Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt

by Earth, Air, Fire

  'Who was that?' he asked.

  Vicky lifted her head and stared at him. 'What did you just say?'

  'I asked who that was.'

  'That?' Vicky took a deep breath, then blew it out through her nose. 'That, you complete arsehole, was your wife.'

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Down the corridor, sharp left turn, along the passageway; Paul caught up with her just outside the small interview room. She turned and smiled at him. It was a dazzling smile, white teeth and full red lips and cornflower-blue eyes. He'd never seen her before in his life.

  'Oh,' he said. 'You.' 'Darling?'

  'It's you, isn't it?' he said, in a weary voice. 'Pretending.'

  'I don't know what you mean,' she said, but she spoilt it rather by grinning. Paul shut his eyes, leaned back against the nearest wall and groaned.

  'What's up, lover?' asked Mr Tanner's mum. 'You look like you just ate a slug kebab.'

  'Vicky,' Paul said. 'That girl on reception. She just told me we're married.'

  Mr Tanner's mum frowned. 'What, you and her? That's-'

  'No, no, no.' Paul banged the wall with his fist. 'Me and you. Us. Is that right?'

  Mr Tanner's mum rolled out another smile, even dreamier than the last one. 'I can hardly believe it myself,' she said. 'Sometimes I have to stop and-'

  'Oh, for God's sake.' Paul felt his knees fold, as though the cartilage had turned to wet cardboard. He slid down the wall and squatted on the carpet. 'It's you,' he repeated. 'Mr Tanner's mum. You're a bloody goblin.'

  Silence, just long enough to blow your nose in. 'Oh,' she said. 'You found out. Somebody told you.'

  'No.'

  'Well, you can't have figured it out for yourself, and I don't suppose it came to you in a dream. It was that bitch Vicky, wasn't it? I'm going to wring her skinny neck.'

  'It wasn't her,' Paul muttered. 'Nothing like that. Long story. Really, can't be bothered telling you now.' He opened his eyes, sat up a bit. 'How long?' he asked.

  'How long have we been married?'

  'Yes.'

  'Three months,' she replied. 'Three glorious, wonderful-'

  'Fucking snot,' Paul yelped. 'You're kidding.'

  'No, I'm not,' Mr Tanner's mum said irritably. "Whirlwind romance - you swept me off my feet, you tiger, you. Then three weeks' honeymoon in Marrawatta Ponds-'

  Paul lifted his head. "Where?'

  'Marrawatta Ponds. In Australia. New South Wales. You must remember our honeymoon.'

  'No. And please,' he added quickly, 'don't tell me why it was unforgettable, because I really don't-' He frowned. 'Australia,' he said. 'Let me guess. Right in the heart of bauxite country, yes?'

  'Well, yes, actually. At least, I did hear somewhere they'd found large, previously undiscovered bauxite deposits quite near where we were. But-'

  'And we used to go for long romantic walks in the evening, out in the desert? Forget it,' he added quickly, before she could answer. 'It doesn't matter, really. This is awful. It's-'

  He paused, rewinding back through what Sophie had said to him on the phone, back in the flat. 'I don't think you should be screwing around with my head like this, she'd said, at this stage in our relationship.' As soon as he'd heard the R word, Paul had jumped to the obvious conclusion like a tree frog trying to win Olympic gold - because it was the conclusion he wanted to jump to, presumably, or something like that. But someone like

  Sophie - the R word, he remembered, did tend to figure quite heavily in her vocabulary. Bloody useless sloppy language, English; you could have a relationship with someone that didn't involve love, kisses, choosing cushion covers and arguments about washing-up rotas. You could have a working relationship with a colleague, for example. Or- 'Excuse me,' he said. 'Can I ask you something?' Mr Tanner's mum blinked. 'Sure.'

  'I mean,' he went on, 'you're a pretty observant sort of person, and I don't suppose much gets past you, right?'

  'I suppose so, yes.'

  'Fine. Am I having an affair with Sophie Pettingell?'

  There had been times in the recent past (but in another dimension, so maybe it didn't count) when he'd have betted good money that nothing in the known universe could ever leave Mr Tanner's mum at a loss for words. Typical, of course; you finally see the thing you thought you'd never see, but by then you don't give a toss any more.

  "What did you just say?'

