Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt

by Earth, Air, Fire

  Paul hadn't thought of that. How much was he worth to the partnership, exactly? He knew how much they'd paid for him, four hundred and twenty-five thousand, enough to buy Paul's parents their Florida home and their Winnebago. Would three and a half million strike them as a good deal, or not? How could he possibly be worth more than that to anybody? Even on a good day, he wasn't worth twenty quid and a book of stamps to himself- 'When I said three and a half,' Colin said, 'I was just kidding.

  Four and a quarter, I should've said.'

  - But even a real idiot, a worthless clown like Paul Carpenter, knew better than to offer to buy anything from the partnership with their own money; and all he had to do was look into Colin's eyes to know that the stuff in the bottle wasn't going to do him any good. Rather the reverse, in fact.

  'Sorry,' he said. 'I don't think so.'

  For a moment, Paul was sure that the goblin was going to attack; and that'd be that, he thought, goblins being ferocious natural killers, armed with claws like razors and teeth like needles. Instead, however, Colin handed him the bottle and shrugged. A few tiny specks of greyish-white powder were scattered round the neck of the bottle; Paul quickly wiped them away with his cuff.

  'Can't blame a bloke for trying,' Colin said. 'If you change your mind, Rosie'll tell you where to find me. Look after yourself, right?'

  Then he snapped his fingers. The garage seemed to burst like a balloon, and Paul found himself standing outside the pub. The crowd had gone, he was holding an empty glass, in which someone had dropped a cigarette end, and it had started to rain.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Getting the crystals in the first place had been easy, sheer serendipity. Putting them back proved to be another matter entirely.

  For one thing, Professor Van Spee never left his office. It was one of those things that everybody else in the building (the secretaries, the partners, Mr Tanner's mum, the cleaners, even the strange mad woman who came in once a month to talk nicely to the computers) knew and he didn't. Because he'd bumped into Van Spee once in the photocopier room, and then, some time later, been left alone in the professor's office while the great man went to see old Mr Wells, Paul had assumed he was vaguely nomadic, like everybody else in the building. At the very least, he'd reasoned, he must toddle off a couple of times a day to take a leak. Apparently not so. At one point in the fraught day that followed Paul's encounter with Colin, he almost made up his mind to confess, but he didn't. A right fool he'd feel, he decided, if he nerved himself to throw himself on the professor's mercy, only to find out in mid-air, so to speak, that he hadn't got one.

  The day was long as well as nerve-racking. First, as promised, they dismantled the Emmotson projector, an astoundingly bizarre object that looked like a cross between a bird-scarer and a washing machine, apparently used to isolate moments in the past that marked crucial turning points in courses of events.

  How it did that, Paul couldn't begin to guess and the professor wasn't inclined to explain. Instead, Paul had to crawl about on the floor on his back with a spanner and a set of Allen keys, undoing nuts and bolts, pulling off casings and covers, dodging tiny little springs that came hurtling Out like rocketing pheasants every time he undid something, then squirting cans of various cleaners and lubricants into ferocious-looking batteries of cams and cogs and wiping gunk and slime out of slots and keyways with a bit of wodged-up paper towel. It was another hot day, even in the professor's office, which was always noticeably cooler than everywhere else, and Paul had to stop every few minutes to wipe sweat off his face with his sleeve. What with the sweat and the stale lemonade shandy from yesterday, it didn't smell very nice and tasted worse; furthermore, he soon developed a thirst that would've disabled a hardened desert explorer, but the professor didn't seem to have heard of coffee breaks or anything of that sort. By the time he'd fitted back the last panel and tightened up the last locking nut and grub screw, his watch told him it was ten past eleven, but he could've sworn he'd been playing about with the horrible thing for at least five hours. All that time, of course, the professor hadn't moved from his chair; he'd just sat there and told Paul what to do, in his flat, slightly bleating voice, with special reference to procedures that Paul had either forgotten or wasn't to be trusted not to forget. Opportunities to sneak the crystals back into the jar in the desk: none.

