Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt

by Earth, Air, Fire

  Uncle Ken shrugged. 'Not my place to interfere,' he said. 'Your mum would never've forgiven me. Anyhow, would you have believed me if I had told you?'

  'Yes, but-' Paul sighed, and slumped back in his chair; a bad idea, since there wasn't much holding it together apart from force of habit. 'It just really pisses me off,' he said, 'everybody in the whole world turning out to know all about this magic thing apart from me. And nobody telling me,' he added bitterly. 'The first I knew about it was when I stayed late in the office one night and nearly got eaten alive by goblins.'

  'No chance of that,' Uncle Ken said, shaking his head gravely. 'Contrary to what you hear, they're mostly not dangerous unless you provoke them. And-'

  'Yes,' Paul snapped, 'I know, apparently I'm part goblin myself, and they hardly ever eat family. It'd have been nice if someone had prepared me for that particular revelation, just a bit. Not that I've got anything against them particularly - well, that's not true, they scare the shit out of me, but so do most things in life. But even so-'

  'Never mind about that,' Uncle Ken said quickly. 'Tell me more about this bird of yours. Sophie, was it?'

  Bird, thought Paul; hail to thee, blithe spirit, bird thou never wert. 'She isn't, any longer,' he said sharply. 'I told you, Countess Judy scrubbed all that out of her mind, and now it won't come back. So that's that,' he said, trying to sound brave. 'It's a real bitch, because we still have to work together, and she can't quit either; another judicious purchase by the partners, you see.'

  Uncle Ken nodded slowly. 'Always was your trouble,' he said, 'falling in love with anything that stays still long enough. 'Course,' he went on, 'it's not real. It's because you know nothing's ever going to come of it, you know that as soon as you start getting obvious, they always burst out laughing or tell you to get lost, so it's safe - oh, right,' he added, with a grin. 'You're going to tell me it wasn't like that this time.'

  Paul had gone a deep beetroot colour. 'Actually,' he said, 'it was going just fine till Countess Judy ruined everything. I mean, we'd moved in together, we were making plans for the future.

  'Bloody hell,' Uncle Ken interrupted. 'No wonder you were scared.'

  'I was not scared.' Well, of course he'd been scared; more so, in fact, than when Ricky Wurmtoter had pointed the crossbow at his heart and pressed the trigger and killed him. 'It was wonderful. We really loved each other. And then-'

  'And then, at the very last minute, you escaped.' Uncle Ken raised a hand, before Paul could interrupt or find something to use as a weapon. 'Didn't seem like that at the time, I know. It hurt like buggery, I'm sure. Probably you felt just like shit quiche on a bed of wild rice. But really, deep down, you knew you'd got out just in time, before the roof caved in. You can't kid me, son, I've known you too long.'

  'It wasn't like that.' Why did it matter so much that Uncle Ken wouldn't believe him? 'It wasn't like that at all. I didn't want it to end. I'd have done anything-'

  There must've been something in his voice, like a tiny drop of blood in shark-infested water. Uncle Ken smiled faintly. 'But you didn't, did you?'

  'I couldn't, it wouldn't have been- How do you know about it, anyway?'

  'I don't. But you're just about to tell me.'

  Paul gave in. 'It was after we'd rescued her,' he said, 'and she realised what that evil bitch had done to her. JWW make this thing called a love philtre, you drink it and fall in love with the first person you see. Cast-iron guaranteed, they've been selling it for two hundred years and it's never failed. She offered to drink it, so things'd be back to how they were. But I said no.'

  'You said no. I see.'

  'Because it wouldn't have been real,' Paul protested. 'It'd have been as though I'd snuck up when she wasn't looking and spiked her coffee with it or something.'

  'You'd have done anything,' Uncle Ken said slowly. 'Only you didn't. You were a chicken standing on the conveyor belt, looking straight at the plucking machine, and suddenly the power goes off. You weren't about to go jumping up, saying you'd got fifty pee for the meter. Admit it, Paul. That's exactly how it was.'

  Paul shook his head. 'You're right,' he said, 'about how I used to be. But it was different with Sophie, and now-'

  Uncle Ken laughed out loud. 'And now you've got a bloody wonderful excuse, you've got a note from God saying you're let off PE for ever. Believe me, it doesn't work like that. Next bird you see that doesn't look like a garden gnome with warts, it'll be the same old story all over again. Come on, Paul, be honest with yourself. Remember Mandy Bolsover?'