  'I asked you a question,' Paul replied briskly. 'Come on, it's not exactly rocket science. Am I having it away with Sophie Pettingell, or not?'

  'Well, I-' She opened and closed her perfect rosebud mouth a few times, then shrugged. 'I don't know,' she said. 'I'd have thought you'd have known, but maybe it slipped your mind or something. You'd better ask her. And if the answer's yes, I'll see to it personally that what's left of both of you gets buried in separate graves, a long way apart. Paul, are you feeling all right? Something tells me you aren't quite yourself today.'

  Couldn't help laughing at that. 'To put it mildly,' he replied. 'Who I quite am right now is a bloody good question, but I haven't got time. Listen. No, just this once, shut up and listen, will you? Thanks. Have you still got the Portable Door?'

  She flinched, just a bit; so that when she said, 'What's a Portable Door?' he knew she was lying. 'The Portable Door,' he repeated. 'Plastic thing like a picnic mat, with a door drawn on it. You slap it on a wall, and then you can go places. Have you still got it, or not?'

  Maybe she really did love him; because when he looked at her, all stern and fierce, she sort of wilted, and nodded her head. 'Who told you about that?' she said. 'That cow on reception?'

  For a moment, the word cow threw Paul quite badly. 'No,' he said. 'Nobody told me. 'Well, you did. But that's another long story. In fact, it's a bloody epic. I need it.'

  'What?'

  'The Portable bloody Door, of course.' He calmed himself down; took some doing. 'I need to use the Portable Door for something,' he said. 'It's very important. I promise you, I'll give-' He checked himself; for some reason, he felt it was important to be precise in his use of words. 'You'll get it back,' he said, because, after all, that had already happened. 'Promise. But I really do need it, right now.'

  Mr Tanner's mum looked at him, and he could see that she was desperately worried about something. Another time, in another place, he'd have had real problems with that look. 'Paul,' she said, 'what do you want it for?'

  'Trust me.'

  'About as far as I could fart you. What do you want it for? Is it because you've just found out I'm really a goblin?'

  It was nice to be able to tell the truth sometimes. 'No,' Paul said, 'absolutely not. Got nothing at all to do with that, I swear.'

  'Oh.' She frowned. 'Is it a work thing, then?'

  You could say that. 'Yes,' he said. 'Just work, really. But I do need it, desperately. Go on,' he added, though he knew it wasn't fair. 'Please?'

  Even then, she hesitated a full half-second. 'Oh, go on, then,' she said. 'But I do want it back.'

  'Guaranteed,' Paul said. 'It's as good as done.'

  It was, of course, in the strongroom, in a tatty-looking black tin box on the top shelf. Paul's hands shook slightly as he smoothed it out on the wall, and it wasn't just the cold.

  'Thanks,' he said. 'I'll make it up to you. Soon.'

  Mr Tanner's mum looked at him, and there was that worried expression again; and for just a split second he thought, Actually, she very pretty, and nice too, apparently, and I think she likes me, and so what if she a goblin, I'm a bloody goblin too, partly - But it wouldn't be right, or fair. Somewhere else, somewhere where he belonged, there was a mess that had to be put right, and if he didn't do it, nobody would, and then everything would be wrong for ever, and this time it really would be his fault. Also, he couldn't help but reflect, he didn't really want to find out how Mr Tanner felt about having Paul as a father-in-law. 'Thanks,' he repeated. 'You're - you're really quite nice, actually. Some of the time.'

  'Paul?' she said. But by then he was halfway through th
e Door, and thinking, Back- Paul stepped out through the doorway, and a large clawed hand clamped itself around his shoulder.

  'Got you,' said a voice; and quite a few of the liberal, open-minded, non-judgemental things he'd been thinking about goblinkind in general a few moments ago got deleted with extreme prejudice.

  'Ouch,' Paul said. 'That hurts.'

  'Good,' replied the goblin. 'How about that?'

  'That too,' Paul replied truthfully. 'Look, would it help if I promised to come quietly?'

  'No.'

  'Fine.' Ouch ouch OUCH, he thought in advance, then he shut his eyes and deliberately fell backwards.

  Just as he was about to land heavily across the threshold of the Portable Door, he tore his thoughts away from the excruciating pain of talons clenched into his shoulder, and concentrated hard on a date, a time and a place. The goblin hit the deck first, of course, but he hoped very much that he was too preoccupied with Paul resisting arrest to fill his mind with anything that might contradict what Paul was thinking.

