In Your Dreams

by Holt, Tom

  Paul hadn’t noticed the heap of Mortensen printouts on the desk in front of her. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, fine,’ Sophie said. ‘After you did your stupid heroics thing, Wells put us both out; I was okay straight away, but you’d lost consciousness. Then Mr Shumway turned up and took you away, and Wells said I’d better get back to work. So I came here, and found this lot waiting for me, with a note.’

  Paul nodded. ‘I don’t think they’re very nice people in this office,’ he said.

  ‘I think you’re right. Shame we’re stuck here for the rest of our lives, really.’

  He sat down. He could only see the top of Sophie’s head, because of the pile of printouts. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ll help you with them. Don’t refuse,’ he snapped quickly, ‘just don’t. All right?’

  ‘Please yourself,’ she said. ‘If it makes you feel better, you carry on. Only I thought you had bauxite to scan for.’

  ‘I’ll work late,’ Paul replied. ‘The goblins won’t bother me getting out, and I’ve got nothing in particular to go home for.’

  ‘Don’t start.’

  ‘I’m not starting – it’s true. Now, you take the top half and I’ll do the rest.’

  It seemed like old times, sifting meaningless paperwork together in sullen, embarrassed silence. Paul couldn’t help remembering also the last time he’d had this job to do, when Countess Judy had used it as a trick to make him fall asleep and dream her invasion force over the Line. As far as he knew, they were still out there, albeit cut off from their chain of command and lines of supply; hundreds or maybe thousands of the Fey, masquerading as malignant children somewhere in the Greater London area. Cheerful thought; but not something he was allowed to worry about on the firm’s time, apparently. All right, he told himself, I won’t worry about it, then. Screw it. Somebody else’s problem. He thrust the matter out of his mind, turned the full force of his attention on the printouts, and soon drifted into sleep.

  ‘Hello,’ said the monsters—

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Paul objected. ‘I’m through with all this stuff now, aren’t I? Countess Judy’s gone, why can’t I have my proper dreams back?’

  The monsters giggled. ‘We’re the good Fey, silly,’ said the younger specimen. ‘Remember us? We dropped by to warn you, that night when She had the bomb planted in your metal-thing-for-keeping-old-letters-in. We just wanted to say thanks, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, I remember you now,’ Paul said, oddly touched in spite of everything. ‘Well, it’s nice to have somebody appreciate me, even if—’ He hesitated. Even if it’s only hideous monsters wouldn’t be very gracious. ‘Even if this crowd here don’t seem to think much of it,’ he said clumsily.

  ‘Oh, we’re very grateful,’ said the elder monster. ‘Mostly on account of I’m Queen now – well, acting queen, because She’s still queen theoretically. Did I mention she’s my big sister? You’d never think it to look at me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Paul replied. ‘Same eyes.’

  That seemed to please the monster no end. ‘That’s very sweet of you to say so, though you’re just being nice. Anyhow, all we wanted to say was, you won’t be seeing us again. Any of us. From now on, your dreams are off limits to all the Fey, us and them.’

  ‘Which means,’ said the younger monster, ‘I won’t be able to come and visit you any more. But that’s probably just as well, for your sake.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Paul said. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Silly,’ the monster said, as her face and shape dissolved and re-formed. ‘Now do you recognise me?’ the Girl of His Dreams said, smiling nicely. ‘It was fun, but it’s time for you to move on, isn’t it? You won’t be needing me any more.’

  ‘Won’t I? But—’

  She giggled. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘Can’t say any more, not with the skinny girl here. After having Her camping out in her head all that time, I wouldn’t be surprised if she can hear us. But it’ll be all right eventually, one way or another. You’ll see.’

  Before Paul could say anything, they’d gone, and he sat up with a start. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘You were asleep,’ Sophie said. ‘You were muttering. I hate it when you do that, it’s spooky.’

  ‘It was— Sorry,’ Paul said. ‘It shouldn’t happen again, anyway.’

  ‘Good. Look, why don’t you get on with your bauxite stuff and leave this to me? After all, I don’t care how long it takes me, if I get it all done they’ll just find me something else to do.’

  Paul sighed. ‘Fair enough,’ he replied. ‘Look, I know we can’t be – I mean, I understand what you told me, and if that’s how it’s got to be, that’s that, I suppose. But we’ve still got to work together and be in this rotten little room all the time, so can’t we at least be friends? Otherwise it’s really going to get to me, and I’ve got enough to put up with as it is.’

