by Tom Holt
Just like the love philtre?
No. Not even a teeny-tiny bit like that.
Paul slumped on the floor, his forehead pressed to the kitchen tiles. There was, after all, the fact of Mr Laertides. He’d said, hadn’t he, that he was some kind of supernatural umpire or referee, who’d been sent here to fix the terrible fuck-up caused by Theo Van Spee’s synthetic dimension, and the postponing of that stupid fucking duel on the island all those hundreds of years ago. And he, Paul, had made the duel happen, at last, eventually; he’d made it so that there was a definite outcome, by allowing Ricky Wurmtoter to kill him. As a result, the world had changed. Fine. Mr Laertides’s mission had been a success, which implied that everything that had gone wrong was now put right, as a result of which Sophie was now in love with Paul. What the bloody hell could possibly be wrong about that?
Well?
On his hands and knees, Paul shuffled over to the nearest kitchen cupboard, and opened it with all the energy and vigour of a man pulling the pin from a grenade inside a small, sealed room.
Furniture polish. Cif. Scotchbrite pads. Two tins of peaches. Loads of stuff. No trace of eternal nothingness or the Land of the Dead. Excellent.
Next he went to the front door and opened it just a tiny crack, through which he could see the top of the stairs. Every indication seemed to suggest that some kind person had put the world back. It was OK. All he had to do was jump in a taxi and go to work, and forget about the other version of the world, and everything would be absolutely fine. Happy ending, here he came. It was perfect. It was his just reward for putting things straight and giving his life for others and all that crap. He’d have to be barking not to be happy with a deal like that.
Except -
It was a very small voice, so small that he could easily have ignored it, if only it had come from outside his head. He did try. Quite hard -
Except -
Paul tried humming. He didn’t know many tunes, but he hummed them all, one after another. He tried counting up to a hundred. He recited a poem he’d been made to learn at school, something about daffodils.
Except you can’t, really, can you? It wouldn’t be right.
And when he’d run out of tunes and numbers and scraps of half-remembered poetry, he tried reasoning with it. He explained, carefully and patiently, that it wasn’t his fault, it hadn’t been his idea, he’d been press-ganged into it, it had all turned out to be for the best, it had all been arranged by people who were much cleverer than he was, people who knew about these things, and if they reckoned it was all right, then who the hell was he to argue? He pointed out that, quite apart from the wider implications, this neat and elegant solution would secure not just his happiness but that of the girl he loved - and what on Earth could be more important than that? And sure, Ricky Wurmtoter wouldn’t be around any more, but that was all perfectly proper because he should have died thirteen hundred years ago, and all Paul had done was put straight a ghastly mess brought about by the greed and arrogance of the loathsome Theo Van Spee. Even if he had the faintest glimmer of the vaguest penumbra of a clue about how to undo what’d just happened, it’d be a crime against humanity past, present and future to put things back how they were, with Van Spee triumphantly profiting from his evil interference with time and space. Call yourself a conscience? Paul shouted into the foggy depths of his mind. You don’t know jack about right and wrong, you haven’t got a clue—
It’s not on, you know. Really, you’ve got to do something about it. You know I’m right. Don’t you?
‘Yes,’ he mumbled, very quietly. ‘I suppose so.’
Well, there you go, then. Glad we got that sorted out.
‘Yes, but—’ Yes, but what the hell was he supposed to do? How could he even start putting it right, whatever it was, when he didn’t even know how it worked? And why him, when everybody else in the whole world knew everything about everything, except him—?
The little voice cleared itself and said nothing. He gave in.
‘All right,’ Paul said aloud. ‘All right. Just leave it with me, and I’ll—’ He tailed off. He’d what? He didn’t know. He didn’t know yet. In which case, he was going to have to find out. Which meant figuring it all out for himself, from first principles. He could do it on the bus, on the way to work. Ha.
So he thought about it: at the bus stop, on the bus, walking from the bus stop at the other end to the office, and by the time he reached the front door and the reception desk, he still didn’t have the faintest idea where to start looking for a clue, let alone what it might look like once he’d stumbled across it. Break back into Custardspace - but since Theo Van Spee’s crime had never happened, there wouldn’t be any Custardspace, because Van Spee had never invented it. Without Custardspace, how was Paul supposed to get from this dimension or alternative reality or whatever the hell it was he was in, back into the real one? Magic sword, maybe? Fine, except he had no way of knowing where to find one; if the duel had taken place, they could be anywhere, buried in a grave mound or tucked away in some museum or long since crumbled into flakes of red rust. He couldn’t ask Mr Laertides, because if the duel had taken place, there hadn’t been any breach in spatio-temporal continuity, and Mr Laertides wouldn’t have been called into being to deal with it. Theo Van Spee? He might conceivably know, but he’d be the last person in the universe who’d want to tell him, because in this reality Van Spee was innocent of any crime, whereas in the real version he’d be the most wanted man in history. It was just imposs—
‘You’re late,’ said the reception girl. He looked down. He recognised her. The hair.
‘Vicky?’
She gave him a look. ‘Don’t stare,’ she said, ‘it’s rude. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ She frowned. ‘No, actually,’ she went on, ‘you look like you’ve just seen your best friend eaten alive by elephant-sized pink ferrets. What’s the matter? Hangover?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said.
She scowled. ‘If it’s anything to do with my plans for my spare time at any point in the next sixty years, forget it.’
‘It’s not like that,’ he said. ‘Look, this probably sounds a bit odd, but have you got an other half?’
If the American government could have bottled the look on her face and dropped it out of helicopters, they might well have won the Vietnam War. ‘Yeah, right,’ Vicky said. ‘Weren’t you listening just now? I wouldn’t go out with you if—’
‘No, not like that. What I mean is, are you the other half of anything?’
From revulsion to bewilderment in one flicker of the eyelids. ‘What, you mean like a pantomime horse or something?’
Well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. ‘Obviously not,’ Paul said. ‘Sorry, please forget I said any of that stuff. It’s, um, a project I’m working on for Professor Van Spee, much too complicated to explain. I’d better be getting along, I’m late enough as it—’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Fine. Well, if anybody asks if you’ve seen me—’
‘I mean,’ she said, ‘yes, I have.’
Paul pulled a long face. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m getting confused. Yes, you’ve seen me, or yes . . .’
‘Oh, for crying out loud. Yes, I’ve got an other half.’
‘Ah, right.’ Getting somewhere at last.
‘And if he catches you trying to chat me up again, he’ll break your neck. Understood?’
Sigh. ‘Sorry,’ Paul said. ‘It’s not like that, really. Look—’
Then Vicky scowled at him and stared hard at the desk, as someone walked past. Paul caught a glimpse of red lipstick and shoulder-length blonde hair, and a rather nice voice called out, ‘There you are. Hurry up.’ Before Paul could turn his head, she’d gone.
‘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, th
en 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’s very pretty, and nice too, apparently, and I think she likes me, and so what if she’s 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 the 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.
