Paul stared at her for a while, then said, 'Oh.'
'That puts it very neatly,' Antonia replied. 'Actually it's not that bad. Before, you see, my friends all used to say to me, "Come on, Antonia, get a life," and it always used to make me feel just a little bit guilty, because I was always so busy, never had time to get around to it. But now there's just work, and nobody gives me a hard time about working evenings and weekends and holidays and Christmas any more, and mostly it feels the same, except I don't get hungry or cold or tired, and my feet don't go to sleep when I've been sitting still for hours on end. In a way, I suppose it's an improvement; for an accountant, death is a form of evolution. At least,' she added sadly, 'that's what I tell myself sometimes. The rest of the time, I sit here and do the numbers.'
'That's', Paul said, and left it there. There was only so much you could say in words.
'Anyhow,' Antonia said briskly, 'that's enough about me. What are you doing here? Did Theo send you to fetch something?'
Paul shook his head. 'It's a long story,' he said.
Antonia clapped the outlines of her hands together. 'Splendid,' she said. 'Start at the beginning and go very slowly, it'll make it last longer.'
'Actually,' Paul said awkwardly, 'I'd rather not. A lot of it's quite embarrassing, and most of the rest of it I don't understand.'
Antonia grinned, in between the lines. 'Here's the deal,' she said. 'You tell me the story, and perhaps I can explain some of the bits you're confused about. No promises, mind, but I've been here a very long time, and I was a partner, after all. Go on,' she added. 'If you're in a tearing hurry, I can stop Time if you like; then you can tell me the whole thing and you won't be late for whatever it is you've got to do. How's that?'
Paul thought for four seconds. 'Actually,' he said, 'I'd really like that. You see, I've been living in this horrible weird place for nearly a year and there's never been anybody I can talk to about it - well, apart from Sophie, but that was awkward at the best of times, and then she left me, because of Countess Judy, and-'
'Oooh, that sounds good. Start at the beginning,' Antonia said firmly.
So Paul told her, the whole story; everything from the interview right up to escaping from the strongroom with Colin the goblin, and watching his alter ego swordfighting with Ricky Wurmtoter in the closed-file store. It all came tumbling out, every weird, baffling bit of it, all the frustration and resignation and despair, the pain of losing Sophie, the even greater pain of being himself. As he talked, steadily getting faster and less controlled, Antonia listened, not saying anything, occasionally nodding to show that she was listening and following the narrative; from time to time the outline of her hand moved across the desktop, as if she was making notes on invisible paper with an invisible pencil. As he approached the end of the story he glanced up, and probably it was just fatigue or his imagination, but he fancied that the insides of her outline, the places where the colour would go, were starting to get just a little opaque; the view of the wall or the desk through her was very slightly blurred, like the faintest trace of mist on a mirror.
'And that's about it, really,' Paul said at last. 'I was poking about looking for Ricky Wurmtoter, I wandered into this room, and now I'm stuck. Pretty silly way to end up, don't you think?'
For a second or two, Antonia didn't reply. Then she looked at him - her eyes were just a sketch in empty air, but he couldn't meet her gaze for long and had to look away - and said, 'I think that, by and large, all things considered, you've made a pretty reasonable fist of it, Paul Carpenter. I mean, yes,' she added, 'you've done a few bloody stupid things along the way; and, yes, you have the emotional development of a walnut and what you understand about how women think could be written on the point of a needle and still leave room for an infinite number of dancing angels. That aside, though, you've done a good deal better than a lot of people would've done in your shoes. Not that it matters much what I think,' she added, 'but I thought I'd mention it, anyway.'
'Thanks,' Paul said. 'It helps.'
'You're most welcome.' Perhaps she flickered slightly; it was hard to tell. 'It sounds like you've had a rough life, all things considered.'
'Me?' Paul thought about that. 'Well, yes, I suppose. Or at least, well, no. I mean, I've always had enough to eat, and clothes and somewhere to sleep, and it's not like I've spent my life dodging the storm troopers or having rocks thrown at me in the street. It could've been a lot worse.'
