by Tom Holt
‘Oh, nobody,’ she said very quickly; then she blinked twice (he could almost hear the sucking sound of the mental foot being extracted) and said, ‘I mean, I’m doing three months with Professor Van Spee, he’s applied sorcery and stuff. But I’ve only got a few more weeks to go.’
A tongue ferociously clicked a few feet to Paul’s left and made him break eye contact. Vicky was still smiling in a non-specific manner, like a water-cannon blasting an unruly mob, but there was a hard edge to her expression that you could’ve sharpened knives on. ‘Actually,’ she was saying, ‘we’ve still got a lot to see, so maybe—’ She tailed off, suddenly aware that she didn’t have the sympathy of her audience. ‘We ought to be getting on,’ she added firmly. ‘Really.’
‘Oh, right,’ Paul said. ‘Well, it was nice meeting you, and I expect we’ll be seeing more of each other quite soon.’ Sophie nodded enthusiastically, like a seal watching the piece of fish in its trainer’s hand. ‘Best of luck with the Mortensens,’ he added. ‘I don’t envy you that job.’
‘Oh, someone’s got to do it,’ Sophie replied cheerfully. ‘See you soon, I mean, bye.’
He could feel her eyes watching him all the way out of the door.
There was a slight edge to Vicky’s manner as they finished off the tour, but Paul was too preoccupied to worry about it, or even to reflect in general terms about what Vicky was doing, on two legs, out of the typing pool. He felt like someone who’s just been told something in a foreign language that he only knows a few words of, and it’s either that he’s won a million dollars on the lottery, or else he’s under arrest for espionage and due to be shot at dawn, or possibly both. He’d shared his own sad company for enough years to recognise the symptoms, the lemming-like rush over the cliffs of At First Sight. The difference was that hitherto he’d always been the lemming, not the cliff. But there was no other way to account for Sophie’s extraordinary behaviour; and if he was right, then that was absolutely wonderful.
Or, looked at from a slightly different perspective, a total and utter disaster.
‘This is Mr Wurmtoter’s office,’ Vicky was saying, and either she was still royally ticked off about something, or she didn’t like Ricky Wurmtoter very much. ‘But apparently he’s not in. Never mind, I expect you’ll run into him sooner or later. Mr Wurmtoter kills things for a living,’ she added, ‘dragons and stuff. Now, just down here on the left—’
Yes, I know, you silly cow, that’s the stationery cupboard where Julie hoards the pads of yellow stickies; shut up while I’m introspecting, for crying out loud. A total and utter fucking disaster, because it looks horribly as though Sophie’s just fallen head over heels with someone, and it’s not me. Or at least it is me, but—
‘And that’s about it,’ Vicky was babbling, ‘apart from Mr Laertides’s room, of course, and your office, which is right next to it. Just down the passage here on your right, and—’
Paul stopped and looked at her. She looked back, and deep in her soft brown eyes he saw something he couldn’t quite place but which made him take a step back, as though he’d just blundered in on a fight to the death between two strangers. ‘Thanks for the tour,’ he said. (That old Phil Marlow charm still running on autopilot, when what he really wanted to say was, ‘Who are you?’ or maybe just ‘Eeek!’) ‘I think I’d better go and let Frank know I’m here. It’s been—’ Even suave, unflappable Phil could-n’t quite put into words what it had been, except that in spite of the strange new experiences - Mr Tanner being polite, Sophie practically drooling down his shirt-front, Mr Tanner’s mum not drooling down his shirt-front, and other wonders too bizarre to be comfortably contained in his mind - in spite of all that, it was still very much business as usual at 70 St Mary Axe, and that was both reassuring and infinitely depressing. Looking in the mirror and seeing drop-dead gorgeous (or in his case, having-dropped-dead gorgeous, which amounted to much the same thing) was all very well, but it was still an unsolicited free gift from a partner in the firm: beautifully gift-wrapped and, if he held it to his ear, audibly ticking. What on Earth possessed me to do it? he asked himself, not for the first time; and he knocked on Mr Laertides’s door and went in quickly before his subconscious could provide him with an uncomfortable answer.
