The Portable Door (1987)

by Tom Holt

  First he tried the guitarist next door; then he climbed the stairs and asked the two nurses in the top flat. All of them were unhappy at being disturbed at nine o’clock on Sunday morning, and none of them had been expecting a delivery that might have been left at his place by mistake. Paul went back to his own room, and it was still there. Bloody persistent thing.

  He draped a shirt over the sword’s handle and put the kettle on. His duty as a citizen was to call the police, but he wasn’t really minded to do that. Possibly he might have done if he hadn’t spent the previous evening being shoved around like a cue ball by Gilbert and Sullivan; but it was all too easy to imagine the line of questions that’d lead to embarrassing disclosures, followed by an uncharitable assessment of his sanity. Also, for all he knew, they’d arrest him for possessing an offensive weapon.

  Well, it was offensive, all right; it didn’t have eyes, but there were a couple of rivets on the hilt that seemed to follow him all round the room. He’d felt uncomfortable putting on his pyjamas with the bloody thing watching him. The shirt helped, so he added a couple of pullovers and an old, tired woollen scarf. Now at least it looked like a cross between a scarecrow and a charity shop tailor’s dummy, except for the fifteen inches of cold, bright steel poking out from under the tail of the shirt. Paul made his cup of tea, and perched on the edge of the bed, frowning.

  Then, probably because he was looking at it from a different angle, he saw the lettering on the stone. He nearly spilled his tea; here was something to go on, at least, assuming he could read what it said.

  The letters were very small, front and back; he had to kneel down and squint before he could read them.

  Whoso draweth this sword from this stone shall be rightful king of all England.

  and in smaller letters still, under that—

  Please dispose of stone tidily after use.

  Well, that torpedoed the stolen-war-memorial theory; it also rang a bell. A Disney film, or some story he’d read in his Book of Faraway Taks when he was a kid. King Arthur. Excalibur.

  He wished he hadn’t seen the letters after all. He tried to look on the bright side; there had to be loads of people who made stuff like this, ornaments and gift ideas for the man who had everything, executive toys for when Newton’s Cradle and the little chrome weather-vane thing just didn’t cut it any more. Had there been any big-budget fantasy films lately? Usually the promotional junk you saw standing in the Odeon foyer was cardboard and styrofoam rather than tempered steel and granite, but perhaps some marketing wizard had decided that it was time for a whole new attitude to pre-launch hype.

  Yes; but why here, in his room? Unless they were delivering one to every single household in the country (and even the Harry Potter people wouldn’t go that far. Or would they?) it simply didn’t add up. He clawed at his scalp until it hurt. This was silly.

  And then he thought: Well, why not?

  After all, it was here, it was real, and if it actually worked, he could quite fancy that, even if it did mean putting up with the paparazzi and the corgis. Not that it would, of course, but if it did—Paul pulled off the shirt, the sweater and the scarf, braced his feet wide, gripped the hilt in both hands, and heaved.

  At least he had the sense to pack it in before he pulled a muscle or cut himself on the sharp edge. It wasn’t going to budge. No reason why it should, since it was clearly in there pretty solid. There didn’t appear to be a hidden catch or anything like that, and this was probably a case where even WD-40 wasn’t going to be much help. He gave up, put back the clothes and went over to the cupboard for a can of baked beans. It was at this point that he noticed the missing tin-opener.

  He was hungry, and the only food in the place was in tins, as comprehensively armoured and inaccessible as a medieval knight. True, the last time he’d ventured out of doors in search of nourishment, strange things had happened to him, but being in a confined space with an overgrown letter-opener gave him a pain. He counted his money. Including the change in his trouser pocket and the small stash of copper in the jam jar on the mantelpiece, but deducting bus fares until pay day, it came to just about enough for a small sliced loaf. He locked the front door behind him, though there didn’t seem much point; there was nothing left to steal apart from the sword, and anybody who wanted that could have it, and welcome.

