Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt

by Earth, Air, Fire

  Think, Paul urged himself, like a horse led to water. No harm can come to anybody here; but it looks like he's sent them somewhere else. But where else was there? Realspace: dodgy old place, but not necessarily fatal. Custardspace, which was here. There wasn't anywhere else. Was there?

  Anyway. To answer the question: that just left rescue. Because, Paul reasoned with a strong why-the-fuck-me? feeling going right down into the marrow of his bones, if Van Spee wanted rid of them, he pretty much had to get them back, or else he'd be screwed. Why this was inevitably so he wasn't quite sure. He just knew, that was all.

  Deep breath. Then he tried very hard to picture in his mind the doorway that Van Spee had caused to disappear. Somehow he was convinced that it was still there somehow, if only he could get a grip on it, a fingernail under the very edge so he could prise off the lid ... How nice it would be, he thought, if right now I had the gift of being able to do magic. I could perform a really neat revealing spell, or a dead cool opening charm, or maybe crackly green fire would leap from my fingertips and blast a bloody great big hole in the wall. Or maybe a kindly old voice would whisper in my mind's ear, Use the Force, Luke, and I'd just be able to do it, like wiggling my ears.

  But I can't.

  Staring at the wall wasn't doing any good, so Paul sat down with his back to it instead; because in all those movies, that was how the hero accidentally found the hidden lever that opened the secret passage. But that was just another kind of magic that didn't work.

  Maybe they really were gone for ever.

  Quite possibly they were; but he wasn't giving up, mostly because he was stuck here with nothing else he particularly wanted to do, so he might as well persevere as get out a pen and start playing noughts and crosses with himself on the plaster-work. But there was nothing he could do, right?

  Wrong. Paul felt in his top pocket, just to make sure it was still there, and it was. There was something he could do, something magical and JWW-ish, which was very good except that it was the wrong thing. He could still do it, of course. It wouldn't help, it'd quite probably make everything a whole lot worse, but yes, he could do it.

  He considered that for a moment. Bloody stupid idea, but on the other hand it's the way this country's been governed for the last fifty years. He took out the little paper packet containing Van Spee's crystals, pulled it open and spilled its contents onto the palm of his hand. He could eat these, he thought, they were supposed to make him able to travel back into Realspace from here. But what if he scoffed them while leaning on the bit of wall where a door used to be, one that used to open into the closed-file store but which now apparently led to somewhere quite other?

  Indigestion, probably. Or he'd end up back in the genuine 70 St Mary Axe, where he'd be arrested by Mr Tanner's goblins for killing Ricky Wurmtoter, who wasn't going to be able to stand up and admit he wasn't dead really, because now he possibly was-

  Aargh, Paul thought, too bloody complicated for me. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and gulped. For a moment, absolutely nothing; then the wall began squidging out between his fingers, as though he was leaning on, say, custard.

  The Great Cow of Heaven, he thought, for crying out loud. Then he fell over.

  Paul woke up, and lifted his head off his hands.

  'I said,' growled a horribly familiar voice behind him, 'wake up.'

  Every muscle in Paul's body stiffened, and he swung round in his seat, in doing so barking his knee against the leg of the desk. Behind him stood Miss Hook, just the same as when he'd last seen her. Suddenly it seemed terribly important that he should remember exactly how long ago that was. Good question, actually. It was either eleven years or three minutes, but he wasn't quite sure- 'You were asleep,' said Miss Hook, with that ominously soft tone of voice that always meant extreme danger. 'You were asleep and making funny noises.' Giggles all around him. Paul didn't dare break eye contact with Miss Hook, but he could dimly see rows of desks, faces behind them. 'You were dreaming,' she went on. 'Rather an interesting dream, by the sound of it. Perhaps you'd like to share it with the rest of the class?'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Shit, Paul thought. Out of the corner of his eye he could just see his sleeve. He remembered that loathsome shade of navy blue, the shine of daily-worn gabardine. Away to his right, he could just make out one of the grinning faces: Demeiza Horrocks, age about eleven.

  It couldn't be, he told himself. Surely not. Not even in his worst nightmare- And then the full impact of what Miss Hook had said hit him like a falling building. He'd been asleep. He'd been dreaming, but he was awake now.