  Sophie looked at him for a moment, then nodded. ‘Well, not enemies, anyway,’ she said. ‘How about allies? Us against them.’

  ‘All right,’ Paul said. ‘Two heads are better than one, and all that sort of thing. We stand a better chance of getting out of here in one piece if we team up. And then—’ He looked away. ‘Then we can go our separate ways and not bother each other any more. How’s that?’ As he said it, he thought of Mr Dao: It’s been disturbing knowing you. And then he thought: If I still had the Door, couldn’t I just step back through time to before Judy started squatting in Sophie’s head, and maybe we could figure out a way — He frowned. If ideas like that were anything to go by, putting the Door where he couldn’t get at it might well prove to be the best thing he’d ever done.

  Sophie left at chucking-out time; Paul stayed behind to finish the last hundred or so pictures. Either there wasn’t any bauxite in wherever the hell this was, or he’d lost the knack of finding it, temporarily or for ever. Like he cared; dutifully and methodically he traced each photograph with his fingertip, then added it to the Done pile. When the last one went face down, he stood up and reached for his coat.

  ‘Waste of time,’ said a voice behind him. ‘I could’ve told our Dennis that, but he wouldn’t listen to me.’

  ‘For crying out loud,’ Paul said, once he’d started breathing again. ‘You nearly scared me to death.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Mr Tanner’s mum lied. ‘Only you were so deep in it all you didn’t hear me come in. You look so sweet, prodding photos. Like our Dennis when he was learning to read.’

  Paul realised that she hadn’t bothered to transfigure herself into a beautiful girl this time; she was all red eyes and claws and teeth. For some reason, he felt vaguely proud that he hadn’t noticed it straight away. ‘Yes, well,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been forgiven for saving the world, and then set on fire. I can do without a bollocking from your son into the bargain.’

  ‘He’s not that bad, really,’ said Mr Tanner’s mum. ‘Well, no, I tell a lie; he gets that from me, probably, because his dad’s a real sweetie. But I didn’t come here to talk about our Dennis.’

  ‘Good,’ Paul said. ‘I’d hate to say anything to upset you.’

  ‘You couldn’t, trust me. No, what I wanted to ask is: I went to see the doc earlier today and he reckons the baby’s due the middle of next week.’ It took Paul a moment to remember that she was pregnant. Hard to tell, with goblins. ‘Anyhow, Pip and I are having real trouble settling on a name. He wants to call him Christopher Vincent Horatio, after his dad, and I’d sort of set my heart on Azog Grishnakh Rupert, after my favourite uncle; and we talked about it and we were sort of thinking, since Pip and I would never have got together again but for you, if it’d be okay if we called him Paul.’

  ‘Paul?’

  She nodded. ‘Paul Azog Christopher. It’d mean a lot to both of us.’

  Paul blushed. ‘Um,’ he said, ‘yes, right, by all means. I’m honoured,’ he added, and to his surprise he was telling the truth. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Mr Tanner’
s mum smiled. When she wasn’t being beautiful she had a nice smile, though you had to look quite hard to see it behind the tusks. ‘Also,’ she went on, ‘it’s this sort of big tradition with us goblins, it’s very important who you ask to be the kid’s godfather. Like, we had Theo van Spee for our Dennis, and Kali Grandma was my godmother, and my dad had the Dark Lord himself, rest his soul. We take it seriously, you see, it’s got to be somebody you respect and admire who’s still alive, not under sentence of death by excoriation, and unmarried. So we thought we’d ask you.’

  Paul didn’t know what to say. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, seriously, you clown. You don’t have to do much; you’ve got to strangle a manticore with your bare hands at the ceremony, but Ricky reckons he knows where he can get us this really old, sick one with no teeth; and you’re expected to buy Paul Azog Christopher his first scimitar, but our Snotnast knows a bloke who can get you one at trade, and anyway, that wouldn’t be for a couple of years. Please say you will,’ she added, ‘it’d mean a lot to both of us.’

  ‘All right,’ Paul said. ‘I mean, yes, I’d be delighted. It’s really nice of you to ask, actually.’

  She spoiled it a bit by slapping him on the back, jarring half the bones in his body, but he forgave her. ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell Pip, he’ll be chuffed to nuts.’

  ‘Will he? Great,’ Paul said. ‘And really, it’s the least I can do. I mean, you helped me a lot, rescuing me from High Wycombe and everything.’