  Instinctively he headed for the shop on the corner, only remembering as he stood outside that it had been shut yesterday afternoon. But it was open for business, and Mr Singh was outside, manhandling bales of Sunday newspapers. They exchanged formal greetings, and Paul bought a loaf.

  “By the way,” he asked, “I hope everything’s all right. Family well, and everything.”

  “Fine,” Mr Singh replied. “Thank you for asking.”

  “That’s okay. I just wondered, with you being shut yesterday.”

  Mr Singh nodded, and explained that he’d arranged to visit his married sister in Droitwich, and his cousin, who’d been going to mind the store for him, had got held up at the last moment. He apologised for the inconvenience, and Paul said, “That’s all right.”

  Instead of going straight home, Paul decided to take his loaf for a walk round the block. There was, he told himself, a perfectly rational explanation after all. Married sisters in Droitwich and unreliable cousins made much more sense in the cold light of morning than Gilbert and Sullivan bearing down on him like a brace of Nazgul. He’d probably also discover, if he could be bothered to investigate, that the through bus from Tesco’s, Kentish Town to North Road, Highgate Village was a regular scheduled route that ran every day at that time, and the bus had only been empty on that occasion because the couch-lemmings of England were safely at home, glued to Cilla’s Blind Date. As for the sudden

  prevalence of Gilbert and Sullivan; it was probably a centenary or something, which was why they’d suddenly cropped up all over the TV and the amateur stage. Nothing to see here, he told himself, it’s all perfectly explainable and normal—except, that is, for the sword and the chunk of rock —(An asteroid? A legacy from a distant, eccentric uncle?

  Maybe he should call the police after all, or at least switch on Crimewatch and see if there’d been any break-ins down in the vaults of Buckingham Palace. To suppose, just because he couldn’t think of an explanation, that the thing was inexplicable was tantamount to denying Einstein’s theory because he hadn’t figured it out for himself, on his fingers, from first principles.)

  Paul spent the rest of the day watching old films on the box; not the relaxing occupation it should have been, because the lack of space meant he had to crouch forward all the time, and the sword seemed somehow to be buggering up his signal. At some point in mid-afternoon he fell asleep, head lolling forward, in his chair. When he woke up, it was late enough to go to bed.

  On Monday morning he woke up early, and there was an unusual spring in his step as he boiled the kettle and toasted a couple of slices of bread. Shaving was awkward, with the hilt of the sword trying to get in his ear as he leaned over the basin, but he managed it without bloodshed. He knew perfectly well why he felt so unusually chirpy. “See you on Monday,” she’d said. For the first time in his working life, he couldn’t wait to get to the office.

  He left home ten minutes earlier than usual, and when he reached St Mary Axe at 8.45, he found that the street door was locked. Dilemma. If he knocked, would it earn him brownie points (eager young clerk, anxious to make them a present of fifteen minutes of his life, absolutely free), or would he get a scowl and an unkind word for disturbing them? Assuming, of course, that there was anybody inside to open the door. There were no signs of life; the blinds were drawn at the upper windows, and no electric light was seeping through.

  As he stood there, wrestling with the problem, he heard a scuffling noise inside. Then, very slowly, the letter-box flap was pushed outwards. Instinctively he bent down to see what was going on, and through the slit he distinctly saw one round, red, reptilian eye. Then the flap snapped shut, and the scuffling s
ound was repeated. Also, if he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he heard a distant chuckling cackle, which put him in mind of the hyenas at the zoo.

  Mr Tanner, he thought; but then Mr Tanner himself appeared, walking rapidly up the street, fumbling in his pocket for keys. The sight of Paul standing outside the door seemed to take him by surprise.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Um,” Paul replied. “I’m early.”

  Mr Tanner grinned; very like a hyena. “Yes,” he said. “Doors open at nine sharp. It’s ten to.”

  “Oh,” said Paul. “I’m sorry.”

