'Yes, but-' Maybe it was the befuddling effects of his nap on the bus, or dizziness from hopping on and off chairs, or just possibly it was a side effect of the ginger-beer shandies; but Paul couldn't quite marshal the words he needed to get across what he wanted to say; namely, who the hell are you and what are you doing in my flat? Screw verbal communication anyway, he decided. Why ask when he could see for himself, which he could do perfectly easily just as soon as he'd changed that annoying bulb? Which he couldn't do in the dark, because he couldn't find a spare- But (and this was where he had an ace in the hole in this battle against the universe) he did know exactly where to lay his hand on a candle and a box of matches; right here on the kitchen shelf, next to the pasta jar.
Paul located the jar rather cleverly by touch (and the crash it made as it hit the tiles confirmed its identity); and there next to it, just as he'd thought, were the candle and the matchbox. He struck a match, tried to light his middle finger, decided that was a bad idea and lit the wick of the candle instead. Now he had light; armed with which, he was the equal of anything the world could throw at him. He picked up the candle and directed its glowing yellow circle around the room. Nobody there.
'Stop mucking about,' he ordered, because an Englishman's home is his castle, even though most Englishmen tend to end up in the dungeons. 'Where are you?'
'Here,' the voice said, sounding bored. 'Where I usually am.'
That didn't make a whole lot of sense; because if Paul had been sharing his flat with whoever the voice belonged to, he reckoned he'd have noticed it by now. 'Fine,' he said. 'Humour me. Where's that?'
'Right in front of you, of course. Between the sink and the washing machine.'
Paul frowned, and lifted the candle higher. There was the sink, right, yes; there was the washing machine. Between them, there was just the fridge, no gap large enough for anybody to hide in. 'No you aren't,' Paul pointed out.
'Yes, I am.'
'No, you bloody well aren't. Look,' he added, marching across the floor and standing next to the fridge door. 'No gap, see? Sink, fridge, washing machine. Nobody there.'
The voice sighed. 'You've been drinking,' it said. 'That'd account for it. Even you aren't generally this stupid.'
Paul froze. He had a nasty feeling that the voice was coming from inside the fridge. Nerving himself against what he might find, he grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. Nothing. The light didn't even come on and his candle flame showed him nothing except a sad-looking lump of antique cheese and a milk carton.
This was really stupid, but: 'Are you in there?'
This time the voice laughed. 'In a manner of speaking,' it said; at which point Paul realised that for the last few minutes he'd been having a conversation with his fridge.
He slammed the door shut and jumped back. 'You?'
'Finally.' A long sigh, and a faint gurgle of plumbing. 'For someone in your line of work, you're a bit bloody slow off the mark.'
'You're the fridge.'
'Yes, I'm the fridge. Of course, I knew that already.'
'But-' Pity about the four pints of intoxicant; this was a situation he'd have preferred to face without having to think his way through all that beer. 'You can't be, I've been keeping food in you for the last nine months. I mean, how long-?'
'I've always been here,' the fridge replied, and repeated the gurgling noise, which put Paul in mind of something or other he couldn't quite place. 'Looking after you, like I promised I would. But now I need you to do something for me.'
'Oh. What?'
'Switch me back on. He's been here. He turned me off at the mains. If I go cold, I'll die. It's all right, I've still got half an hour left, at least. But if you wouldn't mind-'
'Like you promised?' Paul said. 'Promised who?'
'The switch. Please.'
'Oh, sorry, yes.' Hot wax from the candle ran down over the back of his hand; he nearly dropped it. 'I'll just turn on the lamp here, so I can see-'
'Don't bother, it won't work. I told you, he was here. He's killed all the bulbs.'
Down on his hands and knees, Paul followed the line of the skirting board to find the electric point. 'There,' he said, as he flicked the switch. 'Is that better?'
The fridge gave a great sigh. 'Yes,' it said. 'Yes, that's fine.'
'Right.' Paul stood up, bumping his head against the worktop. 'Now, who did you promise you'd look after me to?'
'Ah.' The fridge gurgled again. 'Actually, I made two promises. The other one was not to tell you.'
The headache was much worse now. 'Look,' Paul said, 'that's silly. Just a moment,' he added, as something else the fridge had said battled its way through the shandy entanglement into his mind. 'Did you say someone's been here?'