  ‘Ah, but I had an ulterior motive,’ Mr Tanner’s mum said, with a rather unnerving chuckle. ‘And just because I’m asking you this doesn’t mean I don’t still fancy you. But it’s all right,’ she added quickly, ‘I promise I’ll behave at the service, you don’t have to worry about that.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ Paul replied feebly. ‘Let me know as soon as you’ve set the date, all right?’

  ‘’Course. Right,’ she went on, ‘it’s time you weren’t here. Young lad your age, you should be out enjoying yourself, not stuck in a mouldy office all night.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Paul mumbled, and he headed for the door. Then something occurred to him, and he paused. ‘Is it true,’ he said, ‘that we’re related? That – well, that I’m part-goblin?’

  Her eyes opened a little, then she nodded. ‘Who told you that?’ she said.

  ‘I sort of worked it out for myself,’ Paul replied sheepishly. ‘And then Mr Ta—’

  ‘Call him Dennis,’ she interrupted. ‘After all, you’re cousins.’

  ‘He confirmed it,’ Paul said. ‘Cousins? What sort of cousins?’

  She shrugged. ‘Dunno. Lots of times removed; distant enough, if you see what I mean.’ Paul looked away till she’d stopped leering. ‘But yes, you’re family all right. One of us.’

  One of us. Amazingly, that sounded rather good. Goblins, for crying out loud; but yes, he liked the sound of it. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can’t be any worse than my human relatives, that’s for sure.’

  She sniggered. ‘So I gather,’ she said. ‘I mean, we can get a bit boisterous sometimes and maybe we break stuff and sometimes when a party gets out of hand or whatever we have been known to eat people, just occasionally; but we don’t go selling our kids, no matter what.’

  Paul nodded. ‘I’m surprised you’re prepared to acknowledge me,’ he said. ‘Black sheep of the family, and all.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Take people as you find ’em, that’s our way, or just occasionally with salt and vinegar. And anyhow, it’s us that should be proud. I mean, it’s the first time we’ve ever had a genuine hero in the family.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Hero. You.’ Mr Tanner’s mum shook her head. ‘Honestly, you get this simple look on your face, and it’s a wonder nobody’s hollowed you out and used you as a canoe. Actually,’ she said, ‘one of these days when you’re not busy, you ought to come down and meet the gang.’

  ‘I—’ Paul looked at her. ‘I’d like that,’ he said, and if he didn’t mean it, maybe it was mostly because he was shy anyway. ‘But not for dinner,’ he added quickly. ‘I mean, I’d hate you to go to any trouble.’

  When she’d said goodnight – he was just fast enough to get out of the way of a cousinly kiss – and he’d heard the front-door lock turn behind him, he walked down the road as far as the bus stop. It was coming on to rain, and partmage, part-goblin or not, there was bugger-all he could do about that except get wet. He’d been standing there for maybe three minutes, just long enough for all his clothes to get saturated, when a low, sleek red sports car drew up beside him and the passenger door opened.

  ‘Hop in,’ said Ricky Wurmtoter. ‘I’ll give you a lift home.’

  ‘No, thanks, really,’ Paul heard himself mumble. ( Why? It’s pissing it down. ) ‘It must be miles out of your way.’

  ‘What way?’ Ricky said. ‘Don’t worry about it. Jump in, before you drown standing up.’

  All right, Paul thought, might as well. He didn’t like getting wet, though whether he could get any wetter was a moot point, even if he jumped in the sea. He opened the door, moved an axe and a medium-sized can of SlayMore off the seat, and climbed in.

  Ricky drove the way he’d have expected, so Paul spent most of the journey with his eyes shut and his fingernails dug into the web of the seat belt. ‘It’s all right,’ he heard Ricky say eventually. ‘We’re here, you can come out now.’

  ‘Wbbl,’ Paul replied. ‘I mean, are we? Good. Um, thanks for the lift.’

  Ricky grinned. ‘It wasn’t that bad, was it?’

  ‘No, it was fine,’ Paul muttered. ‘Any faster and we’d have arrived before we left, but—’

  ‘You sound like my mother. What’s the time? The clock in this thing doesn’t work.’

  Not surprised, Paul thought; and if you don’t know why, ask Einstein. ‘Five past seven,’ he said.

  ‘Fine. Come and have a drink. I know this nice little pub just round the corner.’