  Mr Tanner frowned, as though something was concerning him. “Well, you’d better come in,” he said. He unlocked the door with three large, old–fashioned keys and pushed past Paul like an elder brother bent on chocolate. “Wait there,” he said, disappearing through the fire door as Paul stepped inside. “Confidential post,” he added, but it sounded rather like an afterthought; the mail was still in the wire basket on the back of the door, and Mr Tanner hadn’t touched it. “All right,” he said, reappearing through the fire door, “come on in, I’ll lock up behind you. You’d better go straight to your office.”

  As he headed up the corridor, Paul heard the three locks graunch behind him. Odd, he thought; not least the fact that Mr Tanner had failed to make any witty remarks about pepperoni pizza. Not like him to disregard an opportunity like that, unless he was trying to lull Paul into a false sense of security.

  When he reached his office, it was in a mess. Not just the usual mess (on his side of the desk, anyway); there were papers strewn all over the floor, and two of the filing-cabinet drawers were open. Paul stood still for a moment; if there’d been a burglary, he shouldn’t touch anything. While he was trying to figure out what to do, the door flew open and Mr Wurmtoter (Rick to friends; Paul hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since his first day) burst into the room. His hair was ruffled, and his claw pendant was hanging sideways from his jacket collar.

  “Ah,” he said, looking at Paul rather sheepishly. “Hello there. You’re in early.”

  Paul nodded. “Traffic,” he said automatically.

  “I see, fine.” Mr Wurmtoter looked at the desk and the filing cabinet, then at Paul, then back at the desk and the floor. “Bloody cleaners,” he said, with a theatrical click of his tongue. “They always leave the place looking like a tip at weekends.” He stooped down and grabbed a handful of papers. “Sorry about this,” he said, slamming the filing-cabinet doors shut with his elbows.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Paul replied, wondering what was going on. “Here, let me—”

  Mr Wurmtoter smiled anxiously, and shuffled his feet. Paul got the feeling that he was standing on something Paul wasn’t meant to see. “Actually,” Mr Wurmtoter said, “would you do me a great favour, nip across to the stationery store and get me three HB pencils? Thanks.”

  On his way to the store, Paul met Mr Suslowicz, backing out of the conference room dragging a large hessian sack, and Mr Wells, whom he hadn’t seen since his interview, and who tried unsuccessfully to hide a dustpan and a ball of crumpled newspaper behind his back as Paul approached. He hurried past both of them with what he hoped was a respectful nod, got the pencils, filled in the book, and scuttled back to his office. The papers were all stacked neatly on the desk, and Mr Wurmtoter had gone. Paul scratched his head, and decided not to think about it; then he took his coat off and went to hang it on the hook behind the door, but it wasn’t there any more. Instead, there were four ragged holes where the screws had been torn out of the wood, and the unmistakable mark of a four-pointed claw.

  None of my business, he told himself; then he bent down and looked under the desk, just to make sure there wasn’t anything lurking there. Unfortunately, when he sat down, he found he was staring directly at the place where the coat hook had been and the claw-mark now was. The memory of the round, red eye was making itself felt in the back of his mind. In fact, if the circumstances had been different, he’d have been out of the building like a rat up a drainpipe.

  Instead, he told himself to calm down, take it easy. After all, people who live in flats full of stone-encased cutlery are in no position to get uptight about other people’s unexplained claw-marks. He went across and traced the damaged woodwork with his fingertip. It felt rough and splintery, which went some way towards convincing him it was real.

  Are ostriches happy? he wondered. On the one hand, sticking your head in the sand kept you from seeing all sorts of things that could ruin your whole day. On the other hand, it had to be borne in mind that ostrich-feather headgear was part of the traditional costume of many African countries, implying that the technique had its drawbacks.

  He sat down again, and the door opened.

  “Hello,” she said, and immediately all thoughts of claw-marks, beady red eyes and skittering noises evaporated from his mind. She’d just smiled at him; barely a forty-watt, f5.6-at-a-sixtieth-of-a-second smile, but as far as Paul was concerned, it was like being a kid again and seeing the sunrise for the first time ever. She’d never said hello to him before.