'And a lot better.'
Paul shrugged. 'I think it could always be better, no matter how lucky you are. And it can always be worse, unless you're dead. . . No offence,' he added quickly. 'I mean-'
'You mean, look at me: dead, and still an accountant. Perfectly valid point. But you shouldn't have interrupted - I was providing moral support, making you feel better about yourself.'
In between the lines, Antonia was now almost grey, as though he'd coloured her in with the dirty water he'd once cleaned his watercolour brushes with. 'Yes,' he said, 'you were. Kind of you.'
She shrugged. 'Nothing better to do with my time. But you were telling me about your life.'
Paul managed not to frown; because, yes, up to a point he had, but not all of it, only the nasty, smelly JWW bit. The entire biography was a different matter, and somehow he wasn't sure that any amount of support and sympathy really entitled her to that. 'You were going to explain the stuff I don't understand,' he reminded her.
'So I was, yes. But in order to do that, I need more data. More of your life story.' Antonia smiled again, and this time he could see more than just bare, thin lines. Grey swirls of half-digested colour were coagulating in between them, like steam in a glass tube. It wasn't a face yet, not by a long way, but Paul had the oddest feeling that, when it turned into one, he might well recognise it. 'For background, you see, to understand you better. I have the feeling that not many people have ever tried to understand you properly.'
He shrugged. 'Why would they want to? It's not like I'm anyone interesting or anything.'
'There you go, putting yourself down.' The grey was just beginning to blush pink in places, rather like the grey bits on the edges of grilled salmon. 'Obviously, if you go through life saying, "I'm boring, I'm not worth bothering with, you don't want to waste your time on me," eventually people are going to start taking you at your word. But it's not true. You aren't just some dull, grey, featureless thing in a suit, you're a unique, different individual. Of course you aren't boring. You're fascinating.'
'Thanks,' Paul said, 'but I don't think so. Nobody's ever found me fascinating in my whole life.'
'I do.' Not just her face and hands; on the desk between them, Paul thought he could see things - a stapler, a dictating machine, one of those page-a-day tear-off calendars, a couple of photo frames. That was - well, odd, because they certainly hadn't been there before. Maybe it was a case of his eyes adjusting to the light. 'Mind if I sit down?' he said.
'Go ahead,' Antonia said cheerfully. 'Make yourself comfy. Do you mind if I tell you some things about yourself, Paul Carpenter? Frankly, and without pulling any punches?'
'Sure,' Paul mumbled. 'Go ahead.'
'Good. Pin your ears back and listen carefully, because this is all good stuff.' Antonia's eyes flashed slightly; they were green. 'You want to know what your trouble is? You're a scaredy-cat. You're afraid of going out there and seeing what life has to offer, because you just might get caught up in something you want to be a part of, and then you'll have to stick around, you won't be able to scuttle back to your skanky little flat and your warm little nest of self-pity. You know what people see when they look at you for the first time?'
Paul thought for a moment. 'Big ears?'
She shook her head, and her hair flowed round her shoulders. 'Not big ears, Paul Carpenter. Not a thin, beaky nose or goggly eyes. They see what you want them to see, the face you put on in front of the mirror each morning. It's just that old effective magic - you ought to know all about that by now. But what they didn't tell you is
, everybody can do it, a little bit. Everybody does it all the time, without thinking, without realising. You do this magic thing where you barricade yourself in behind a few aspects of your appearance, and you're damned if you're going to come out, not if they lob in tear gas and stun grenades. Shakespeare said, whoever loved, that loved not at first sight? Absolutely, totally correct, it's all in that very first eyeful, and all the rest's just rationalisation, interpreting at your leisure the little bits of information that you took in subconsciously the first time you saw her. Hence your Maginot ears, Paul Carpenter, and your carefully crafted half-witted expression. Anybody can make themselves look like a total dork; the handsomest man, the prettiest woman, if they stand in front of the mirror and pull faces for long enough they can come up with something that nobody could ever want to love. But that's not what they want, so they don't do it. You, on the other hand-'
Antonia flung out a hand in a theatrical gesture and knocked down one of the picture frames. Paul picked it up and stood it upright.
