'No.' It wasn't in Paul's nature to shout at people he didn't know well, but the circumstances seemed to warrant making an exception. 'I'm not going to get acclimatised, because I'm not staying. This isn't happening. I demand to see the manager.'
Mr Dao only shook his head. 'I am the manager,' he said.
'No, you aren't.' No, it occurred to Paul to consider, he wasn't the manager, at that. 'You're in charge of the bank, you're not the government around here. I want to see whoever's in charge. And that's not you.'
Mr Dao smiled wryly. 'Take me to your leader, in other words. I'm sorry, but we haven't got one. No need, you see. There's nobody in charge because there's nothing to be in charge of. Except the Bank, of course. Please, I must ask you to calm down and try and behave in a rather less unseemly fashion. Perhaps,' he added, with a friendly gesture, 'I can get you something to eat or drink. A cup of tea, perhaps, and a plate of mixed biscuits.'
And maybe it was Paul's imagination, or maybe as he said that, Mr Dao winked; a tiny flicker of the lid of his logically non-existent eye, a hint- Of course. He was still holding the sword.
You can't take it with you, they say; but sometimes, Paul realised with a jolt, they lie. He was still holding the sword, with which he'd so lightly and easily decapitated the annoying TV anchorman. As he swung it up and looked at the blade (a deep, rich glowing brown, flecked here and there with swirls and squiggles of vivid silver), he imagined that he saw Mr Dao's chin dip just a tiny bit, almost as if he was nodding in approval, in confirmation. How could he still have the sword if he was really dead? Vaguely he remembered: Magnus Magnusson or someone like that, telling him through a plate-glass screen that dead Vikings always liked to be buried with their swords, to have something to defend themselves with in the next world. Magnus had made it sound pretty silly, but here he was in the next world, and here was this sword in his hand - a hand he shouldn't still have; but somehow the realness of the sword was soaking through into his skin. He thought of a film he'd seen once, a sci-fi thing about an invisible man; and they'd caught him by spraying paint about from aerosols. The skin of his hand was real where it touched the sword in the same way that the invisible man's face could be seen by the infinitesimally thin layer of paint covering it.
Cool, he thought; and then he took another look at the sword-blade.
'Excuse me,' Paul said to Mr Dao; then he lifted the blade to his mouth and carefully licked along the line of the cutting edge, feeling his tongue become real again as it touched the cold, smooth metal. There was only a very thin smear of blood there, but he knew from his two previous visits that a tiny, tiny drop of the red stuff was all it took.
It was as though he was a line drawing in a child's colouring book, and the child had just coloured him in, gaudily and messily with a broad-nibbed felt-tip pen. He was suddenly so full of life that it was sloshing about inside him like water in a bucket, spilling out of him, dripping off him like wet paint. 'Sorry,' he heard himself say, 'can't stop. Thanks for everything.' Mr Dao lifted his hand in a very small wave as Paul spun on his heel - he had heels to spin on once again, wasn't that amazing? - and sprinted like hell in what he devoutly hoped was the direction of the little postern gate that opened into Benny Shumway's office.
As he ran, he worried. He'd been in this position before, of course. There was a door linking the cashier's room at JWW with the land of the dead; but as soon as Benny got back from his daily trip to the Bank, the door was bolted and locked and chained and barred, and wouldn't be opened again for twenty-three and a half hours; by which time, the tiny lease of life afforded him by the tiny smear of blood he'd licked off the sword would have expired, and that'd be that. But he'd met Benny not all that long ago, and Benny didn't run home from doing the banking, he tended to trudge wearily, like a man wading through waist-deep porridge. If he could get to the door before Benny did, he was saved. If not, forget it. Simple as that.
A bit like running for a train, Paul thought, except that there won't be another one if I miss this one, not ever. He was running into complete darkness, nothing to navigate by, nothing underfoot even, to confirm that he was moving rather than standing still. That wasn't a nice thought, but he made an effort and ran faster anyhow; and then there was a tiny point of light, no bigger than a star, which he knew was the glow from the sixty-watt bulb in the cashier's room, seen through the keyhole. Time for an extra-special effort; because if he could see the light, it was because the door was still unlocked and the keyhole cover hadn't been swung back. He also yelled, 'Benny, Benny,' at the top of his voice, but he couldn't hear his own words.