'Yes. He tried to kill me, and he killed all the light bulbs.'
'And I suppose you aren't allowed to tell me-'
'Of course I am, stupid. I told you, it's my duty to protect you. It was Utgarth-Loke.'
Paul paused for a moment. 'Sorry,' he said. 'What did you just say?'
'It was Utgarth-Loke,' the fridge repeated. 'He came in here-'
'Who the hell is Utgarth-Loke?'
Stunned silence; then the fridge said, 'What do you mean?'
Orange juice from now on. 'I mean,' Paul said slowly, 'who's Utgarth-Loke?'
'He is.' Pause. 'Don't you understand?'
'No.'
'Oh, for-' Silence; Paul could almost hear the sound of the fridge concentrating. 'Utgarth-Loke is him. That's who he is. That's his name. Look, what's so difficult about that?'
'You aren't making any sense,' Paul shouted. 'Listen, I've never heard of anybody called whatever it is you just said. It doesn't mean anything to me.'
'You've never heard-' The fridge started to whirr ominously. 'Of course you have, you must have. That's like saying you've never heard of Wiod. Or Dunor.'
'Who?'
There was a bang and the fridge door flew open, narrowly missing Paul's knee. 'Now look what you've made me do,' the fridge said bitterly. 'Bloody hell, don't you know anything?'
'Apparently not,' Paul replied. 'Can't you just start at the beginning? And was it one of those people you just said who made you promise-?'
'Just shut my door, will you? And while you're at it, get that disgusting piece of cheese out of me, there's stuff growing all over it. Thank you, right, yes.' The fridge appeared to have calmed down a little. 'That's better. It was horrible, like having toothache.'
'Please,' Paul said, 'can you explain what all this is about? Like, from the beginning. And who are all those people with the funny names?'
'Oh God.' The fridge sounded despondent. 'I'd have thought he'd have told you something, but apparently not. All right, it's like this. In the beginning, there was nothing but mist and fire and empty space. Then the fountain Hvergelmir surged up out of the darkness, and from it sprang twelve rivers-'
'Excuse me,' Paul interrupted, 'but what are you talking about?'
'You said begin at the beginning, so I am. As the waters of the twelve rivers cooled down and began to freeze-'
'Not that beginning,' Paul protested. 'Look, all I want to know is, who's this Utgarth person you keep talking about?'
'Began to freeze,' the fridge repeated icily, 'and when they congealed, they took the shape of the first living creature, the giant Ymir. Meanwhile Audumla, the Great Cow of Heaven-'
'All right,' Paul whined, 'all right, forget it. Sorry I asked.'
'But it's important,' the fridge said angrily.
'No, it's not.'
'How dare you!' the fridge roared, so loud that Paul nearly jumped out of his skin. 'What kind of attitude is that, for pity's sake? Here I've been all this time, doing everything I possibly could to keep you safe, and you can't even be bothered to listen. It's not right. You've passed two of the three great tests - more by luck than judgement, needless to say, but even so, technically you've passed, and now we've got to get you ready for the third one. Which is why you ought to kno
w these things.'
'Why?' Paul yelled. 'Why's it important? What the hell does it matter to me, any of it? I'm just this small, inoffensive bloke who wants to have a quiet life and be left alone, and what do I get? Talking fridges and the Great Cow of Heaven. It's not bloody fair, really.'
Long pause; then - 'Have you quite finished?'
'Yes.'
'Better now?'
Paul nodded.
'Right, then. Just as well, because I don't think we've got much time. Where were we?'
'The Great Cow -'
'Oh, yes. From the udders of Audumla the Great Cow of Heaven dripped the four elements: earth, air, fire, water. From these elements, Ymir the giant created all things, the sky, the sea, the land, or at least, that's how it was in the beginning originally. But then - quite some time later, obviously, but also next - then Utgarth-Loke stole the Great Cow from her stall, and in secret, unsuspected by the other gods-'
'What other gods?' Paul interrupted. 'You said there was just this giant and the cow. And you never said where the cow came from, either.'