‘There you are,’ said Mr Laertides. He was sitting in front of the window, back to the door, looking out over the street. ‘Well? How’d it go?’
‘Odd,’ Paul replied. ‘Mr Tanner was, well, civil.’
‘It’s amazing what people can do when they really try. How about Ricky?’
‘Out.’
Mr Laertides shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t think there’s any danger of him recognising you. Or any of the others, come to that. Did you go and see Theo?’
Paul shook his head, then realised that Mr Laertides was facing the other way. Apparently, though, that didn’t matter, because he said, ‘Probably wise. Who else? Cas Suslowicz? Benny Shumway?’
What the hell, Paul thought, and nodded. ‘And, um, Sophie. She was—’
‘Rude. Brusque. Gauche.’ Mr Laertides laughed. ‘She’s a caution, that Sophie, but she doesn’t—’
‘Actually,’ Paul said. (And why the hell should he tell Mr Laertides, or why should he care, but anyhow.) ‘Actually, she was quite friendly.’
‘Oh.’ Mr Laertides turned round slowly and looked at him. ‘That’s - interesting. So what happened? You knocked and went in, and—’
Paul nodded. ‘And Vicky said, this is Philip Marlow, he’s the new . . .’
‘Hang on.’ Mr Laertides’s eyes had suddenly grown very small and bright. ‘Who’s Vicky?’
‘Vicky the mermaid. Well, she’s got legs now,’ (yes, indeed) ‘and they’ve made her my secretary. Tall girl, brown hair with shiny bits. Used to be in the typing pool.’
Mr Laertides frowned; parts of his face gathered together like a herd of migratory animals round a waterhole. ‘Vicky,’ he repeated, ‘I don’t think I’ve come across her. Anyway, not to worry.’ His face opened again, and he looked almost mischievous, like a small boy watching the door he’s just balanced a bag of flour on. ‘What was it like? Different?’
‘You could say that,’ Paul mumbled. ‘It may take some getting used to. People liking me,’ he added, ‘for no reason.’
Mr Laertides laughed; a barrel-chested, curly-bearded pirate-king laugh that it shouldn’t have been possible to dredge out of his stick-insect body. ‘There you are, you see,’ he said. ‘For no reason, that’s your basic problem. You go through life believing you don’t deserve to be liked, and that’s what’s caused a lifetime of misery, for you and a lot of other people.’
The last part left a barb in Paul’s attention. ‘Other people?’
‘Of course. Your parents. Your family. You don’t suppose that on the day you were born, the whole lot of them crowded round you, sniffed and made a decision that you were no good? Of course not. It was mostly you - gradually, over the years. If your parents made the decision to sell you to JWW, it wasn’t just because they’re unspeakable bastards. Partly it’s that, of course; but you must’ve helped.’
‘Thank you,’ said Paul. ‘Thank you so much.’
Mr Laertides shrugged; he was a great shrugger. ‘Not that it matters any more,’ he said. ‘They’re in Florida, you need never have anything to do with them any more. And everybody thinks you’re dead. Now you’ve got a chance to be whatever you want. The key to not screwing it up this time round is knowing what you want. Simple as that.’
‘Fine,’ Paul said. ‘And I suppose you know what that is?’
‘Of course I do, it’s not like you’re a particularly complicated character. You just want true love. I could point out to you how shallow and incredibly self-limiting this is; it’s as though I’m asking a six-year-old kid what she wants most of all in the whole world for her birthday and she tells me she wants to be seven. I could suggest a long list of better things to want, and I could probably make you realise how much more useful and beneficial they
’d be. I could take you to meet a great many very unhappy people who’ve found true love but not, for example, money, or health, or freedom. But—’ He made a wide gesture with his hands. ‘That’s none of my business. If you really want two pairs of socks for Christmas, that’s what you’ll get. Anyhow, I’ve fulfilled my side of the bargain.’
Click, Paul thought; the sound of the pieces falling into place. ‘Bargain,’ he repeated.
‘Bargain, yes. I’m a businessman, not a charity.’
‘But you said, if I helped you with what you were doing at the party convention—’
Mr Laertides shook his head. ‘You don’t believe that. You know the score, you were perfectly aware of what I was offering and what the price would be. The straight traditional barter, a body for a soul. Where I do business, innovation is frowned on.’