  Paul winced. 'Uncle Ken, I was fourteen. You can't blame someone for-'

  'Mandy Bolsover,' Uncle Ken repeated. 'Big girl, captain of the shot-put team. You spent a whole term drooping around like a poisoned goldfish, then you wrote a suicide note and took four paracetamol. And you'd never said a single word to her.'

  Paul gave him a look that'd have stripped the Teflon off a space shuttle. 'Anyway,' he said. 'It's not going to happen ever again, I've already seen to that. I mean it,' he added. 'Really.'

  'Oddly enough, that's exactly what I say every time I pack in smoking,' Uncle Ken said sadly. 'I did really well the year before last,' he added, 'I lasted thirty-six hours, twelve minutes and fourteen seconds. The fourteen seconds were because my lighter wouldn't work and I had to run to the kitchen for matches, but the thirty-six hours were sheer will-power.'

  'No,' Paul said. 'Because, finally, I've found a bit of the magic stuff that's actually useful for something other than making money for the partners. Here,' he added, opening a drawer and taking out a folded, dog-eared sheet of paper. 'Go on, take a look.'

  Uncle Ken shrugged, took the paper and squinted at it over his glasses. 'What's this supposed to be, then?'

  'Recipe,' Paul replied. 'Or probably they'd call it a formula, but as far as I can see it's just cooking. I photocopied it from one of Professor Van Spee's books. It's the opposite of the love philtre thing. If you drink it every six months, you're guaranteed not to fall in love.'

  For once, Uncle Ken seemed impressed. 'You're kidding.'

  'Absolutely not. And it's dead easy to make, all nice simple ingredients, apart from the crème frâiche, whatever that is-'

  'You can get that in Sainsbury's,' Uncle Ken interrupted. 'Delia Smith bungs it in everything. Probably runs her car on it. What's this, though? Two milligrams Van Spee's crystals.'

  'Oh, that.' Paul looked away. 'Yes, well, that's a bit unusual. But Professor Van Spee's got a big jar of it in his desk drawer. I think he invented it or something. Anyhow, I sneaked in one time when I knew he wouldn't be there and nicked some.'

  'Really. Weren't you afraid he'd notice?'

  Actually, the thought hadn't occurred to Paul before. 'Nah,' he said. 'It was a big jar, and I only took an aspirin-bottleful. And it's been a week and he hasn't said anything.'

  'Oh well, that's all right, then.' Uncle Ken pulled a face. 'And you're actually going to swallow this stuff?'

  'You bet. I've mixed up a batch, all except the crème thing, and apparently you add that last, once the mixture's stood for at least a week. It's still got a day to go, so if I can get the crème Whatever in the supermarket-'

  'You aren't worried it'll turn you into a frog or something?'

  Paul shook his head. 'No chance of that,' he said. 'Completely different sort of magic, turning people into things. And no, I don't know if the medicine's safe to drink because, obviously, I've never made it before. But as far as I'm concerned, it's well Worth the risk. You were absolutely right about how I used to be. But I've had enough of all that crap, and this'll be an end of it.'

  Uncle Ken stood up. "Where's the biscuit jar?' he said.

  'What?'

  'The biscuit jar. Oh, don't bother, I'll find it.' Uncle Ken went into the kitchen and came back munching. 'Fact is,' he said, 'I've been neglecting my duty as a godfather. Looking after your moral and spiritual welfare, and all that stuff. You need taking in hand, you do, before you make a right cow of your life.'
r />   Paul looked him over, from his worn-out line-dancing boots to his masking-tape-bound spectacles, pausing midway at the bulge in his pocket where he'd helped himself generously to Paul's chocolate digestives. 'A right cow,' he said. 'Thanks, Uncle Ken, I'm sure that'll be a real help. Maybe if I get my act together and make a real effort, I could get to be just like you.'

  Uncle Ken shook his head. 'You wish,' he said. 'But there's no harm in trying. You couldn't lend us a flyer, could you? Just till the end of the week.'

  Paul paid up without a word, and Uncle Ken thanked him. 'See,' he added, 'I've only been on the job five minutes and already I've made you a better human being. Talking of which, you wouldn't happen to have any spare socks you don't need for anything? Only-'

  'Top drawer of the chest of drawers, help yourself,' Paul said wearily. 'Uncle Ken, I'm not sure I really want to be a better person after all. Can't I just stay a mess and-?'