'You, on the other hand, want to be a clown,' she went on. 'You want every female you meet to take one look at you and say, "No, not him." It's what we all do, isn't it? Every time we meet someone new, at that first moment of encounter we look at them and there's a little voice in our heads saying, "Is it him, is it her, the one?" It's only a teeny-tiny moment, and then, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a million, the voice says "No," and we forget all about it. And you put on the face that'll make them say no, because that's what you want. And why the hell do you do that? Because deep in your fuzzy little brain, a million times out of a million, that little voice's saying yes. But you can't have them all, you know that perfectly well, so you've fixed it so you won't ever get any of them, and that takes care of that. I'm right, aren't I?'
Slowly, Paul shook his head. Of course he was listening to what she was saying, every word of it, but right then his attention was mostly fixed on the framed photo he'd just put back on the desk. It was blank, of course; just a white piece of card surrounded by a gilded frame. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'No disrespect and all that. But I can prove it; because, you see, I really did love Sophie. Do love her, except-'
'Except that now, you can actually have her,' Antonia went on harshly. 'For ever and ever, no doubts, no insecurities, it's a chemically guaranteed dead certainty, thanks to the love philtre. Which is why, suddenly, you'd do anything to get out of it. It's so blindingly obvious. If you really loved her, even one little bit, you'd be so thrilled she'd drunk the stuff you'd be dancing on the ceiling. If you really love her, you'd know she's just right for you, and you're just right for her. All the philtre does is make sure that nothing can go wrong this time round. You do see that, don't you?'
'Sorry?' Paul looked at her as if he'd just woken up. He was sure there was something about the photo, something he'd already seen, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. 'No, you're missing the point,' he said. 'Drinking the philtre's ruined everything, it's every bit as bad as when Countess Judy blanked out those bits of her mind, it's-'
As soon as he said the name, the last piece dropped into place. Quickly he glanced down at the blank card in the frame. But it wasn't blank. No picture; but there was handwriting: flowing, squiggly, flashy sort of handwriting, the kind that looks really elegant and classy, but you actually have to squint to read the words. And the words were-
Happy birthday, sis!
Love, Judy.
He looked up at her again; and now all the lines were coloured in, flesh and hair and eyes, everything except the very tip of her nose, which was still faintly translucent. Now that he knew, of course, the family resemblance was unmistakable.
'Excuse me,' Paul said, 'but are you one of the Fey?'
Every vestige of expression drained out of her face. 'Yes,' she said.
'And is Countess Judy your sister?'
Antonia nodded. 'My kid sister, actually,' she said. 'And didn't it ever take you a long time to figure it out. Luckily,' she added, with a slight curl of the edge of her mouth, 'long enough. Thanks a lot, by the way, I couldn't have done it without you. And gorgeous irony, of course. You murdered my sister, but you've brought me back to life. Even Stevens, you might say.'
She stretched out her hand, lifted up the picture frame and put it straight. There was a picture in it now, of course.
'Back to life,' Paul repeated. It wasn't a question; rather, it was the syntactical form known to philologists as a statement implying the term Oh skit. 'You really were dead, and now-'
'That's right,' Antonia said. 'And in just a moment, I'm going to stroll out through a door that'll magically appear in the middle of that wall, and you'll be stuck in here for ever and ever, all on your ownsome with nothing to read. Honestly,' she added, 'there's naive and trusting, and there's going down on bended knee and begging to be snared and drained. Soon as you came in, I knew that a little scrap of sympathy and understanding'd have you by the balls. All I had to do was make it sound like I gave a toss, and out it all came, gushing like a Scouser's vomit: your whole heart and soul, every last drop of you.' She stood up. She was very tall. 'Get a life, they said to me when I was working here. And I have, haven't I? Not what I'd have chosen, of course,' she said. 'In fact, slumming it would be putting it mildly. But beggars can't be choosers, and it'll do to get me out of here, till I find something better. Actually, I think you're such a pathetic loser that you might actually prefer it in here; in which case, enjoy. I'll be going now,' she said, and at once the outline of a door began to glow sky blue on the wall in front of her. 'Any last request, by the way? Just as long as it's something easy and trivial that won't put me out at all.'