Then there was Benny; briefcase in one hand, big folder of papers wedged under the other arm. There he was, and there was the door, but he was right on the doorstep and Paul was still a hundred yards or a thousand yards or a million miles away, and he wasn't going to get there in time, because Benny was way too smart to look back over his shoulder when he was in the Kingdom of the Dead. Paul watched him reach for the door handle - his fingers were on the knob, about to turn it; but a couple of sheets of paper slipped out of the folder and drifted to the absence-of-ground, and Benny swore under his breath and stooped to pick them up. 'BENNY" Paul yelled, pounding forward like a racehorse, 'IT'S ME! BENNY, WAIT FOR-'
No more than ten yards away now, three strides; but Benny had picked up his papers and turned the door handle and opened the door. At the last moment, Paul shut his eyes tight and leapt like a deer into the blinding rectangle of light- And crashed into something profoundly solid, bounced off and landed on his back, stunned and breathless. He lay unable to move, as the sound of bolts and keys and chains and latches crashed and graunched at him through the woodwork. A fraction of a second later he was on his feet again, hammering with both fists against the rough oak panels, howling and yelling and screaming, but he knew he was wasting his time. Benny Shumway hadn't lasted this long without knowing that this was one door you never answered, no matter what you heard on the other side.
That was it, then. Screwed.
Paul slumped to the lack-of-ground, almost too weak to move. The desperate exertion of all that running, yelling and bashing had used up most of his little wispy smear of extra life, and in a few seconds it'd all be gone, and so would he. Suddenly he thought of the sword. Maybe there was an atom or so of blood left on the blade that he'd missed, or maybe the sword, being magical, could cut through two inches of oak like a cake slice through lemon meringue. But the sword wasn't there; either it had gone through the doorway before Benny shut the door, or Paul had dropped it at some point in his wild dash, out there in the total absence of light, where he'd never find it again even if he had all eternity to look, which he would.
Fuck, he thought.
He'd believed he was going to make it, right up to the point where his face slammed into the closed door; he'd been utterly, unshakeably convinced that this wasn't the end; he'd had the sword, and it wasn't fair anyhow, being suddenly murdered by goblins when he was the one doing them a favour. If it was the end, why bother giving him the sword and sacrificing the life of a TV presenter just so there'd be blood on it when blood was needed, and why have Benny Shumway there at precisely the critical moment - even the pantomime with the dropped papers - to buy him the essential fraction of a second? But apparently not. Abandon hope, all you who enter here.
Goblin humour, he thought; round about now, it'd be just his luck to see Jonathan Ross or Barry Norman floating eerily in the gloom - because now's the time for a frank, trenchant review of my life, now that it's over, now that the fat lady's straining for the high notes.
Conclusions, anyone? First, it was all a waste of time, because nothing worthwhile would end this way (massacred by pretty girls jumping out of a cake, leaping headlong into a shut door) Second, if I had my time over again- There had been a very brief moment, a split second, when the road of Paul's life had forked, and he'd had a genuine choice. After Sophie had told him about how Countess Judy had leeched out all her feelings for hi
m, as though they'd never existed, Sophie had made him a remarkable and genuine offer. She'd said that if he wanted her to, she would drink the justly celebrated JWW patent love philtre and make herself fall in love with him, unconditionally, for ever. He'd looked at her in amazement and horror, because it wasn't fair to confront him with a choice like that. As his world spun around him, upside down and out of control, he'd struggled to find some fixed point whereby to make his choice; and of course he'd hit upon What's the right thing to do? Once he'd made that call, the rest was easy. No, he couldn't let Sophie drink the philtre, because then her love for him would be a lie, synthetic, involuntary; like plastic flowers or British lager, not real, lifeless, worthless. So he'd done what he knew was the right thing, and both of them had lived wretchedly ever after. Until now, of course.