  At least the next job on the list of things to do was sitting-down work; that, however, was the best that could be said for it- 'Here is a copy of an agreement,' the professor said. 'I have another copy of the same document. You will kindly read it out to me, so that I can check my copy for spelling mistakes and other errors. This is a very important contract, and it is essential that it should be word-perfect.'

  So Paul started to read (he hated reading aloud); and mostly to begin with it was just incomprehensible legal drivel, all whereas the parties hereto and hereinafter where the context so permits defined as and other great big galumphing phrases with huge hairy eyebrows and too many syllables. Slowly, though, Paul started to get an idea of what it was about. It was an agreement for the sale and purchase of a soul.

  'Correct,' the professor confirmed, when at last they'd reached the end, and Paul's curiosity drove him to ask if his guess was accurate. 'Ordinarily, spiritual conveyancing is not a major part of the workload of this department. Till recently, the younger Mr Wells dealt with it. However, since his departure -'here the professor paused for a moment and looked at him, because of course it was Paul's doing that Mr Wells junior had lost the power struggle with his uncle and been turned into a photocopier '- I have looked after such matters. It is tedious work, and I must confess that I have little sympathy for our clients. We generally act,' he added, deadpan, 'for the purchasers in these transactions. However, it needs to be done and it must be done carefully.' He was silent for a minute or so, as he examined the thick wodge of paper in his hand; then he passed it to Paul across the desk. 'Perhaps you would be so kind as to take this down to the typing pool and ask them to make the necessary corrections by one o'clock. It can then be checked again and bound up, in time for Mr Shumway to deliver it by hand when he goes to the Bank.'

  Paul knew all about Benny Shumway's daily excursion to the Bank of the Dead, since he'd had to do the run himself on several memorable occasions. 'Right,' he said, as he stood up, delighted to be able to stretch his legs after sitting still for so long. 'Um, where is the typing pool, exactly? I don't think I've ever-'

  The professor gave him directions, which Paul was sure he wouldn't be able to follow; to a substantial extent, he believed they were physically and topographically impossible, because there'd be walls and things in the way. But he was wrong as usual. Doorways he'd somehow failed to notice in walls in corridors that he'd walked up and down ten times a day for nine months turned out to be exactly where the professor had said they'd be. Stairwells sprang up at his feet like Jack's beanstalk at the end of passages that had been cul-de-sacs only days before. There was even a small, square open-air courtyard to cross, a sort of cloister arrangement with a fountain and lemon trees in the middle, in what his sense of direction told him should have been the middle of the building next door. On the other hand, all Paul's relatives had told him many times that he was capable of getting lost in a matchbox, even if all the matches were still in it, so he guessed he was imagining it.

  Eventually he came to a door marked Typing and knocked. No answer; presumably you didn't knock, you just barged in, so he pushed it open and stepped through; and found himself standing on the tiled edge of a huge indoor swimming-bath.

  The walls were blue, the roof was glass, and the whole place looked like something out of one of those underwater nature documentaries. The light danced on the ripples of the water, sending white dots and dashes careening up and down the walls. Instead of the usual chlorine smell, the air was thick with a strange blend of sea-salt, coconut and banana. For a moment, Paul thought the bath was deserted; then, as he was about to turn and leave, something broke up through the stil
l blue meniscus like a whale coming up to breathe.

  Fuck a ferret sideways, Paul thought. A mermaid.

  She bobbed up and down in the water a couple of times, sweeping her mane of wet brown hair out of her eyes; then she became aware of Paul's presence, turned and waved. One of the tips of her tail broke the surface of the water, like the fin of a small shark. Mermaids don't wear swimming costumes, or tops of any kind. Paul spun round and faced the door he'd just come through, his face burning.

  'Hello,' said the mermaid. 'I'm Vicky. Who're you?'

  At that particular moment, that was a very good question, because for the life of him Paul couldn't remember. Somehow he pulled himself together, but it took some doing. 'Paul Carpenter,' he said. 'Sorry.'

  'That's all right, I don't suppose you can help it.' A faint giggle. 'What are you sorry about?'

  'I didn't know - I mean, I wasn't staring or anything, you just sort of popped up, before I could...'

  'Before you could what?'