  He'd been dreaming- 'No!' he yelled; he tried to get up, but banged his knee on the underside of the desk and froze with the pain. 'That's not-' The words died on his lips, as the unspeakable truth ground itself into his mind. 'Um,' he said.

  'Sleeping in class,' said Miss Hook, her voice full of savage delight. 'How do you expect to learn anything if you can't even stay awake?' She shook her head. 'I don't come in here every morning for the good of my health, you know. I come here to try - heaven help me, to try to ram knowledge into your thick head, teach you the things you're going to need to know in later life. One of these days, you're really going to wish you'd paid attention, and then it'll be too late. All right, on your feet. Headmaster's office. Come on, don't just sit there. Move!'

  Paul's legs were wobbly and defective. It took him three goes to get out from behind the desk, and all the other kids were laughing at him. 'Please, Miss Hook,' he pleaded, as he turned for the door. 'What was today's lesson about?'

  Roar of laughter from the other kids; a cocktail of anger and contempt in Miss Hook's eyes. 'The rest of the class,' she said, 'has been learning how to escape from a synthetic universe without accidentally finding yourself trapped in something even worse. But, of course, you won't ever need to know that, will you? Headmaster's office, Carpenter. And no running in the corridor.'

  He'd taken this walk so many times he'd have known the way blindfold: down the passage, past the library, past the assembly hall, up the stairs, past the closed-file store (but they'd shut it at the end of last term, bricked up the doorway), down the stairs, past the science labs, up two flights, turn left, you couldn't miss it. In a way, it reminded him of somewhere else, but that was just an illusion. At some stage last term, the rest of the class had learned that all buildings are in fact the same building, made over and seen from slightly different angles, like a reused film set; but Paul had been gazing out of the window, and so had missed it. Subconsciously, he therefore misrationalised, he must've modelled the floor plan of the fantasy office building in his dream on the school. Just the sort of thing you do in dreams.

  And here he was- Theodorus Van Spee

  Head Teacher

  Do NOT enter until told to do so

  Yeah, yeah; he knew the drill by now. He knocked, stood back, waited. No answer, so he'd just have to stand there and wait until the old git was ready for him. He hated that.

  Such a vivid dream, he could have sworn it was all real. But now he was awake he could see just how ridiculous it had been. Magic, for crying out loud. A whole bunch of grown-ups making their living doing magic, right here in the late-twentieth century; and for a while back there, he'd actually believed in it. How stupid could you get?

  What was he going to tell the Head?

  No mileage whatsoever in trying to lie to Van Spee; he had this horrible knack of knowing exactly what you were thinking, what you'd just done, what you'd been just about to do, it simply wasn't fair. Sometimes Paul imagined he was living in a world that was made and run by Van Spee, the way nerdy kids built huge dioramas for their model-railway layouts.

  So, he'd have to tell him the truth; he'd fallen asleep in Miss Hook's class, he'd been having this really weird dream - no, he didn't want to tell anybody about that, it was too freaky, they'd drag him away and lock him up in a loony bin. But if he went in there and had to face Van Spee, trying to keep it secret'd be a complete waste of time.
Van Spee would hook it out of his mind like a bogey. They'd come and take him away in a big white van, just like they'd come for Ricky in Year Twelve last month.

  I can't go in there, Paul thought desperately. I daren't. If I go in there, I'll never get free again. Not ever.

  In his dream ... He had to stop thinking about it - nothing but a bad dream, a nightmare. Dad said bad dreams were just because you'd eaten sweets and stuff just before you went to bed. But in his dream, this room would've been Professor Van Spee's office, and you weren't allowed in there unless you were told you could go in- 'Next,' said a voice from the other side of the study door.

  His hand was on the door handle. He paused, used his right hand to pry open the fingers of his left. Obviously there was no way of knowing just by sight, or by feel, or anything like that. A door is just a door; the fundamental things apply.

  When is a door not a door?

  'Next,' the voice repeated. It wasn't happy.

  Answer. It came at him like King Harold's arrow, so fast and straight and sudden that it could've taken his mind's eye out. Answer: a door isn't a door when it's one of those doors, the sort that seal up behind you and won't let you out again. And it hadn't been a dream. It'd been real.