Paul looked at her. That last bit, the tip of her nose, was almost perfectly solid, but not quite. 'You're alive again,' he said.
'That's right. Actually, again is a bit misleading; not strictly accurate where the Fey are concerned. Right now, though, I'm most definitely alive.'
'And human?'
'Human as you are,' Antonia replied jauntily. 'Were, at any rate. So, any small favour I can do for you?'
The door was swinging open; it was ajar, it was yawning, and light was streaming through. 'There is one thing,' Paul said.
'Well?'
Paul swung the rifle up from under the table and pointed it at her head. 'Say hello to Mr Dao for me,' he said, and pulled the trigger.
Antonia screamed as the colour drained out of her. Paul fired again, and the noise hit him like a hammer. The door began to swing shut; Paul closed his eyes, dropped the rifle and hurled himself at her: into her, through her - and through the open door.
He hit the floor of the corridor just as the door clicked shut behind him. When he craned his head round, there was no trace that it had ever been there.
Instinctively, he put a hand to his face and felt his nose. It was different. Smaller. He collapsed to his knees and threw up.
On the other hand, he thought, once he'd finished regurgitating, she'd been right about one thing.
He wiped his mouth on his cuff. Bloody fucking Fey, he said to himself, why can't they just leave me alone? And now they've gone and made me kill someone. I really didn't want to do that, not ever; not even someone who's dead already.
On the other hand- Paul stood up slowly, positively relishing the sensation of movement. 'That,' he said aloud, 'was for implying I'd make a good accountant.'
On the other hand, she had been right, he could see that now: about the barricade, the Maginot ears, the not wanting to come out and play in case the other kids were nasty to him. He'd sort of guessed it while he was being Phil Marlow, but he'd been able to explain it away because Phil had the looks, the bone structure, the easy smile. But it had all been simple effective magic, and Mr Laertides hadn't actually taught him a single thing he hadn't already known, that day on the train. It had taken the full malevolence of the Fey to make him admit it to himself, to force him to acknowledge that life was worth taki
ng a flying leap through his deadliest enemy for.
Appropriate; Antonia had tried to steal him from himself. And hadn't he always been his own deadliest enemy?
Till now.
Shame, though, about his nose. Paul wondered what it looked like. Was the very tip missing, snapped off like a carrot? He tried to picture himself with a truncated snout. If only she could've taken a quarter of an inch off each ear, she'd have been doing him a favour.
The fire door, he noticed, was a foot to his left. In which case, he was just up-corridor of the ladies' toilet; where (because there's a grain of truth in even the most offensive gender stereotypes) there was bound to be a fully operational mirror. Normally, of course, Paul wouldn't have dreamed under any circumstances whatsoever of walking into a ladies' toilet; but he was still in Custardspace, wasn't he, and he had it on the very best authority that the whole dimension was completely uninhabited, apart from a few trespassers and associates of Theo van Spee. In which case, he'd probably be fairly safe- He pushed open the door, and somebody screamed.
Not just any old scream, either; it was like having the inside of his head rasped and sanded. Paul jumped back, slammed the door and mumbled 'Sorry' several times in a row.
'Paul?'
Of all the toilets in all the offices in all the world. . . He froze, caught like a rabbit in the headlight glare of her small beady round red eyes. Too late now to make a run for it, anyhow. She'd seen him, and that was enough. 'Um,' he replied. 'Yes.'
Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt Page 27