  After Uncle Ken had gone, Paul made himself some cheese on toast and did a quick stock take in the kitchen cupboard. His first faltering steps along the road to self-improvement had cost him two packets of biscuits, a jar of instant coffee, the bag of sugar he'd just opened that morning and a big tin of custard powder. Extending the inventory to the bedroom, he found he was morally and spiritually better off by the absence of three pairs of socks, two shirts, three pairs of pants and his nail scissors. On the other hand, he'd somehow managed to acquire a Canadian ten-cent piece, which he found in the empty desert where once several pairs of socks had safely grazed, like the buffalo before Bill Cody came along. He looked at it for a moment, frowned, and dropped it back in the drawer.

  Crème frâiche, he thought; Sainsbury's. I'll stop off there on my way home from work tomorrow, and then that'll be that done, and one less thing to worry about. Wonder if they also sell lockable biscuit jars?

  The cheese on toast tasted of plastic and cardboard, and then Paul went to bed. On his bedside table was a book. It had been there for several days, and each night, before groping for the light switch, he'd done his best to read a couple of pages, because Professor Van Spee had told him that it was essential reading if he was to get the hang of the work they'd be doing over the next three months. Unfortunately, the book itself appeared to be an exceptionally powerful magical object, with the power to put to sleep anybody who so much as opened its covers. Time was getting on, and all he'd managed to do so far was read the first page and a half six times. It still didn't make any sense- Let this visible world, he read for the seventh time, be a biscuit.

  Above, the immeasurable span of time; below, the limitless possibility of space. Sandwiched between them, the custard filling of elsewhere and elsewhen.

  The world is in haste, and rushes to its end. The world is narrow, and tapers headlong through entropy towards the sharp point where the angels dance. Only in the eye of the storm, through which a camel cannot pass into the Kingdom of Heaven, is there room to manoeuvre, rime to reflect, a remote possibility of doubt. Only in philosophy is there a keyhole in the door of the future, through which one can spy on yesterday.

  It is our business, therefore, to find room for a fingernail between the upper and the lower inevitabilities, so that they can be prised apart, if only for a little while. To this end, let us consider that all things are formed out of five elements: earth, air, fire, water- Paul yawned. Sheer unmitigated doggy-poo, he reflected, and fell asleep.

  - Not so much fell; glided, like a leaf drifting down from a tree on a still day, and when Paul reached the ground he was standing beside a single-track road on a bleak moor. On the other side of the road, the ground sloped sharply away to jagged bleak rocks and an angry steel-grey sea. Off in the distance he could hear the scream of many powerful engines, revving high and changing gear. A seagull wheeled overhead, and changed course when it saw him.

  He wasn't alone. A small round man with a bald head and glasses was standing next to him, but either he hadn't seen him or was pretending. Paul was sure that he knew who it was; but it was as though the man had control over that part of Paul's brain that dealt with recognition, and he wasn't allowing him to fit a name to the face. Fair enough: Paul could take a hint. He looked away for a moment, the way you do, and when he turned back the man had vanished.

  Then he saw someone walking towards him, and it was just as well he knew that this was only a dream, brought on by stale cheese untimely eaten, because otherwise he'd have been distinctly nervous about the stranger. He was tall and huge with fiery red hair that stuck out from his head in all directions, like a dandelion clock; he was wrapped in a damp cloak or blanket, and in his right hand he held a sword.

  Paul groaned. He'd gone off swords, ever since the time when he'd had to share his somewhat cramped living quarters with a huge sword in a stone, an unexplained and unsolicited gift from Old Mr Wells. It had turned out to be a magical key and he'd managed to get rid of it eventually, but not before he'd cut himself several times and pulled a muscle in his back trying to get the thing out through the door on his own. After that, as far as Paul was concerned, swords meant trouble: horrible JWW-based intrusions of weirdness into his free time, which he could well do without. But the man walked straight up to him, just as it began to rain.

  'Here,' he said, in a strong foreign accent. 'You're getting wet. Take this.'

  Whereupon he swung the sword high above his head, flipped a catch or pressed a button or something, and opened the sword out into a perfectly normal golf umbrella. Paul thanked him but the man walked away without looking back, and then the mist closed around him and he was gone.

