by Holt, Tom
Paul didn’t have to look for the door; he knew where it was in the same way that you can find your alarm clock in the pitch dark. It was shut, of course, but he’d got that point covered. If his calculations were accurate (bottom of the class in maths, first-year primary school to seventh-year secondary school inclusive), it was nearly time for the cashier to do the banking. He knew JWW well enough by now to know that come what might – murder, treachery, civil war, the obliteration of the entire human species – somebody would be along to pay in the takings and draw tomorrow’s cheques, even if Dennis Tanner or Theo van Spee had to do it. He sat down by the door, shooed away a couple of his great-great-grandparents, drawn by the smell of Carpenter blood, and waited.
Time passes differently in the grounds of the Bank; a century can slip by in a minute, a second can seem like a thousand years. Even making allowances for that, Paul reckoned that he’d been waiting there rather a long time. The nasty thought occurred to him that whoever was doing the banking today might have done it early, in which case the door wouldn’t open again for close on twenty-four hours, by which time the tiny dribble of blood would be all used up.
The chalks, he thought; the chalks that Uncle Ernie made me burn, which can write messages across the Line. He could go back and borrow them, and write a message on his side of the door – HELP!! or something equally succinct. But what if whoever was doing the banking came through while he was off chalk-scrounging? Fine, Paul decided; I’ll sit here till five-thirty, and then I’ll know they’ve done the banking already, and then I can go back for the chalk. Except that, after five-thirty, there’d be nobody left in the building but goblins, and he was by no means convinced that they’d be either willing or able to open the door.
‘’Scuse me.’
He didn’t look round. ‘Go away,’ he said.
‘’Scuse me.’
‘Piss off. I can’t spare you any blood, I’m sorry. Goodbye.’
‘’Scuse me.’
Not now, Paul thought, please not now. He looked round. A small, wizened, elderly goblin was standing over him, so old and little and funny-looking that it wasn’t in the least alarming, though you wouldn’t want it standing next to the sauce bottle while you were eating a cooked breakfast.
‘Yes?’ Paul sighed. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Just thought I’d say hello,’ the goblin replied. ‘Never seen you before, see. Before my time, you were.’
‘Well—’ Paul said, shrugging vaguely. Then the dropping penny landed. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘If you’ve come to see me and we can talk to each other and all – Does that mean we’re related?’
The goblin didn’t appear to have heard him. ‘I always try and make a point of coming and saying hello, every time one of our lot checks in. Just to be friendly, you know. First time in a strange place, it’s nice to have someone to meet you, I always think.’
‘Excuse me,’ Paul said warily, ‘but are you a goblin?’
‘That’s right. Well, nice meeting you. I’d better be getting along now. Hope you settle in all right. Oh, and give my best to our Dennis when you see him.’
Before Paul could stop him, the goblin had vanished. Paul thought about the implications of what it had said just long enough to realise that he really didn’t want to know, then turned his attention back to the problem of not staying dead. He’d just made up his mind to risk going back for the chalks when a thin knife blade of fire burst through the door frame. It was so long since he’d seen anything like it that it took him a moment to realise that it was light, the glow of the hundred-watt bulb in the cashier’s room showing through as the door opened.
Paul bounded to his feet like a dog expecting a walk. ‘Hello—’ he started to say, then froze.
‘Hello yourself,’ replied Mr Tanner. ‘Don’t tell me, the door slammed and you got stuck.’ He grinned, and then the grin slid sideways into a scowl. ‘What are you doing in here, anyway?’ he said. ‘You should be in your office, scanning those photos for bauxite deposits. I thought I told you, I need them by tomorrow.’
‘Sorry,’ Paul said. ‘I, um, got sidetracked. Well, actually,’ he amended, ‘I died. Ricky – Mr Wurmtoter, I mean. He shot me.’
Mr Tanner shrugged. ‘Always was a clumsy prat. Hold on, though. You can’t have died, you’re alive.’
Paul smiled feebly. ‘It’s rather a long story, actually. So would it be all right if I just slipped past and got out of here while you go to the Bank? Then you won’t have to rush, I won’t outstay my time here, and I can tell you all about it when you get back, if you like.’