  'Ouch,' screamed a goblin voice underneath him, as he landed. 'Fuck! Look where you're going, can't you?'

  'Sorry,' Paul said, as he scrambled to his feet. 'Did I hurt you?'

  'Yes,' snarled the goblin; but Paul was standing up, hastily shutting the Door and rolling it up. Only then did he turn round.

  Perfect. He was standing in his office; there was the calendar on his desk, and the date was wonderfully, beautifully right. He helped the goblin up.

  'What the hell am I doing in here?' the goblin asked. 'We aren't supposed to come out till half-five.'

  Paul shrugged. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Can't help you there. I'd get back to the cellars quick if I were you.'

  'Too bloody right,' the goblin muttered, and bolted, leaving Paul finally, blissfully alone.

  Joy, he thought. Absolute bloody joy. He'd taken himself back to his office on the day of Mr Tanner's mum's baby's christening party. He hadn't yet killed Ricky Wurmtoter, or metamorphosed into Philip Marlow, he hadn't been killed yet, not even once. Furthermore, he resolved grimly, he wasn't going to be, not if he could help it. Which he could.

  Just to make absolutely, absolutely sure, he took out his wallet and looked at his bank card. He read the words printed on it, and grinned.

  'Sorry, Canada,' he said aloud. 'Nothing personal.'

  Paul glanced at his watch, but it had stopped, and he couldn't find it in his heart to blame it. Anyway, there was a perfectly good clock on his office wall, and it told him the time was 10.35. Perfect.

  Down the corridor, up one lot of stairs, down another, along more stupid passageways, fuck this horrible bloody building for being so big - He stopped just round the corner from Benny Shumway's office, caught his breath and waited. A second or so passed; then Benny came out, with a file under his arm, and disappeared round a corner. Great. Paul sneaked up to the office door and slipped in.

  There, leaning against the wall, was the sword. If he remembered right, its name was Skofnung, and it was a magical, transdimensional, self-motivated pain in the bum. It was also, unfortunately, essential to his plan -(A plan. Whoopee. Here I am, alone against the universe, but I have a plan. So that 's all right, then.)

  He picked it up and, very carefully, drew it out of its scabbard. It looked horribly sharp, and the way the light glinted on the blade was depressingly sinister, like the grin on the face of a goblin. Loathsome bloody thing, he thought. Then he turned to face the door in the wall, the one Benny used when he did the daily run to the Bank. Any moment now- Someone was bashing on it, from the other side. Of course,

  Paul had seen that, and heard it, before. Last time round, it had scared him out of his wits, because he'd naturally assumed that whoever or whatever was out there wasn't going to be his friend. Actually, he hadn't been far wide of the mark, at that, because (according to all his relatives and friends) the bloke on the other side of the door had been his worst enemy for the past twenty-three years.

  Instead of slamming back the bolts, he drew them. Then, as soon as there was a lull in the hammering and bashing, he turned the knob and pulled the door open.

  'Come on,' he said. 'And stop making that bloody racket.'

  A head and body flopped through he door, like an exhausted salmon eventually making it to the top of the waterfall. 'Thanks,' said the newcomer, 'I'd almost given up-'

  The newcomer stopped short. He was staring.

  'Yes, all right,' Paul said impatiently. 'It's me. Us. Long story, another time. Now, here's what we've got to do-'

  'Fuck!' the newcomer yelped; and of course, the newcomer was Paul himself. To be precise, the Paul who'd died at Mr Tanner's mum's christening party, slaughtered a virtual TV anchorman, and sprinted across the empty plains of the Land of the Dead after Benny Shumway, only to arrive just as the door was bolted. He could remember the despair he'd felt as he'd pounded on the door with his fists until they ached, and nobody had heard him, nobody had rushed to help him. In fact, as he knew better than anybody, some bastard on the other side had shot all the bolts and wedged the door shut with a filing cabinet. His own worst enemy indeed.

  But the other Paul, the one he'd just let through the door, wouldn't have that memory. The way he'd remember it would be bashing on the door and yelling, and the door opening, and seeing himself standing there on the other side, looking all stressy and tense. Also, this sucker had only died - what, three times? Once by his own hand, once by a bolt from Ricky's crossbow, once stabbed to death by goblins. A mere novice when it came to dying, a mortality virgin.