  Paul cleared his throat. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'I was looking for the typing pool.'

  As he said the words, the penny came crashing down like a thunderbolt. Typing pool. The mermaid giggled again.

  'You found it. Have you got something for us to do?'

  Paul nodded. 'From Professor Van Spee. He says, can you please have it ready for one o'clock?'

  The mermaid groaned. 'Not that horrible long contract,' she complained. 'I've done it five times already. Now what's wrong with the bloody thing?'

  'Oh, just a few minor bits and pieces,' Paul said, and for some reason his voice was all wobbly. 'Won't take five minutes on the computer-'

  'We don't use computers, silly,' Vicky the mermaid interrupted. 'We live underwater. Water's not very good for electrical appliances.'

  'Oh.'

  'Yes, oh.' He heard her sigh. 'Big old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg typewriters are what we use, only they're all stainless steel, so they won't rust. Which means I'll have to do the whole rotten thing all over again from scratch. Never mind,' she added, her tone of voice changing slightly, 'can't be helped, and I don't suppose it's your fault.'

  'Thanks,' Paul said. 'And, um, sorry.'

  'I forgive you.' Pause. 'Well?'

  'Sorry?'

  'Would you mind awfully bringing it over here, so I can get on with it? I can't come over there and fetch it, you see, on account of not having any legs.

  Paul cringed. A part of him told him he was being a bit bloody silly, since obviously the mermaid didn't mind a bit, and what he'd seen in the split second before he shut his eyes had been very nice. But he was still very much Paul Carpenter; so he made a valiant effort to judge the distance and, eyes still glued to the door, started to walk backwards.

  It took a whole ten seconds for the inevitable to happen; then he was falling through the air for perhaps a quarter of a second, and then the water hit him on the back of his head and wrapped itself all round him.

  To be fair to him, Paul knew how to swim. He even had a piece of paper somewhere to prove it. But that was proper deliberate swimming-on-purpose, where you take your clothes off and fold them neatly and put on bathing trunks and climb in backwards down a little ladder. Swimming where you're suddenly submerged in freezing cold water that fills your mouth and ears, and you're wearing lace-up shoes and a jacket and tie hadn't been covered in the syllabus when he earned his little piece of paper, and he realised he didn't know how to do it. Drowning, on the other hand, was apparently something that just comes naturally.

  'Keep still,' said a voice in his ear, or maybe inside his head. Then something hit him on the point of the jaw, and all the lights went out.

  He was a ship, drifting alone on a yellow sea. He was a hawk wheeling alone through yellow clouds, until he saw a gap and through it, far below, a flat green landscape and a grey stone tower. He swooped, and as he got closer to the ground the tower grew, reaching up to meet him like a stone arm pushing up out of the earth. He landed on a weathered battlement and folded his wings.

  Below him lay the main courtyard, where the tower's garrison were busy with their chores: grooming horses, burnishing armour with handfuls of sand and straw, practising archery at the butts, carting hay, raking muck out of the stables, drying newly washed linen. Unnoticed by these busy people, he fluttered down and perched on the edge of an open door, next to a large grindstone on which someone was sharpening a widebladed axe. He recognised the axe, had a feeling that at some stage he might even have known its name. A few yards to his right, a pig had nosed and shouldered its way out of its pen, and was having a wonderful time being chased round the yard by half a dozen tired, angry men. They were shouting at it in a strange dialect of French; most of the vocabulary was unfamiliar to him, but that didn't stop him getting the general idea.

  The main stable door swung open, and two men led out a fine black horse, tall and broad enough to pull a brewer's dray but fine-boned and immaculately turned out. Over a rich red saddle-cloth lay a saddle of tooled green leather, highlighted in gold leaf, with gilded stirrups swinging from the straps. The grooms led the horse to a mounting block standing against the courtyard's north wall, where a tall man in extravagantly ostentatious clothes was waiting, accompanied by half a dozen servants. The well-dressed man, clearly a great lord, swung himself easily into the saddle, picked up the reins in his left hand and held out his right arm, hand gauntleted and clenched. It was a gesture of invitation and summons; so he spread his wings and fluttered head-high across the yard, turned and dropped neatly onto the lord's wrist, a suitably perfect landing. Today, the great man told him in a soft, firm voice, they were going out after doves, pheasant and woodcock on the edge of the large stand of pine on the southern boundary of the park; and he must make a special effort and hunt diligently, because tomorrow the king himself would be a guest at the castle, as he broke his journey east from Toronto to the capital- 'You're all wet,' said the mermaid.