‘Forget it,’ Mr Tanner said. ‘As long as those pictures are back on my desk with the bauxite clearly marked by ten tomorrow morning, I don’t really give a damn. Go on, get out.’
Gratefully, Paul scuttled past him and back into the world. Then something tweaked his mind, like biting on a bad tooth, and he spun round. ‘Mr Tanner,’ he called out, ‘could you wait a moment, please?’
‘What?’
‘It’s just—’ This was going to sound so ridiculous, Paul thought; I’ll never be able to look him in the face again. But— ‘It’s just,’ he said, ‘are we related?’
For the first time since he’d met him, Mr Tanner seemed to be at a loss for words. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘sort of. Very distantly. On my mother’s side,’ he added, as though that somehow made it less awful. ‘How the hell did you find out?’
Paul looked away. ‘I met this dead goblin, back in there, and he said he was, well, family. And that started me thinking, about a photo I saw in an old album. The guy in the photo, my Uncle Derek, though really he was just a cousin. And he didn’t look much like a goblin, but he did have red eyes; and at the time I thought, that’s just the flash, turns your eyes red. But I just remembered: the picture was taken outdoors.’
Mr Tanner scowled. ‘Still don’t see why you thought we were related,’ he said.
‘The person in the picture reminded me of someone,’ Paul mumbled. ‘I just figured out who.’
‘Oh, I see. My mother?’
‘No. More sort of you, actually.’
‘Yes, well.’ Mr Tanner was fidgeting with the handle of his briefcase. ‘Just don’t make a big deal out of it, all right? In fact, why don’t you keep it to yourself and not tell anybody, ever, under any circumstances. Agreed?’
Paul nodded. ‘Sorry to bring it up,’ he said. ‘But one last thing: is that the real reason why your mother keeps saving me from certain death and stuff?’
The expression on Mr Tanner’s face would’ve curdled all the milk in Jersey. ‘No,’ he snapped, and walked swiftly away.
Paul managed to get as far as the chair behind the desk; Benny’s old chair, with shorter legs than customary. He flopped into it, jarring his back somewhat, and felt the last dregs of energy seeping out of him. It had been rather a stressful couple of days, what with dying twice and then finding out that he’d been carefully bred, like a racehorse or a prize pig, and that part of his genetic heritage was shared with Mr Tanner and all those horrible red-eyed, beaked, clawed, inhuman things that took over the office as soon as the doors were locked. The last thought was, he realised, rather unworthy of him; one of the few people he reckoned he could trust further than a snail can move in a third of a second was Mr Tanner’s mum, who was all goblin, goblin plus with added goblin. She was also, of course, a distant cousin. Hellfire. Now he had to go and wake up the girl he loved, and in doing so put a fellow sentient life form to death, coldly and methodically, because he had no choice unless he wanted the twilight of his species on his conscience for the rest of his short life. It was, Paul couldn’t help thinking, all a bit much, particularly on an empty stomach. He tried to remember when he’d last eaten, or shaved, or had a bath, or changed his underwear. Yuck, he thought.
Still. No good sitting around when there was work to be done. (Which reminded him: after he’d rescued Sophie, killed Countess Judy and ensured that there would be a tomorrow for Homo sapiens, he’d
have to find time to do those perishing bauxite pictures, or else face Mr Tanner’s wrath first thing in the morning. A hero’s work was never done, Paul reflected, and it was only the easy bits that got into the epic poems.)
Before Paul could reach the door handle, the door burst open and Ricky Wurmtoter came in. At least he had taken the time to change out of his shredded tux. (And do his hair, and shave, and trim his fingernails, and polish his shoes, and splash on about a quart of repulsive-smelling aftershave, and floss his teeth, and probably sign a couple of dozen eight-by-twelve photographs for his fan club’s next prize draw.) He didn’t have the crossbow any more, either.
‘Hello,’ Paul said. ‘I was hoping to run into you.’ Then, standing on tiptoe so that he could reach, he punched Ricky in the mouth as hard as he could.
Paul hadn’t expected Ricky to fall over; in fact, he’d assumed that the punch would skid off, or he’d break his knuckles, or Ricky wouldn’t even notice. But not a bit of it. Ricky staggered back a couple of paces, put his foot in the waste bin, lost his balance and went down in a manner that could only be described as arse over tip. It was, shameful to say, an incredibly satisfying feeling.