  Fine; but what was he supposed to do next? Even if it had been real, and he was a twenty-two-year-old clerk in a magicians' office in the City rather than an eleven-year-old schoolboy, and this was indeed one of those doors, leading to the place you couldn't go to unless you were allowed to go there, and where you couldn't get back from ever - Knowing all that was one thing, but what was he supposed to do about it? Miss Hook's words were still ringing in his ears. How to escape from a synthetic universe without accidentally finding yourself trapped in something even worse. One of these days, you're really going to wish you'd paid attention, and then it'll be too late.

  Well, since he'd been asleep and missed all that useful stuff, he was just going to have to figure it all out for himself, from first principles. As bloody usual.

  (Rule Forty-Six: no mental swearing in the corridors. Stay behind after school. Permanently.)

  The best place to start, Paul resolved, would be not going through this particular door. Try another one instead. He looked round, and saw a door that he couldn't remember having seen before. It was only a few yards down the corridor from the Head's study, and it was pink. Even so.

  He stood in front of it. Getting there had been awful, like squelching through thick mud, the sort that sucks your boots off and swallows them, but he was there now. He reached for the door handle.

  'What do you think you're doing?' He cringed; Mr Tanner, the maths teacher, horribly strict and bitterly unfair, was standing next to him, looking just like a goblin out of a story book.

  I was just about to go in here, sir.

  'You can't go in there, Carpenter.'

  Sorry, sir. Why not, sir?

  'Because it's the girls' changing room.'

  Balls, sir, and by the way, you don't exist. Mr Tanner obligingly vanished, and Paul opened the door.

  It was, indeed, the girls' changing-room; but it was empty, apart from a few battered old lockers and an ancient but familiar-looking fridge-freezer. With a sigh of relief, Paul stepped over and pulled open the door. The light came on.

  'What kept you?' asked the fridge.

  'Don't start,' Paul replied. 'All right: first, is it true? Is there really a Great Cow of Heaven?'

  The light blinked, which Paul assumed was a yes. 'Her name,' said the fridge, 'is Audumla, just like I told you but you wouldn't listen. Do you know who I am?'

  Paul shook his head. 'At least,' he added, 'I have a vague sort of idea, but I bet it's a long story,' he said, 'so you'd better tell me later. Right now, I need to know some things.'

  'Please yourself. There may not be a later.'

  'There will be,' Paul said firmly. 'Question one. The next door down on the left. That's Van Spee's secret place, isn't it? The place only he can get into or out of.'

  Agonising pause. 'Very good,' said the fridge. 'Correct. When I came looking for him, to punish him for his crime, he built it as a last hiding place, somewhere I could never find. I'd figured out how to break into his synthetic dimension, that was easy, but however hard I try - and believe me, these last fourteen hundred years, I've tried - I can't find that one small room. Oh, I know where it is, it's just a few yards down the corridor on the left, but I can't find it-' Silence for a moment, as the fridge fought back its rage. 'Do you know why?'

  Paul nodded. 'It needs a key,' he said. 'And the key's not a bit of metal with a frilly end, it's a person.' He took a deep breath, because if he was wrong, this was going to sound so stupid. 'It's me, isn't it?'

  Long pause; then the fridge seemed to shimmer, like heat haze on the road, until it turned into Mr Laertides. 'Very good indeed,' he said, 'I knew you had the right stuff, deep down inside where nobody but me could see it. That's quite right, you're the key. Though there's a bit more to it than that, of course.'

  'Oh,' Paul said. 'Right.'

  'It's a long story,' Mr Laertides replied, with a grin, 'and I'll be happy to tell you all about it later. But right now I need you to open a door for me.'

  'Yes,' Paul said, 'but there might not be a later.'

  'There will be.' Mr Laertides looked at him. 'I promise.

  Paul looked back at him. On one level, the idea that he'd trust a partner in JWW ever again was about as likely as the Swiss army invading America; and a very good level it was too, as far as Paul was concerned. But there was a look in Mr Laertides's eye, just a faint glow, as of something buried gleaming through, that was so different from anything he'd seen before that he could just about imagine himself believing in it. Not that that counted for much, given that Laertides was a self-confessed master of glamour and illusion; if he wanted to, he could have every US coastguard ship from Anchorage to San Francisco yelling into their radio sets, 'The Swiss are coming, the Swiss are coming!' And he'd said it himself, he needed Paul to do a job for him, a factor which in itself gave him the credibility of Bill Clinton trying to sell someone Mexico.