Paul looked at him for a while; he didn’t move, not a flicker. ‘My soul,’ he said.
‘Correct.’
‘What does that mean, exactly?’
‘Ah, well.’ Mr Laertides smiled pleasantly. ‘That’s a matter of personal belief, isn’t it? Though in your case, you have an advantage over most people - you know where we go when we die.’
‘Those aren’t souls,’ Paul said straight away, without needing to think. ‘They’re just - well, leftovers. Scraps. You don’t want anything like that.’
‘Right again. What I want is something completely different. And the good part is, I’m guaranteed delivery.’ Mr Laertides shrugged again. ‘It’s your choice,’ he said. ‘But so long as you wear that face, you’re carrying out your side of the deal, that’s all I’m saying. Now,’ he went on, ‘I think it’s time we got some work done, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Paul blurted out. ‘I want you to tell me exactly what the hell you mean by all that stuff.’
‘No.’ Mr Laertides’s face had set, still as a photograph. ‘I can’t do that, sorry. You’re just going to have to take my word for this, but if I tell you what you want to know, it buggers up the whole thing. Don’t interrupt,’ he added, and Paul found that he couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to; he had no words and no voice to say them with. ‘I need your help,’ Mr Laertides went on. ‘You, and nobody else but you. The job I have to do is very important to me, and it’s also my business and no one else’s. Meanwhile, you’ve been very generously paid for your involvement: an unbreakable heart and the sublime gift of beauty. Cheer up, for crying out loud, you’ve got the fifth and sixth ace in Life’s poker game - what else could you possibly want? Or need, come to that?’
‘Cheer up,’ Paul said. ‘Why would I want to do that?’
Mr Laertides stood up slowly and walked towards him, making no noise, hardly disturbing the air. ‘I could make you be cheerful,’ he said. ‘I could make you be happy. I could make it so that every day of your life is filled with sunshine and joy, whether you like it or not. All I have to do is decide, I don’t even need to say the magic words or snap my fingers. But, out of the infinite kindness of my heart and because - for some bizarre reason I can’t fathom - I like you, I’m not going to do that to you, not if you stop mucking me about and do as you’re told. Do you understand me?’
No, Paul thought, because you’re talking drivel. But before he could do or say anything, a memory flashed through his mind. He remembered Sophie, offering to drink the love philtre. Even now, there were times when he cursed himself for being so stupid as to refuse, but he knew that if she’d done it, even being in the same room with her would’ve been unbearable, because of the magnitude, the sheer horror of the lie. And suppose Mr Laertides could make good on his threat: perfect happiness and contentment for ever, no matter what. Wouldn’t that be infinitely worse?
For a moment, Paul felt like he was going to be sick. He shut his eyes; and when he opened them again, there was Mr Laertides, offering him a glass of water.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to have to upset you like that. But you’re going to have to trust me, that’s all.’
Paul sipped the water and pulled himself together. ‘If you say so,’ he said.
‘I do say so. And now.’ Mr Laertides sat down in his chair, stuck out his feet, put his hands behind his head. ‘Let’s clear the air and take our minds off all this unpleasantness by doing a little bit of actual paid work for a change. Someone’s got to bring in the pennies, you know.’
There’s nothing I can do, Paul thought. I’ve walked into something nasty, I can’t get out, I don’t even know what it is. And - the one constant in an infinitely changing universe - there’s bugger all I can do about it.
Mr Laertides looked up. ‘Well?’
‘Sure,’ Paul said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Working for Mr Laertides was rather different from what Paul had become used to over the last nine months.
Hitherto, to be sure, most of the time he hadn’t understood what he was doing, or known what it was for or how the partners translated it into money; but at least it had felt reassuringly like work. Work isn’t hard to recognise: it’s boring, difficult, the antithesis of fun. (Because if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be work at all. The universe is built up of polarities; it deals in such opposites as day and night, light and dark, good and evil, dead and alive, false and real, work and fun. Everything that isn’t one is the other; the categories are separate and exclusive. If it’s fun it can’t be work, and vice versa.) But the tasks he had to perform for Mr Laertides, though hardly fun, didn’t have that gritty, dry work texture about them. They were neither one thing nor the other; a third category, a hitherto undiscovered element, a pocket dimension.
