The House of Doors - 01

by Brian Lumley

  “It’s a good sign, that, sir,” said a knowing, mildly caustic, booming bass voice. “Knowing where you are, I mean. It means you haven’t quite managed to kill ’em all off yet. Not all of ’em, anyway.”

  “Kill them off?” Anderson answered automatically, without looking up. On all fours, he continued to gape out into the busy flow of traffic like a blind man whose sight has suddenly returned to him.

  “Brain cells, sir,” said the booming voice. “Booze does that, you know, in large quantities. Kills ’em off.”

  Anderson knew that someone stood close by, and that others skirted him where they passed in chattering streams in both directions along the pavement. Now he dragged his eyes from the bustling traffic to stare hard at a pair of shiny black boots. He blinked his eyes and shook his head but none of it went away. He was really here, really back home. Back home in London!

  His eyes traced a line from the boots up the sharp creases of blue uniform trousers, to the jacket and shiny buttons, the frowning, shaded, narrow-eyed face beneath the familiar Bobby’s helmet. A policeman: an ordinary, everyday, metropolitan God-bless-him-forever policeman! “My God! My God!” Anderson cried. “Oh my good, good God!” He clutched the policeman’s leg and wept hot, salty tears down his trembling, grimy jowls.

  A strong hand reached down, took him under the arm, and with some difficulty lifted him to his feet. “Now then, my Old China,” said the policeman, displaying a great deal of patience. “See, you’re either to show me that you’re a nice responsible sort of chap and start behaving yourself, or I’m to fix you up with a nice cool uncomfortable place to sleep it all out of your system. It’s entirely up to you.”

  Anderson was back home, back on Earth, in London, and he knew it. It appeared to be summer, or a very warm day in the spring at least, and that wasn’t quite right (indeed it was quite wrong, and rang small warning bells in Anderson’s head, which for the moment, in his extremity of joy, he ignored) but everything else was perfectly normal. This was his place—yes, his, not Clayborne’s madhouse or Varre’s labyrinthine lunatic asylum—and he had power here. Nor had he forgotten how to use that power. He dabbed away his tears of relief, puffed himself up and shook off the policeman’s hand.

  “Constable,” he said, fighting hard not to dance and laugh, and so make an even greater spectacle of himself, “I don’t suppose for one moment that you’d accept or even understand the only explanation I can offer for my present appearance. But as you now see for yourself I am not, as you so obviously suppose, under the influence of alcohol. Nor am I drugged or in any way … unbalanced. I am in fact a Minister of the government of the day, which I can prove easily enough. Indeed, I may very well need to do just that, for in all fairness to you, you could hardly be expected to recognise me under all this dirt! As to why I appear as I do: that is for authorities somewhat higher than your own, and it’s imperative that I report to them as soon as possible.”

  The policeman nodded, smiled understandingly and again took Anderson’s arm. “I see,” he said, “and you’re the Minister for Crawling Along Pavements, are you? Well, best if you simply come along with me, Old Lad—and nice and quietly, if you don’t mind.”

  Once more Anderson shrugged him off, and quickly produced his wallet containing almost two hundred pounds in twenties and some smaller notes, his driver’s licence, and several other identifying documents; but chiefly his stamped, signed ministerial security card with a recent photograph welded into the plastic laminate. There could be no mistaking or denying that.

  The policeman studied Anderson’s papers, and Anderson himself, scratched his jaw and shook his head, finally handed the documents back. He was still uncertain, but … under the grime and stink, certainly Anderson’s clothes were expensive. And his upper-class public-school accent was very much in evidence. “Well,” he said at last, “I’ve had some daft things happen to me in my time, but—”

  “Constable, I completely understand,” Anderson told him. “And this does appear ‘daft’, I agree. But now that I’m back I have many important things to do, and—”

  “Back?”

  Anderson sighed. “Look, I really haven’t the time to explain. Now, you’ve seen for yourself who I am. Do you really want me to phone the Chief Constable—who happens to be a personal friend of mine—and let him take charge of matters? Or may I now consider myself free to go?”

  “You always have been free to do whatever you like, sir,” the policeman at once replied. “Within the law, of course, and as long as you do it on your feet and we know what’s what. But as for going somewhere—might I ask where? For if you ask me, sir, I’d say you’d first better … well, sort yourself out a bit—before going anywhere!”