‘Bloody hell,’ Ricky mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his jaw. ‘What’s all that in aid of?’
Paul looked down at him. ‘Oh, just getting in touch with my inner goblin,’ he said. Then he added, ‘YOU BASTARD, YOU BLOODY SHOT ME,’ in a voice that he didn’t recognise but which had to be his.
‘But I kept telling you, it’d be all right. And obviously it is, or you wouldn’t be stood there— No, please, put the chair down, don’t hit me!’
Paul took a moment to relish the sight: Ricky Wurmtoter, master dragonslayer, champion vampire hunter, lieutenant colonel (retired) of the Riders of Rohan, huddled in a sprawl on the floor with both arms wrapped round his head. I did that, Paul thought, coddling his barked knuckles tenderly. Nice punch, though I do say so myself. ‘It’s all right,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I feel better now. I was just a bit uptight for a moment, that’s all.’
Ricky looked at him through a grille of fingers. ‘You sure?’
‘I’m fine, really.’
‘I think you’ve loosened a tooth.’
‘Really?’ And all these years, Paul had assumed that he couldn’t punch a hole in a wet paper bag. ‘I mean, sorry. I expect it’ll be all right. You can use magic on it or something.’
Ricky muttered vaguely about magic not working on teeth, but he got up and looked at Paul warily. ‘You sure you’re over it, whatever it was?’
‘Absolutely. I was just a bit narked about getting killed. Well, killed twice, actually; only the first time was suicide, I suppose, so—’
‘You killed yourself ?’ Ricky had got over his fear, apparently. ‘What in God’s name made you do that?’
‘Well, I thought a chat with my Uncle Ernie might be in order, but he’s dead. And I knew about the nosebleed blood, so—’
Ricky said something in German; it sounded like admiration for Paul’s reckless courage, tempered by profound reservations about his mental health. ‘And did it work?’
‘No, not really. Well, I did get some good advice while I was down there, but the plain fact is that Uncle Ernie’s a bit of a broken reed. Still, there we are. And I went to Countess Judy’s place and rescued Sophie, so that’s all right.’
‘You rescued Sophie,’ Ricky repeated.
Paul nodded. ‘And then Benny Shumway rescued me. I know he was the traitor and all, but he seems to have got over that, now he’s engaged to your sister—’
‘He’s what —?’
Oops. ‘Forget I said that,’ Paul said quickly. ‘In fact, I may have misunderstood entirely, I wasn’t really paying attention—’
‘That evil little shit is messing around with—’
Paul frowned. ‘Oh, don’t be such a misery,’ he said. (The words were out of his mouth before he realised that he was talking to a partner in the firm, management, the boss; but so what? Hardly likely to matter, since he’d just flattened the guy with a right cross.) ‘Benny’s all right. Like I said, he res—’
‘That dirty, lecherous, sneaking, short bastard. I’ll skin him alive and use his hide as a shammy leather. Him and Monika —’
‘Look.’ Paul couldn’t help it. The reproving look and wagging finger were nothing to do with him, and he had no control over them. ‘Benny’s a good bloke. He risked his neck over and over again to keep Countess Judy from having me killed. And at least he cares enough about her to want to turn her back.’
‘He’s a dwarf, for crying out loud. Everybody knows they’re only interested in one thing.’
Paul had heard that, yes, but he was under the impression that it was gold. Oh well. ‘Benny’s not like that,’ he protested. ‘He’s sensitive, he’s got feelings.’
‘I hope he’s got plenty of them in his bum, because I’m going to kick him from here to Burkina Faso.’
‘He’s got feelings,’ Paul repeated sternly. ‘And it’s obvious that he doesn’t just go by appearances. Do you think he’d be in love with your sister if he did? Her being a car, I mean? Obviously not. He knows that beauty isn’t just paintwork-deep.’
‘The hell with Benny Shumway,’ Ricky snapped. ‘I really don’t want to think about that right now. Look, do you think we could get back to the job in hand, and I’ll deal with him later.’
Paul shrugged. ‘If you’re horrible to him, I’ll be very upset,’ he said; and amazingly, Ricky stopped pulling faces and seemed to calm down a little. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Now then, where’ve you hidden the girl?’
