘Oh, for—’ Paul shook his head. ‘Look,’ he said, grabbing her by the arms; she tried to push him away, but not very hard. ‘We need to get out of here.’

  ‘I know,’ she mumbled. ‘But there’s something wrong with the door, and I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Um.’ Paul let go of her. ‘It’s nailed shut,’ he said, ‘from the other side. Two bits of two-by-four battens, with two six-inch nails on each side going through into the frame. I put them there,’ he added.

  ‘You? But—’ She stared at him. ‘Then how did you get through?’

  ‘I died. And now,’ he added, ‘I’m bloody well stuck, and it’s all your fault.’

  ‘My—?’

  ‘I only did it to keep you from coming through the door while I was looking in your filing cabinet. Because you’re on their side. I—’ He looked at his shoes. ‘I guess I didn’t think it through properly. This is all my fault really.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said automatically. ‘I’ve got to say that,’ she added with a faint smile. ‘I can’t be angry, or think, Jesus, what a total loser, even though I really want to; I’ve got to be forgiving and supportive and tell you it’s all right, you couldn’t be expected to think of everything.’

  Paul looked at her. ‘That’s awful,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ She was blushing, or else crying had turned her face bright red. ‘There’s got to be some way we can get out of here. How about if we both try charging it?’

  They tried. No dice. ‘Ouch,’ she said, rubbing her shoulder. ‘I never realised you had such a flair for DIY.’

  ‘Sometimes I surprise myself,’ Paul replied sourly. ‘These days, the queue of people wanting to be my worst enemy tends to stretch back halfway down the hall, but I’m still quite definitely at the head of it.’ He turned his head and looked at her. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do, is there?’