  Anderson looked down at himself. “I didn’t ask you,” he finally replied, “but … I’m forced to agree. Very well: first I shall visit the gent’s outfitters there, second a place where I can clean myself up, and then straight to my club.”

  The constable took out his notebook. “Your club?”

  “My residence,” said Anderson, and he gave his Knightsbridge address.

  “Very well, sir,” said the policeman. “And you’re sure I can’t be of further assistance?”

  “Perfectly sure,” the Minister answered. “Thank you very much.” He backed off a pace, turned and walked a little unsteadily through the sidewalk’s milling crush to the door of the outfitters, and entered.

  “Sorry, Bertie.” An unsmiling shop assistant immediately loomed close.

  “Bertie?” Anderson was nonplussed.

  “Burlington Bertie, innit?” The Cockney tilted his head on one side. “From Bow? Come off it, Chief. Outside, if yer don’t mind. The bins are round the back.”

  “Bins? I’m here to buy clothes!” Anderson waved money at the man, whose expression changed on the instant. And now the Minister was sure he was back home, because where nothing else would have worked, money had turned the trick in the blink of an eye.

  He fitted himself out with shoes, socks, underclothes, a shirt, blazer and trousers, and a tie with a stripe which resembled as closely as possible that of the Old School. The clothes were off the peg and hardly of the finest cut, but they were clean, new, and inexpensive. Wearing them, Anderson gave a sigh of relief and began to feel much more like his old self.

  His next stop was a public lavatory where he paid the attendant for a little privacy in a back room and did his best to spruce himself up. Finally, looking a lot more presentable if not one hundred percent himself, Anderson took a taxi to his club.

  In the back of the taxi, he picked up a cast-aside newspaper and scanned the headlines. The Castle was big news again, apparently (only to be expected, really); but in fact the story contained nothing about Anderson himself and had an odd—no, an old—ring to it. He checked the date: July 1994. However crisp and new looking—and smudgy with ink, after all this time—the paper was in fact more than eighteen months out of date. That gave Anderson pause, and again alarm bells chimed in the back of his mind. The date was or should be (how long had he spent … there?) oh, late February or early March 1996. But the sun striking through the taxi’s windows felt more like a July sun to him. And the driver was in his shirt sleeves, with his window wound down.

  “Driver.” Anderson leaned forward. “Er, would you happen to know today’s date?”

  They’d reached Anderson’s club and the driver jumped out, opened his door for him. The Minister got out and paid the fare, and repeated, “Well? The date?”

  The driver nodded, smiled, got back into his taxi. “That was today’s paper you was readin’, guv,” he said. “Bought it meself, I did. But don’t worry, there’s no extra charge!” And before Anderson could ask any further questions, he’d driven off.

  “Today’s paper?” the Minister muttered, shaking his head. “Twenty months out of date?” Had it been a misprint? Could he have made a mistake? Had the driver perhaps made a mistake? Anderson snorted, headed for the canopied entrance to his rat
her exclusive club, and nodded his usual (or perhaps slightly more worried than usual) nod of greeting at the elderly but immaculate commissionaire. “Good afternoon, Joe.”

  Joe Elkins, beribboned veteran of some ancient conflict or other, frowned back at him with a visible uncertainty and touched his chin wonderingly. “Er, good afternoon, Mister … ?”

  God! thought Anderson. The man’s been on extended sick leave for so long he’s forgotten the names of the bloody members and residents! Why do we employ such doddering old cretins? “It’s Mr. Anderson, Joe.” (No reaction.) “David Anderson? Minister? Or are you perhaps hinting that I may have forgotten your fiver this week, eh?”

  That did it. “Ah, of course, stupid of me!” the old fool at once sputtered. “Mr. Anderson, yes, certainly!” He nodded, beamed, squinted this way and that and looked Anderson up and down, and finally saluted. But as the Minister made to pass he placed himself just a little in the way and held out his hand.

  “Later, Joe, later.” Anderson brushed by him. “On my way out, perhaps. This evening. But right now I’m in a terrible hurry.”