There had been a very brief moment, a split second; and Paul had chosen to do what he thought was right. Which was fine, in a way, because at least it was a criterion, albeit a totally random and arbitrary one, like choosing someone to be Prime Minister by the length of their toenails. At the time he'd had no way of knowing that it was also a wretched, stupid mistake, which he could now say with total accuracy he'd regretted for the rest of his life. Annoying, really, since it'd been (he now realised, with the benefit of hindsight, not to mention the added clarity which comes with being effectively dead) the only decision he'd ever faced which really mattered. He'd loved and won and lost and-
-And screwed up. Regrets, he thought, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention; except for that one colossal and unforgivable exception, that howling, staring, screaming example of taking his eye off the ball when it had really mattered. Which was why it was basically a pretty bad break for him, dying like this with his one great act of stupidity unpurged and now incapable of absolution. I let some trivial skit like right-and-wrong come between me and the girl I actually, genuinely, truly love. That was not good. I wish I hadn't done that. But now it's too late to set it right, and accordingly the world will be out of true for ever. While there'd been life, there'd been hope. Now there was just anger, frustration, and the infuriating knowledge that he'd lived, and died, an idiot.
I would really, Paul thought, really like to see the manager. I have a few things to say about the way this outfit is run.
'You did your best,' said Mr Dao, somewhere behind him. 'I knew you wouldn't be able to accept, truly accept, until it was brought home to you in the most unequivocal terms.'
'You aren't the manager,' Paul growled back, not looking round. (Because you didn't: Benny had taught him that. Just like the living must never accept food or drink in the land of the dead.)
'True. There is no manager, therefore it follows that I am not him. At least now you should've got hope out of your system.'
'Go away,' Paul said; and he knew he was being rude, and he didn't care. 'I've still got a second or two left, I can feel it. Come back later, when you're entitled.'
'As you wish.' Mr Dao didn't sound offended, just rather sad. 'If you insist on it, you still have three minutes and twenty-seven seconds. I fear, however, that in the context of eternity-'
'Say that again,' Paul interrupted.
'Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Twenty-four seconds now, of course.'
'Mr Dao.' Paul stood up, faced his interlocutor and smiled broadly. 'Is the Bank still open? I want to make a withdrawal.'
One minute, six seconds to walk to the Bank. Fifteen seconds to fill in the necessary forms. One minute, thirty-two seconds to walk down the corridor and down the stairs to the safety-deposit vault. Five seconds to find the box with his name on it, rip it out of the rack and tear off the lid.
'Really, Mr Carpenter,' said Mr Dao. (So I'm Mr Carpenter again, am I? Fine.) 'Are you sure?'
One second to say 'Fuck you,' to Mr Dao, three seconds to unroll the thin sheet of plastic from its cardboard tube and press it against the vault wall. One second to open it and say, 'Home.'
Piece of cake, Paul thought, as he stumbled through and slammed the door behind him.
The door - the Acme Portable Door - slowly peeled off the back wall of his bedroom and landed in a heap on the floor. Piece of cake, Paul thought again, as his legs buckled under him and he collapsed on the bed, bounced twice and lay absolutely still, listening to the pounding of his real, functional heart. One whole second to spare. And to think, for a moment there I was starting to fret.
His hands felt sticky. Well, they would, after all that, and it was also a miracle he hadn't thrown up or wet himself. But it wasn't that kind of sticky. Blood? He scrunched his fingertips across his palms: squidgy, but not like blood. Thicker. Purely out of curiosity, he lifted one hand and looked at it. Some kind of yellow slime; yuck. He wiped his hands on the duvet, shut his eyes and - because he'd earned it, he deserved it and now he was going to enjoy it, so there - he screamed.
'Charming,' said a voice.
Never, not even in the ecstatic throes of terror or relief, a moment's bloody peace. Paul choked off his scream and sat bolt upright. 'You,' he squawked, because of all the things he'd seen in the last twenty-four hours, this was the hardest to believe in. 'What the fuck-?'
'I brought you a piece of cake,' said Mr Tanner's mum, and she held out a paper plate on which rested a rather meagre slice of squished-up fruit and some crumbled white plaster. 'Since you couldn't be there for the party afterwards.'
'Couldn't be there,' Paul repeated in a dazed voice, as though he was asking the voice from the burning bush, Hold on a second, tell me again, what was that bit just after Thou shalt not? 'You horrible bloody lunatic, you killed me.'