Paul was about to tell him, but hesitated. ‘How can I be sure that you’re really who you seem to be?’ he said. ‘For all I know, you could be a shapeshifter or something.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Ricky said. ‘I’m me – look. Now, where’s Sophie?’
But Paul shook his head. ‘I think it’d be a good idea if we went down to the main boardroom, where you’ve got that really clever trick table – you know, where you can see a person’s true shape reflected in the polish. What do you reckon?’
‘Waste of time,’ Ricky said; and there was something in his tone of voice that made Paul wonder whether his right cross and new forceful personality were quite as impressive as he’d thought. And how come Ricky’d managed to get changed and tidied up so quickly? ‘We need to get on,’ Ricky continued, ‘before Judy catches up with us.’
Paul nodded. ‘True,’ he said. ‘Talking of which, how did you get away from her just now? When you shot me and I died, I mean.’
‘Oh, Judy doesn’t scare me,’ Ricky said, with a slightly shrill laugh. ‘I just turned and walked away. But—’
Paul let his right hand slip into his jacket pocket. He didn’t have any sort of plan of action. If the man he was talking to really wasn’t Ricky Wurmtoter, he was fairly sure that he was in deep trouble; and of course, he didn’t have a weapon or anything useful like that, only a magic screwdriver and a magic time-freezing watch. But maybe the enemy, if that’s who it was, didn’t know that.
‘What are you doing?’ Ricky said.
‘Never you mind,’ Paul replied, grasping the screwdriver handle. ‘But I’m giving you fair warning. Either turn back into who you really are and then get lost, or I’ll have to do something about it.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong. I’m Ricky Wurmtoter. Really.’
‘Great. In that case, let’s head on down to the boardroom. You can look at your reflection in the table top. You’ll enjoy that.’
‘You’re starting to get on my nerves, Paul,’ Ricky said, but Paul took no notice. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ he said, taking a step forward. ‘Must be, because you know about what was said back there when I got shot, and you and Ricky were the only people in the room with me.’
For a moment, Ricky seemed to waver and flicker, like a faulty video; then he turned into Countess Judy. She didn’t look the same as she had back in Paul’s office, though: s
horter, thinner, and was that a big red bruise on the side of her face?
‘I underestimated you,’ she said. ‘Instead of being just a minor nuisance, you’re a major nuisance. Congratulations on your promotion.’
Paul didn’t move. ‘First of all, I’d like to thank my agent,’ he said. ‘You don’t frighten me any more, you know.’
‘I don’t?’ Countess Judy looked puzzled. ‘You sure? Because if I was in your shoes I’d be very scared.’
‘And if I was in your shoes I’d be limping. You couldn’t hurt me then, and you can’t hurt me now.’
‘Ah,’ Judy said, and suddenly her face melted into a huge grin. ‘But earlier, you had a cold. Now, it looks like you’re cured. In which case,’ she added, ‘I’m gonna break your fucking neck.’
With that, she lunged forward, grabbing at him with her outstretched left hand. Paul weaved sideways; she didn’t get hold of him but her nails ploughed his cheek, almost but not quite hard enough to draw blood. ‘Tell me where that stupid girl is,’ she snarled, ‘and I’ll let you go. Last offer, and then you’re dead.’
‘How do you mean, earlier I had a cold?’
‘You know perfectly well—’ She grabbed at him again, but he found that keeping out of her way wasn’t so hard after all; he just had to watch her and move his feet. ‘But he’s gone, hasn’t he? You’re on your own now.’
‘You mean Benny Shumway?’
‘Don’t play dumb with me,’ she growled, just a trifle out of breath. ‘I know everything that goes on around here, remember?’
‘Ricky Wurmtoter, then.’
‘Keep still.’ Somehow, Paul didn’t feel inclined to comply. Judy was trying to force him into a corner, but a neat little sideways shuffle solved that. ‘If you don’t tell me, guess I’ll just have to tear the joint apart brick by brick. It’d take me about ten minutes.’
‘Fine by me,’ Paul replied, taking two steps back and one step left. ‘Mr Tanner and Professor van Spee and Mr Suslowicz might get a bit uptight, mind.’