  Old Joe Elkins, he thought, frowning as he crossed the wide, airy foyer to the desk. The receptionist was absent (nothing unusual) but Anderson leaned across and lifted his key from its peg. Suite 37. Old Joe Elkins, with a piece of shrapnel in his back, whisked off to the hospital, oh—how long ago? Seemed like years since he’d given the old fart his last weekly fiver! But Old Joe’s face had been a familiar one, and everything familiar was like a warm, welcoming handshake.

  Almost sprinting up the wide, sweeping stairs, Anderson passed Lord Cromleigh coming down. “Good afternoon, Sir Harry,” he said, but without pausing. The old duffer was an ex-Minister of Defence and had a habit of cornering him for hours on end about the modern “shambles” at MOD. But glancing back he saw that Cromleigh had stopped and was looking up at him, looking in fact completely mystified.

  “Eh? What? Hmm?” the portly lord was muttering.

  Senile! Anderson thought. But at the top of the stairs he almost collided with Simon Matherly, a mincing chat-show host whose too-easily earned millions couldn’t conceal the fact of his glaring indifference to women. They were neighbours (Matherly had Suite 38) but Anderson had always kept him at a distance; the creature positively gushed! But knowing Anderson’s preferences, Matherly had never much bothered to cultivate him. Now, however, the man literally fawned on him.

  “Dreadfully sorry, Old Chap!” Matherly grasped Anderson’s hand in his own warm paw. “My fault entirely—should watch where I’m going. Almost had you flat on your back just then, which would never do, eh, eh?” Twinkling, he gently elbowed Anderson’s midriff. And then, low-voiced: “Er, you’re new here, aren’t you?”

  Anderson pushed him away, sidled around him. “The clothes may be new,” he replied, “but I’m not. You must have been drinking, Simon—or maybe it’s time you got your pince-nez seen to.” He hurried on to the top of the stairs and looked back. Both Cromleigh and Matherly were staring after him now. Were his clothes that different?

  Opposite the first-floor landing was the billiards room; its doors stood open and George (Brigadier) Carleton-Ffines, the club’s president and founder member, was engaged in a game with some snot-nosed aristocrat yuppie. Anderson remembered seeing this young man here once before some years ago. For all his money and silver-spoon background he’d been denied membership: something about his making the fatal mistake of beating the Brigadier at billiards! Perhaps he was now having another go at it. And maybe this time he’d let the old fraud win!

  But the Brigadier was the president, and Anderson liked to keep on good terms with him. Actually, he believed Ffines quite genuinely liked him, and he had little doubt but that when he saw him he’d throw down his cue in astonishment and roar like a bull. “Now where the devil have you been, young Anderson?” he’d roar. “And what is all this twaddle about a castle or something up in Scotland that eats people? Eh, eh? I mean—damn me—Scotland’s full of the bloody things, but they don’t all run around eating people now do they? What?”

  The Brigadier had just potted red, a fluke if ever Anderson saw one. But: “Oh, shot sir!” he said, stepping in through the open doors.

  Ffines glanced at him. “Eh? D’you think so? Well, I suppose it was, really.”

  “What?” His young opponent was plainly astonished. “Shot?” He laughed. “A good shot? Why, I’ve never seen such a fluke!”

  The Brigadier grunted something inaudible, went a little red in the face, put down his cue and began to twist his moustaches. A sure sign that he was annoyed. He looked at Anderson again and his expression was unmistakable. Now who the bloody hell’s this? he was thinking.

  Suddenly Anderson felt cold. It was as if a breeze from outer space had just blown on his spine. He felt cold and weak and faint. And powerless, which was worst of all. In desperation he looked around the room. On one of the chairs he spied a copy of the Financial Times. In a place like this, that one would have to be right up to date, this morning’s paper. Two strides took him to the chair and he snatched up the paper in hands that were trembling again. 24 July 1994. And now things fitted together, and he remembered, and he knew … .

  The Brigadier’s young opponent had meanwhile spotted the red ball. “Well …” He spoke to Ffines. “It’s still your shot. I suppose you do intend to claim that fluke?”

  “They all count, young fellow-me-lad.” The Brigadier rounded on him. “And anyway it wasn’t a fluke.” And then he rounded on Anderson, too. “Incidentally, just who the blazes are you and what are you doing in here? Press, are you? Somebody or other’s secretary? Here to arrange an interview? I’ve an office for that sort of thing, don’t y’know!”

  Anderson fell into a chair and let the newspaper go flying. Eyes staring from a chalk white face, he said, “You don’t know me, do you?”