  And yet.

  'Why can't you do it?' Paul asked. 'If I show you where it is.'

  'I know where it is,' Mr Laertides snapped. 'I just can't find it, that's all. Come on, it's not exactly difficult, and it'll only take a moment of your time.' He paused, calming himself down so obviously that he practically changed colour. 'Or don't you want to save Ricky Wurmtoter and Mr Tanner's mother? I thought they were your friends.'

  Bastard, Paul thought. 'Ricky Wurmtoter drugged Sophie with the love-philtre stuff,' he said. 'He completely screwed up my life. Why the hell would I want to save him?'

  Curiously, Mr Laertides found that extremely amusing. 'Why indeed?' he said. 'But you do. Admit it. OK, it's not so much wanting to as feeling you're obliged to, conscience and all that malarkey. One of these days, I might even find time to tell you exactly why you feel under an obligation to him. But anyhow, let's forget about Ricky. Rosie Tanner, now. She's your friend, right?'

  Paul looked away. 'She had me killed,' he said sullenly. 'By goblins. Goblins jumping out of a cake, for crying out loud.'

  'Yes, but you know she didn't mean anything by it. Come on, Paul, there's no point lying to me, I know exactly what you're thinking. You've got to save them, you don't have a choice. It's who you are. You're the hero, see.'

  'Balls,' Paul replied with feeling.

  'Absolutely not. Ever since you joined the firm, it's been one heroic deed after another. Saving lives. Rescuing people. Standing up to Countess Judy and the Fey. You're twenty times more of a hero than Ricky. He just does stuff for money. You can see the difference, can't you?'

  But Paul shook his head. 'You're wrong about me,' he said. 'Surprising, really, a smart bloke like you. I'm not doing it. Go and find your own bloody door.'

  'Good Lord,' Mr Laertides said softly. 'You mean it, don't you? Even though it'll leave Picky and Rosie stranded in there for eve
r and ever.' He frowned, then grinned. 'It's because you're not sure, right? You can't figure out who's the real bad guy here, Theo Van Spee or yours truly. You think that if you open the door for me and I turn out to be the arch-villain or the Dark Lord or something, the universe'll suddenly be knee-deep in the smelly stuff and it'll all be your fault. Yes?'

  Paul looked down at the ground. 'Something like that,' he mumbled.

  'You prat,' Mr Laertides said, but there was the faintest trace of pride in his voice, as if he'd been hoping that Paul would turn out to have the moral fibre to refuse. 'All right, then, here's the deal. Sophie drank the love philtre, right? She's now inalienably besotted with you for ever and ever.'

  'Apparently.' Paul winced. 'Don't they have tact where you come from?'

  'No, actually. Here's what I'm offering. If you open the door for me, I'll put it right. I'll take the love spell off Sophie, and I'll make her permanently immune to it. What do you reckon? Tempted?'

  It was one of those moments that made Paul realise that, nine times out of ten, Life really is doing it on purpose. Suddenly, everything seemed to narrow down into a very small, tight place, where two alternatives confronted him, and both of them meant losing the girl he loved; and without her, what was the point of anything? Without her, he'd have to go on being the same old Paul Carpenter, Cupid's labrador, always running after the arrows and bringing them back in his mouth. He could see the rest of his life stretching away in front of him, the long dark road you have to walk when you've fallen asleep on the last bus home and ended up at the terminal. Being himself, for ever and ever. But that seemed to help, in a way; because if he gave up on himself as a bad job, there could only be one logical course of action.

  'Deal,' he said.

  'Excellent.' Mr Laertides grinned, like a suitcase unzipping on three sides. 'You've always managed somehow to be a decent bloke, Paul. Half-witted, annoying, thick as a stack of railway sleepers, but when the chips are down you've always done the right thing. Hasn't done you much good, of course, but I'm proud of you anyway. Now then. Lead the way.'