  'You might at least pretend you're pleased to see me,' he said. 'I've been to a lot of trouble on your behalf. The least you could do is simulate a little gratitude.'

  'Sorry,' said the other Paul instinctively.

  'And shut that bloody door, will you?'

  'Oh, yes. Right.'

  Paul leaned past his other self and made sure all the bolts were shot home and all the latches were dropped. 'Come on,' he said. 'Time we weren't here. Benny could be back any moment, and it'd be really, really embarrassing if he sees the two of us.'

  Where to go, that was the question. Awkward. He hesitated for a moment- 'You've got the sword,' said his alter ego. 'What?'

  'That sword I got at the christening party. I thought I'd lost it, back in there.'

  'You did,' Paul said. 'You're careless as well as feckless, but fortunately I'm here to tidy up after you. Closed-file store,' he added. 'Only logical place. Come on.'

  Luckily they made it to the closed-file store without meeting anybody. Paul closed the door, then wedged it shut with the sword. 'Sit down,' he said. 'And don't interrupt, because this is going to be complicated, and I know you've got the attention span of a goldfish. Ready?'

  'Um. Yes, I suppose so.'

  So Paul started to explain, and his identical twin listened. Interesting study the other Paul's face made: first, of course, utter bewilderment; then the gradual dawn of understanding; then a very intense, almost fierce concentration; then the effects of a rather nasty set of implications, starting as a tiny glimmer of doubt and spreading into a pall of gloomy acceptance. 'Watching himself listening to him, Paul was actually rather impressed: a bit more stoicism, courage even, than he'd have expected from himself under such circumstances. He never knew he had it in him.

  'Any questions?' he concluded. The other Paul shrugged.

  'Not really,' he said; then a pause, then (not really very hopefully): 'I don't suppose there's another way, is there? I mean, another approach we haven't considered yet. One that doesn't involve me getting-'

  'No,' Paul replied. 'Sorry. But look at it this way. One, by rights you shouldn't be here at all. The goblins killed you, fair and square. Two: all right, it's not looking good as far as you're concerned, but look on the bright side, with any luck I'm going to make it; and you're me and I'm you, so really it's all as broad as it's long. Right?'

  'I guess.' The other him didn't sound totally convinced, but he was trying his best
, bless him. 'And I suppose, if one of us has got to-'

  'Quite,' Paul replied. 'And the simple fact of the matter is, I'm the real me and you're just some sort of anomaly, so-'

  'No way. I'm the real me and you're the bloody by-product... Sorry.' The other Paul shook his head. 'It doesn't actually matter, does it?' he said. 'It's got to be me, you're right. Only, isn't it just fucking typical, it's always me that loses out. Even against my bloody self'

  Paul tried to think of something to say; something comforting, something ennobling, something that'd help his tormented alter ego find some degree of inner peace in the face of the horror that lay ahead of him. 'Oh well,' he said. 'Never mind. You ready?'

  'As I'll ever be.'

  'You'll need this, of course.'

  The other Paul took the sword; unwillingly, as if it was something slimy and horrid. 'Thanks,' he said.

  'Our biggest mistake,' Paul told him. "Well, one of our biggest mistakes, anyhow. Not figuring it out sooner.'

  'I wouldn't know,' the other Paul replied peevishly. 'I wasn't there at the time.'

  'Fine.' Paul frowned. 'My mistake, then. Only, I should've known when Vicky told me she and Ricky had been married. Bloody great big hint, went right over my head like a flock of migrating geese. Still, I got there in the end.'

  'We got there,' replied his other self, and Paul couldn't be bothered to point out the inconsistency. 'Well,' other-Paul went on, 'I'd like to say it was a pleasure meeting you, but...'

  'But lying to yourself is a mug's game, right.' Paul stood up. 'Look, if it's any consolation, this is all for the best, and I think what you're doing is actually pretty cool. So-'

  'Yes, well. You would, wouldn't you?'

  No pleasing some people. 'You coming,' Paul snapped, 'or what?'

  'What do you think? Of course I'm coming.' Other-Paul trailed wearily to the door, then paused. 'One bright side to all of this,' he said. 'I can't wait to see the look on bloody 'Wurmtoter's face.