'She was formed out of droplets of sea spray breaking on the cliffs of Surtheim, obviously. But the gods came much later. This is all before that, or at least it was. That's the whole problem. Anyway, you're making me get ahead of myself. Utgarth-Loke stole the Great Cow and, unsuspected by the other gods, he drew from her udders a fifth element, purely for his own use: stronger, more versatile, infinitely more dangerous, easy to make at home from sustainable resources. This element, which is all around us every day, pervading every corner of our lives and posing a horrific threat to the fabric of the universe, is in fact click-'
The fridge didn't actually say the click part; that was a sound effect, coming from somewhere up above Paul's head and to the right. Paul waited for a moment, just in case the fridge was doing it on purpose to heighten the suspense; then he tore open the fridge door.
No light.
'Bloody fuses,' Paul snarled aloud. He groped for his candle and knocked it over. It went out. He tried feeling for the matchbox, then remembered that he'd left it over on the worktop. He got up, found the chair, stood on it and reset the fuse. No problems whatsoever with any of that. It was as he tried to get down off the chair that he trod in something slippery, wobbled for a moment, lost his balance, skated the length of the kitchen floor and slammed very hard indeed into the door frame. Then he went to sleep.
When Paul woke up, he had a bad, bad headache.
He also had a crick in his neck that made him whimper when he tried to get up; also, he noticed, he wasn't in bed. For some reason he'd chosen to go to sleep in the kitchen doorway, like someone's faithful dog. With the benefit of hindsight (and the light streaming in through the windows was so obnoxiously bright that even hindsight hurt) he could see that this hadn't been a good idea, and he wondered why he'd done it; also, why he was still fully dressed in his work suit.
Then memory began to seep back, like oil through a chip wrapper. The pub. Alcohol abuse. That, of course, explained everything - the headache, the lack of judgement as regards sleeping arrangements, even the hazy recollection at the back of his mind of a long and earnest conversation with his fridge. Something about a cow- Talking of fridges; Paul stood up, wobbled and sat down again. Since he'd more or less mastered the walking business by the time he was two, he wondered what was wrong, but a quick survey of the floor, followed by cursory examination of the soles of his shoes revealed rather a lot of gungy, slippery yellow stuff; something he'd trodden in at some point in his adventures, and it was probably just as well he couldn't remember anything about it. He crawled to his knees and stumped across the floor to the fridge, opened the door and gazed blearily inside. Once he'd got used to the blinding glare of the light, he found what he needed: a beautifully chilled Coke can, which he pressed carefully against his throbbing temples. Blessed numbness gradually spread, and he sighed. Thirty seconds of the treatment, and he felt ready for stage two, a long drink of cold orange juice.
The fridge was unusually well stocked. As well as two cartons of orange juice, there were eggs, bacon, sausages (he shuddered), cold drinks, milk, a Tesco moussaka, even some salady leaf things. Paul couldn't remember buying them, but there was so much that he couldn't remember about the previous evening that one small detail was neither here nor there. He stuck his thumb gracelessly through the cardboard of one of the juice cartons and swilled down half the contents. Better; still not good, but better.
Phases three and four involved aspirin and coffee. Phase five was a scheduled R & R break, five minutes sitting motionless at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. He hadn't worked out phase six in any detail, since he'd hardly expected to live that long, but in the event he winged it; a shower, a shave, clean shirt and underwear left him looking more or less human, and with luck nobody would get close enough to know any different. By eight-fifteen, he was sentient, self-propelled and late for his bus.
Dragging into the office at twenty past nine, Paul expected, at the very least, scornful looks and a mild rebuke. But, most unusually, there was nobody on reception, the front office was deserted, the corridors were empty. Nobody to be seen, anywhere. Arguably it was a definite improvement, but not the sort of thing to spring on someone with a delicate head first thing in the morning.
For some reason he felt the need to walk very quietly as he made his way up the stairs, as though the building was asleep and wouldn't be pleased at being woken up. He stopped outside the door of Mr Laertides's office, knocked as usual, and waited. No reply; but inside he was sure he could hear curious shuffling noises. Then a voice he didn't know squeaked, 'Come.'
There was someone sitting in Mr Laertides's chair, but it wasn't Mr Laertides; quite the opposite, in fact. Mr Laertides was long and linear, whereas this bloke was short and built up out of curves and radii. His head was almost perfectly circular, its profile unmarred by even the faintest trace of hair, and was poised snugly above a nest of chins, like a cat sitting on a pile of cushions. Paul was sure he knew him from somewhere.
'Hello,' said the stranger.