Mr Tanner's mum grinned at him; smile and long, sharp teeth in roughly equal parts. 'You're looking well on it, I must say. Anyhow, I think it went off pretty well, all things considered. You missed the speeches, of course, Uncle Jerry went on far too long, but-'
Desperately, Paul wanted to throw something at her or hit her with something, but there wasn't anything within easy reach except a pillow and his pyjamas. 'Did you hear what I just said? You fucking murdered me. I died. Did you know that? I actually died.'
She nodded. 'Well, of course,' she said. 'But I knew you'd be all right. That was the whole point, after all.'
Trying to be hysterically angry with Mr Tanner's mum was a bit like trying to put out an Australian bush fire by crying on it. 'You're mad,' he said. 'Completely out of your tree. How the hell could you know I'd be all right?'
A click of her scaly red tongue, mildly reproachful, a sort of motherly don't-do-that-dear unspoken rebuke. 'I knew you'd be all right,' she repeated, 'and you are. I knew what you'd do, and you did it. What's hard to grasp about that?'
'You-' There comes a point where you can be too bewildered to be angry. 'How could you possibly know what I was going to do? I didn't know until I only had three minutes left. I got out of there with one fucking second to spare.'
'Really? But it was so obvious. You told me yourself, when Countess Judy got put away in Avalon, you'd taken the Portable Door and stashed it away in the Bank so nobody could ever get their hands on it again and misuse it for their own evil ends. And you knew perfectly well that the Door will get you into or out of absolutely anywhere at all. So naturally, as soon as you realised you were dead, you went to the Bank, got it out of your safe-deposit box and came home through it. Not exactly rocket science.' She paused, then frowned at him. 'You're saying that wasn't the first thought that crossed your mind, right?'
Put like that, it did sound fairly reasonable. 'I was confused,' Paul said, just a smidgeon defensively. 'Also bewildered and scared absolutely shitless. And-'
'You panicked.'
'No. Yes. Yes, of course I panicked, I'd just been killed by goblins. Goblins,' Paul added bitterly, 'in spandex catsuits and little white bunny tails jumping out of a cake. Whatever else I may eventually forgive you for, I will never ever-'
'That wasn't my idea,' Mr Tanner's mum said quickly. 'That was our Dennis. Said he thought it'd appeal
to your offbeat sense of humour, whatever that means. Anyhow, you got off lightly if you ask me. Cousin Howard and Uncle Tony had set their heart on a bevy of kissogram girls with obsidian daggers. I'm afraid he's a bit unregenerate, my Uncle Tony.'
'But-' There was a whirlwind of questions inside Paul's head, and for a long time he couldn't pick out which one he really needed an answer to. 'Why?' he eventually chose.
'Why what?'
'Why did you have me murdered, you evil bitch? Just to see if I could escape? What was it, a bet or something?'
'Don't be ridiculous. No, you had to go to the Bank to collect little Paul Azog's christening present. That is, somebody had to go, and you're the only person we could think of who'd be able to get back again.'
'Christening present-' Paul broke off and stared at her. 'What, I was supposed to pick up some rotten little pewter tankard or something? Well, you've had that, because I didn't.'
Patient little sigh. 'Yes, you have, silly. There it is, look, on the floor over there. Wouldn't have been any need,' she added reproachfully, 'if you hadn't gone and put it there in the first place. Your own silly fault, really.'
Paul turned his head to look, just in case he'd overlooked something. 'What are you talking about?'
'The door thing, stupid. The Acme Portable Door. Paul Azog's prezzie.'
All the rage and fury came back at once, like water gushing from a broken pipe. 'But that's - he can't have that, it's mine.
'Your own,' Mr Tanner's mum sighed, 'your precious. Sorry, but you're forgetting something, aren't you? Like, how you came by it in the first place.'
Paul opened his mouth, then shut it again. 'I found it,' he muttered. 'In my desk.'
'In the top left-hand drawer of your desk,' Mr Tanner's mum confirmed. 'Where I left it for you. A loan,' she added, 'not a gift. And now you've got to give it back. Sorry,' she added, 'but you should've guessed at the time. It's a really, really powerful magical object, stands to reason it must belong to someone. And who else around here likes you enough to lend you something like that, when you really needed it?'
Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt Page 9