  Never mind, it was better than getting wet. The engines sounded very close now, and Paul peered down the road to see. There was someone beside him, looking over his shoulder; she had long brown hair, slightly frizzy, with golden streaks in it so light that they were almost silver. 'I'll give you five to one on the Kawasaki,' she said, and for some reason he shook his head and replied that it had to be the Norton, and it'd be outright theft to take her money. Then nine motorcycles roared past them, each rider waving as they went by (to the girl, not to Paul). He saw their hair floating in the slipstream as they passed, and the girl next to him pointed out that he owed her five pounds.

  'Sorry,' he said, 'but I gave my last flyer to Uncle Ken.'

  'Oh.' That seemed to be an acceptable reason for not paying. 'Well, anyway,' she said, 'we'd best be getting back, before anybody notices we've gone.' Paul hadn't looked round at any point, so he hadn't seen her face. It was rather important that he didn't, in fact, and he felt vaguely proud of himself for resisting the temptation to peek. Her voice was cold and hard, which more than made up for the fact (he had no idea how he knew this) that she was very beautiful and had freckled shoulders to die for. Great, he told himself, the medicine works, wait till I tell Sophie- And there she was, right in front of him, her hair plastered to her head by the rain, looking small and thin and very, very wet. 'For crying out loud, Paul,' she said, very deliberately not noticing the redhead standing next to him. 'Do you realise, we're twenty minutes late? Now come on.'

  He followed her, up a steep hillside towards a ruined tower overlooking a misty grey creek where two small wooden ships lay at anchor. 'This is the last time I come looking for you,' she went on, as they dragged up a winding narrow stone staircase -the steps were worn and slippery, and the only light was a grey blur round the edges of arrow slits - 'and I'm really, really tired of covering up for you, just because you're too bloody idle to do your reading assignments.'

  'I'm sorry,' Paul mumbled. 'But every time I open the stupid book, it sends me straight to sleep.'

  She sighed. 'You clown,' she said. 'It's supposed to. Now pay attention-'

  Then it all burst around him like a flood: so many things he suddenly knew how to do, so many answers and explanations, everything that had been puzzling and bewildering him and driving him to distraction and despair since he'd first joined JWW, all those things that everybody else seemed to know except him, and he rea
lly hated that- It was like standing directly under a huge volcano as it burst into furious life, belching out fire and enlightenment and useful practical information, formulae, specifications, procedures, detailed recipes, easy-to-follow step-by-step instructions and a huge cloud of yellow ash that blotted out the sun, as though God had perched a bag of custard powder on top of the door of Infinity as a practical joke, and it had landed kersplat on top of his head. Meanwhile Sophie was yelling, 'The crème frâiche, don't forget the crème frâiche,' and then Paul woke up.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nine o'clock sharp - sharper, indeed, than the proverbial serpent's tooth - and Paul was standing outside the front door of 70 St Mary Axe, waiting for the bolts to be shot back and the wards of the massive, church-door-type lock to be graunched round, so that he could slouch in and start another day. It was less than nine months since he'd stood on this very step, and a single round red eye had glared out at him through the letter box; he hadn't known about goblins then. It seemed like another life.

  The door opened, and behind the front desk sat a bewilderingly lovely girl, skin the colour of coffee and eyes like deep, dark pools. He'd never seen her before, of course.

  'Morning, Paul,' she called out. 'You haven't forgotten, have you?'

  'No, of course not.' He stopped, then shrugged. 'All right, yes, I have. Forgotten what?'

  'Bastard. Rehearsal, six o'clock tonight. You promised you'd remember.'

  Mr Tanner's mother - call me Rosie, she'd told him, but Paul knew it wasn't her real name - was a thoroughbred goblin of impeccable ancestry, with her species's unnerving ability to change shape at will, and an even more disturbing habit of developing serious crushes on human males, in particular tall, thin, weedy-looking, feckless specimens like himself. Subtle as an explosion in a fireworks factory, she'd been after him more or less since the day he'd joined the firm. Every day there was a completely different beautiful girl on reception, but they all had the same hungry grin. That aside, Paul minded Mr Tanner's mum least of all the inhabitants of the office; and when he'd found out a few months ago that he was part goblin himself, she'd asked him, rather touchingly, to be the godfather to her latest offspring, who'd been born a fortnight ago. Now, apparently, she was dead set on holding him to his rash promise. He wasn't looking forward to the experience, mostly because she'd been dropping all sorts of dark hints about what a goblin godfather had to do at the ceremony. All he'd been able to prise out of her so far was that it wasn't as dangerous as it sounded.