Paul stared at him for a whole four seconds. 'Hello,' he replied. 'Um, who are you? And where's Mr Laertides?'
The round man smiled agreeably. 'Frank can't make it in today,' he said. 'He asked me to hold the fort for him till he gets back. My name's Constantine Porphyrogenitus, by the way, and you must be Paul Carpenter. Pleased to meet you.' He stuck out a paw fringed with chipolata fingers, and when Paul hesitated to have anything to do with it, he laughed again. 'It's all right,' he said. 'Frank briefed me about the Paul Carpenter-Phil Marlow business. Why Philip Marlow, by the way? Where's the raincoat, the fedora, the forty-five?'
Paul blinked. 'The forty-five what?'
Mr Porphyrogenitus narrowed his eyes. 'Like that, is it? I understand. Of course, it's mostly just dehydration - that's what causes the headache and the sense of having been raised from the dead after two months in a limepit. Next time, drink three glasses of water before you go to bed. You'll be amazed what a difference it makes. So,' he went on, as Paul flopped into a chair, 'how'd it go yesterday?'
Yesterday. What the hell had happened yesterday? 'Excuse me?'
'The pictures. With that long-legged bit from the typing pool. Get lucky?'
Paul's eyes opened wide, but he lacked the necessary coherence to word a suitable protest. 'No,' he replied. 'At least, we had a nice time and enjoyed the film, and then I went home.'
'You went home.'
'Yes.'
'Alone.'
'Yes.'
Mr Porphyrogenitus sighed, and pressed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. 'Right,' he said. 'And then you drank yourself into a stupor and went to bed.'
'Um, no,' Paul said. Difficult to explain that he'd gone out drinking to celebrate his escape from having to go out for a pizza with a friendly and attractive young woman. 'I stopped off on the way home, and-'
'Whatever. All right,' the round man went on, '
I'll just ask you to nip across to the cashier's room and fetch me the files marked "2004 reconciliations".' He frowned, probably in reaction to the blank stare that Paul was sure he was wearing. 'Think of the 101 Dalmatians, it'll help you remember. They should be right there on the desk.'
As Paul traipsed up and down stairs on the way to Benny Shumway's room, he was thinking, I know that man, I've seen him somewhere just recently. But the librarian of his mental archive was obviously away for the day, and nothing came.
Benny wasn't in when he knocked, but the files were there on the desk, just as the round-headed man had said they would be. Paul was just about to leave when something in the corner of the room caught his eye.
Something about three feet long, wrapped in newspaper. It could have been a loaf of French bread, or an oversized clarinet, or an offcut of plastic water-pipe, but somehow he didn't think so. It was right next to the little door, the one with all the bolts and chains and Chubb locks and Yale locks on it that led to the Land of the Dead; the one that had slammed in his face, the night of the christening party.
Nothing to do with me, Paul told himself, but in his own mind he sounded like a child telling his mummy he's got a headache and shouldn't have to go to school, on the day of the big maths test. Nothing to do with me, it's in someone else's room, I can't possibly just wander over there and take the wrappings off and look at it, what if Benny were to come back and catch me? But by then he'd already picked it up and peeled off the paper at the top, revealing the hilt of a sword.
It was a small point of pride with Paul that he knew roughly as much about weapons as a shoebox knows about medieval Russian music. This sword-hilt, however - he recognised it immediately. Last time he'd seen it, he'd used it to cut a cake and then decapitate a TV anchorman. He'd worried a bit about the latter act from time to time since the event; but he was moderately certain in his mind that his victim hadn't been real, just a hallucinatory image planted in his brain by the goblins; further, or in the alternative, even if he had hacked a real head off real shoulders, killing a television presenter under any circumstances wasn't homicide so much as pesticide. But; the fact remained that the blood left behind on the sword-blade must've been real blood, because it had been good enough to get him, if not out of the Land of the Dead, at least as far as the doorway. With extreme caution, since he had reason to believe the edges were sharp, he slipped off the rest of the wrappings and studied the blade for a moment or so. Just as he remembered it; the most striking feature being the whirling, looping fountains of silver patterning, not engraving or inlay but deep in the grain of the metal, standing out clearly from the smooth, faintly glowing brown steel. It reminded him of something so strongly that he could almost see it- Something, or someone.
Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt Page 17