  Paul hesitated for a moment; he wasn’t really in the mood for any of Ricky’s dragon-hunting stories, but he could use a drink that he didn’t have to pay for. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘It’s not the Three Tiles, is it? Because they have live jazz on Tuesdays, and—’

  ‘Not the Three Tiles,’ Ricky confirmed. ‘Follow me.’

  Ricky’s idea of a nice little pub turned out to be a hidden door in the side of a disused warehouse, where you had to knock three times and ask for Chalky; whereupon bolts graunched and hinges creaked, and a tiny little man in a leather jacket with spiked studs on the cuffs let them through. It was at this point that Paul realised that he didn’t know all that much about Mr Wurmtoter, and maybe he’d have been better off going home and having a cup of tea. But he followed Ricky down a long corridor and through another small door, and found himself in, for want of a better description—

  ‘Here we are,’ Ricky said. ‘What’ll you have?’

  —A mead-hall, complete with high rafters, long tables and benches, rush-strewn floor, a long fireplace running the length of the room, and smoke you could carve. ‘Not many in tonight,’ Ricky commented, and that was probably just as well, since everyone in the place was shaggy-bearded, mail-clad and armed to the teeth, and as soon as Paul walked into the light they all turned and stared at him. Ricky was networking like a radio station and most of the people he nodded to nodded back, though some of them muttered and turned their backs. They sat down at the end of a bench, and a large red-headed woman slopped down a huge jug and two horns in front of them. ‘What is this place?’ Paul whispered.

  ‘Valhalla,’ Ricky replied.

  ‘Oh,’ Paul said. ‘Sort of a theme pub, you mean?’

  ‘No,’ Ricky said. ‘Drink up. The regulars tend to get a bit tense if they see someone not drinking.’

  The whatever-it-was in the jug tasted rank, but slightly less alcoholic than ginger-beer shandy. ‘I thought you had to be dead or something,’ Paul said.

  ‘That’
s right,’ Ricky replied, wiping his mouth ostentatiously on his sleeve. ‘At least, you’ve got to have died in battle, which of course you have. I can put you up for membership if you like.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Paul said, with all the sincerity of a cabinet minister. ‘So, um, you must’ve—?’

  Ricky nodded. ‘Technically, anyway,’ he said, ‘breaking into the Underworld to steal the three-headed hound of Hell counts as dying, though they had to refer it to the membership committee. I think it’s nice to have somewhere you can get away from the usual crowd.’

  Paul drank some more of the whatever-it-was. The taste sort of grew on you, like verdigris on copper.

  ‘Actually,’ Ricky went on, ‘I wanted to have a chat about a couple of things. Mostly, I guess, to say thanks. You were a great help; the business with Judy, and so on.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Paul mumbled, somewhat flustered. ‘I’m just glad someone thinks I did the right thing.’

  Ricky frowned. ‘You haven’t exactly made yourself popular at the office, I grant you,’ he said. ‘I can see that it must be a bit confusing for you, since you’re still pretty new to the business.’

  ‘I’m getting the idea,’ Paul replied. ‘Gradually. Benny Shumway explained a bit about it earlier today. It just takes some getting used to, really.’

  ‘You could say that,’ Ricky said, grinning. ‘I’ve been in the trade – well, a good many years now, anyway, and I still don’t know all the rules. You just have to do the best you can, and try and see it from their point of view wherever possible. Take Judy, for instance. Very good example, in fact. On the one hand, she’s a total menace; on the other hand, she makes an obscene amount of money for the firm. Obviously, when it comes to the crunch, you have to take a view. From my standpoint, it’s fairly clear-cut. If she has her way and the Fey wipe out the human race and take its place, in the long run it’s going to have serious repercussions on my corner of the market. Humans need heroes; the Fey don’t. They don’t use money, hence no banks; no banks, no large accumulations of wealth, therefore no dragons; and dragons make up a good forty per cent of my workload. Sure, by reprofiling and maximising returns I could make up maybe half the shortfall in other areas, such as vampires and the Evil Overlord sector, but it still means a shortfall, and if I don’t meet my target come the year-end partners’ meeting, I’m going to have some explaining to do. So, basically, one of us had to go, her or me. It’s a pity,’ he added wistfully. ‘She had a stunning client portfolio in entertainment and politics, and we’re bound to lose a fair slice of that regardless of who we get to replace her. Still, it’s a hard old world, and you can’t make omelettes without killing the goose that lays the golden eggs, as we say in the trade.’