  “Hi,” he replied awkwardly, as she slipped off her duffel coat and went to hang it on the hook. “Oh, by the way,” he added, too late.

  She was frowning. “What’s happened to the coat hook?” she said.

  “No idea.”

  “It’s gone. Looks like someone pulled it off.”

  “Mphm. And that’s not all.” He pointed at the clawmark, then asked sheepishly, “Can you see what I mean?”

  She nodded. “What on earth did that? It looks like fingernails or something.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful. I mean,” he added quickly, “it’s a bit of a relief. You see, I was afraid I was imagining it or something.”

  “Why would you be doing that?”

  “I don’t know.” He hesitated. The urge to tell her was almost more than he could bear, but so was the fear of the look there’d be on her face if she didn’t believe him. “Something, I don’t know, sort of odd happened the other day, that’s all.”

  She turned her head towards him. “How sort of odd?” she asked.

  Oh well, he thought. Then he shut his eyes and said, “When I got back from that pub, where we had that drink—”

  “Yes.”

  “When I got back,” he repeated, “there was this thing stuck in my flat. The door was wide open, and someone had been in and dumped, well, a huge lump of rock. With a sword in it. Big, sharp thing, I cut my finger on it, look. And I tried pulling it out, because there was this writing on it, but it wouldn’t budge, so I just chucked some old clothes over it so I wouldn’t have to look at it. It was still there this morning, when I left.”

  She looked at him in silence for two, maybe as much as two and a half seconds; enough time for stalactites to grow from the ceiling down to the floor.

  “You too, huh?” she said.

  He nodded. Oh joy, he thought, she believed me, she doesn’t think I’m—“What did you just say?”

  “You got one too,” she replied, sitting down and rubbing her nose with her knuckle.

  “Too?”

  “That’s right. One got delivered at our house, late Saturday evening, just before I got home. As it happens, yesterday was my dad’s birthday, so he assumed it was a present for him; he got the delivery men to lug it through onto the patio, between the potted ferns and the water feature. He’s absolutely thrilled with it, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh,” said Paul. “Did yours have writing on it?”

  She nodded. “And yes,” she added, “I tried, when nobody was looking.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No.”

  “Same here. Hardly surprising, of course. According to my mum, my great-great-grandfather was mayor of Ramsgate some time before the First World War, but that’s as close as our family’s ever been to royalty. Besides, I don’t think I’d want the job anyway, launching ships and
being shown round factories all day.”

  She nodded. “It’d have been really embarrassing if I’d managed to pull the stupid thing out,” she said. “I don’t approve of the monarchy. My mum would’ve been pleased, though. She’s really into the royals, she’s got books and commemorative china and everything.”

  “Lucky escape, then. Have you got any idea what it’s all about?”

  She thought for a moment. “No,” she said. “Still, it’s nice to hear you got one too. I thought I must be going mad.”

  Paul thought for a moment. “Who delivered it?” he asked. “Did your father say?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t like to ask,” she said, “because of him thinking it was for his birthday, and all I’d got him was a tie, so it was quite handy, really.” She looked back at the door. “Too far up the door for a dog,” she said, “unless it’s a really big one. How big do Great Danes get?”

  “Not that big,” Paul replied. “I hope,” he added. Then he told her about Mr Wurmtoter, and Mr Suslowicz and the sack, and Mr Wells. “Oh, and I got here early,” he added, “and Tanner showed up while I was standing outside the door. It was still locked,” he explained, “and he didn’t seem pleased to see me at all. Made me wait in reception while he went off somewhere.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe he just ate a bad rissole,” she said. “But the other stuff—what do you think was in that sack?”

  “No idea, and I didn’t hang around to look. You know,” he added, “I’d really like to find out exactly what they do around here.”

  “You and me both,” she said. “You aren’t tempted to get out, then. Resign, I mean.”