Paul’s first job had been to think of a flower. He had to sit still, eyes shut, hands on the arms of the chair, and think of a flower. It could be any shape or colour he liked, didn’t have to be a real flower, it could be completely imaginary, just so long as it was a flower. Screw this, Paul thought, and sat still and quiet for a moment before saying, ‘Right, done that.’ But Mr Laertides said, ‘No you haven’t,’ in a grim voice; so Paul admitted defeat and thought of a geranium. At least, he thought it was a geranium, but it could just as easily have been a dahlia or a chrysanthemum. Paul knew very little about flowers, and cared less.
‘Excellent,’ he heard Mr Laertides say, ‘although if we’re going to be annoyingly pedantic about things, that’s actually a foxglove. Doesn’t matter, though, and you’re doing just fine. Now - you can open your eyes, by the way - I’d like you to describe for me the taste of an onion.’
Paul sat up. ‘You what?’
‘You heard me. Imagine I’ve never eaten an onion. What do they taste like?’
Paul frowned. ‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but how exactly is this paying work? I thought you, well, sort of wrote speeches for people and worked out what their colours are and stuff.’
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Laertides, ‘up to a point. And that’s why I need you to tell me what an onion tastes like.’
Fine, Paul thought, just checking. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s sort of sharp and sour and a bit yuck, really, but it’s also crunchy and a bit refreshing. That’s when it’s raw, of course. Cooked—’
‘No, that’s fine.’ Mr Laertides stopped him with a wave of his hand. ‘That’s exactly what I needed, thank you. Now, would you mind telling me about the sexiest pair of wrists you ever saw?’
Paul just looked at him for a moment. ‘Wrists,’ he said.
‘Wrists,’ repeated Mr Laertides, with a hint of impatience. ‘You know, the bit that joins the hands to the arms. Come on, you’ve spent your entire adult life gawping at girls. What constitutes a really cute wrist?’
After a long, long silence, Paul said, ‘Absence of thick, curly hair is all that springs to mind. I’m sorry.’
‘No, that’s fine. You’re doing really well, I promise you. Now, I suggest you have lunch early, because this afternoon I need you to nip down to Swindon and look at a tree.’
So Paul nipped. The tree was exactly where Mr Laer
tides said it would be, on the corner of Dunkeswell Street and Arundel Drive. It was slightly shorter than the other eleven trees in the row, and local government had splurged on a stake for it to lean on but not the little strap to tie it thereto. ‘Look at it,’ Mr Laertides had said, and beyond that he’d refused to be drawn, so Paul looked at it, carefully, for five minutes. It’s a tree, he eventually decided. So fucking what? Then he went home.
‘It was about eight feet tall,’ he started to say, first thing next morning. ‘Sort of greenish leaves, I don’t—’
But Mr Laertides held up his hand, as though conducting traffic. ‘I said look at it,’ he said, ‘I don’t need a description. Well done, though, we’re making good progress so far. Which reminds me, here’s a fiver, just pop down to Aldgate and buy me a toothbrush.’
It was five minutes past nine; way, way too early in the morning for that sort of thing. ‘Aldgate,’ Paul said. ‘But that’s half an hour’s walk, and there’s a Boots just round the—’
‘Aldgate,’ Mr Laertides insisted. ‘It’s got to be Aldgate, all right? Blue if there’s a choice, if not whatever they’ve got. Take a cab, the firm’s paying.’
So Paul took a taxi to Aldgate and spent half an hour traipsing up and down, looking in vain for a shop that sold toothbrushes. Anything else, apparently, he could’ve had his pick of, from microchips to elephants. If he wanted a toothbrush, however, the consensus was that he should nip round the corner, a hundred yards or so, to the chemist in the Arcade, where they’d be overjoyed to sell him the toothbrush of his dreams. He thanked them all, said he’d do that, and carried on down the street to the next remote possibility. He was just about to pack it in and go back when he saw a little tiny shop shoehorned in between an airline and a bookstore—