  This was true. Paul was very wet indeed. There was enough water in his socks alone to wash out all fourteen days of Wimbledon. When he opened his eyes they stung, and he rubbed them.

  'You fell in,' the mermaid told him. 'It was your own silly fault, you were walking backwards, so you couldn't see where you were going. Can't you swim?'

  'Yes,' Paul said. 'Well, a bit. I was doing fine, actually, till somebody hit me.'

  'Sure you were,' the mermaid said. Her face was only inches away from his, and her thick, wavy brown hair seemed perfectly dry. It had golden highlights, so pale they were almost white. They reminded Paul of something, but he couldn't for the life of him think what.

  'Professor Van Spee's contract,' he croaked. 'Did I mention, it's really urgent.'

  'Done,' the mermaid replied. 'While you were out cold. It's all ready, top copy and two carbons. You need to get. out of those wet things before you catch your death.'

  'No, really, I'm fine,' Paul said, all together in a rush. 'There's a radiator in my office, I'll dry off. I'd better be getting back or the professor'll wonder why I'm taking so long.'

  She only smiled, and started peeling off his jacket. Her eyes were exactly the colour of the water, blue and deep enough to drown in, if you happened not to be a strong swimmer. 'How's your jaw?' she was saying. 'I didn't mean to hit you quite so hard, but you were thrashing about like a gaffed shark.'

  'It's fine,' Paul said, as the sleeves of his jacket slithered past his hands; then her fingers were at his throat, prising apart the knot of his tie.

  'Don't you ever stop wriggling about?' she asked him. 'The way you're carrying on, anybody'd think you were the fish out of water.'

  Good point. He was, he realised, on the tiled edge of the pool, and she was kneeling over him, something that ought not to be possible without something to kneel with. He made a point of not looking down, and mumbled, 'Shouldn't you be-?'

  She laughed. 'Hans Christian Andersen to you,' she said. 'And it's all right, you're safe, you can look.'

  He ventured a quick, furtive
glance, and saw that she was wearing a white blouse and a plain navy blue skirt. He relaxed a bit, but she was still very close, and her fingernails were brushing the skin of his neck.

  'I go walking three times a week,' she said proudly. 'Last Tuesday I walked seventeen lengths. And I borrowed Christine's catalogue and sent off for a pair of shoes. The pointy ones with the big nail things sticking out of the back end.' She frowned. 'You probably know this,' she went on, 'but what's the nail thing for, exactly? I'm guessing it's like a sort of claw, for holding your prey still while you finish it off.'

  Paul smiled feebly. 'Something like that,' he said.

  'Thought so. And what about the net things you wear round your legs? What're they for? Christine says you're supposed to pull them right up over your thighs, but I can't see what makes them stay up. And do men wear them, or only women?'

  She'd overcome his tie and started on his shirt buttons. First thing when I get home this evening, he promised himself, I'm going to make that medicine, and bugger giving back the crystals. 'Look,' he said, swiping her hand away as though swatting a huge fly, 'it's really kind of you, but I'll, um, change when I get home. Bit of water never hurt anybody.' Then he sneezed. 'Anyway, thanks very much for saving me from drowning, but I really ought to get on. You wouldn't happen to know the time, would you?'

  She frowned thoughtfully. 'Time,' she repeated. 'No, can't say as I do. What does it look like?'

  That'll do me, Paul thought, I'm out of here. 'Thanks again,' he spluttered, jumped to his feet, slithered and bounded toward the door. Then he realised that he'd forgotten Van Spee's stupid contract. The mermaid was standing behind him, smiling sweetly, holding it out for him. He took it from her - it weighed a ton, and he felt the tendons in his wrist twang like guitar strings - and fled, letting the door slam behind him.