  “Eh? What? Haven’t I just said as much? Know you? I never saw you before in my life!”

  The House of Doors, thought Anderson. The bloody House of Doors! My own personal hell. I should have known it. He hadn’t lost five months but gained twenty of them, gone back in time. And this wasn’t the planet he was familiar with. Oh it was “Earth,” all right, but it wasn’t his Earth. In this world he didn’t exist, probably hadn’t even been born. Old Joe the commissionaire hadn’t recognised him; of course not, for he wasn’t a member and never had been. Not of this club. Joe Elkins, yes—who’d gone into hospital and never come out again. That had been eighteen months ago, but it hadn’t happened here yet. Anderson’s brain whirled as it tried to balance the facts and come out even. Why, he remembered now how he’d given a fiver into Joe’s widow’s fund. He’d considered it a bargain, that last fiver, instead of one each week.

  “Are we still playing, or aren’t we?” The yuppie type had definitely soured now. And so had the Brigadier.

  “Game’s finished!” he snapped. “And so are you. Out! Come back when you know how to lose gracefully.”

  That too, thought Anderson. Except this isn’t the young idiot’s second go but his first. “Jesus! Jesus!” he burst out, leaping to his feet. “That policeman should have known me. If not through all that filth, from my photograph at least. I don’t exist here. I’m nothing here. Power? I don’t even have an’identity here!”

  He advanced on the Brigadier. Ffines saw him coming: a madman, eyes starting out, frothing at the mouth, mumbling and shrieking. Backed up against a wall, he snatched up his cue and prodded Anderson in the chest with it. “Eh? Eh? What?” he bellowed.

  Anderson growled low in his throat and knocked the cue aside, sent it clattering to the floor. He pounced on the Brigadier and held him up by his lapels. It was worth one last try. But something was bending in Anderson’s brain, first this way then that, bending and weakening like a paper clip at a board meeting. “I’m Anderson,” he grated. “David A-n-d-e-r-s-o-n. MOD. A minister of the government of the day. You are Brigadier Ffines, president of this club. I’m a m
ember and resident here, Suite thirty-seven. Now then … tell me you know me!”

  “Eh?” Ffines spluttered, turning purple. “Are you mad? Carruthers has thirty-seven. He’s our man at MOD. David Anderson? I never bloody heard of you!”

  Anderson snarled and tossed the Brigadier aside. “But it’s still a world like mine, at least!” he cried. “It’s still Earth or a sort of Earth! I came up from nowhere before and I can do it again. Power? I’ll show you power! I’ll get there yet!”

  The receptionist and a porter ran in. They were both big men. They jumped on Anderson and bore him down, and the Brigadier sat on him. “Raving lunatic!” Ffines roared. “Who the hell let him in?”

  “I did,” the receptionist gasped. “I was on the phone, sir. Message from the police—a warning—about this Anderson bloke coming here. They said they’d checked him out and he’d probably be impersonating a minister from the MOD. Except the MOD don’t know him! This must be the bloke.”

  “It bloody well is the bloke!” Ffines exploded. “Out with the sod! Down the stairs and out the door! And make sure he bounces when he lands!”

  The paper clip in Anderson’s brain bent one last time and snapped. He gave a wild shriek, threw them all off, fled out the billiards-room doors and went bounding, floating, gibbering down the stairs, across the foyer, and—

  Outside, under the canopy, talking earnestly to dead Old Joe Elkins—there was the policeman Anderson had bumped into in Oxford Street. Anderson’s face split wide open in a mad, frothing grin. “Bastard!” he howled. “Oh, you bastard! Why … don’t … you … recognise … meeeee!”

  He reached out long, eager arms, with straining hands shaped into talons, and hurled himself straight at the swinging glass doors. He crashed right through them—

  But behind him they gonged shut, which wasn’t right. And outside, it wasn’t Knightsbridge … .

  CHAPTER FORTY

  It was midnight in the police station in Perth, a Thursday night and quiet. In the rest room the three-man standby patrol took it easy, played cards and drank coffee. The mobile patrol Alpha One prowled in the town, crisscrossing the cold, damp streets with its headlights, occasionally coming up on the air in a crackle of hissing static to state its location and pass on desultory situation reports. Nothing much was happening.