Inside the box was a complicated hexagonal mushroom where computing and thought met in a series of wonky switches and some big, red, juicy buttons. A hand emerged from underneath the mushroom holding a spanner. Flinging it carelessly to one side, the hand hastily edged its way past some dials (all either at ‘Zero’ or ‘Danger!’), flirted with some switches and then settled on the juiciest and reddest of the buttons. The hand formed itself into a fist and thumped the button heartily, as if it were part of a fairground game.
And, in many ways, it was. The Randomiser was, at heart, the most important fruit machine the universe had ever known. A single press would fling the little-blue big-white box somewhere and somewhen in the universe, completely at random and without a thought for the chaotic consequences which would inevitably follow.
For a single moment the box hung perfectly still in space and time, paused between here and now. And then, with a triumphant laugh at dimensions collapsing and rules being torn apart, the box pirouetted away.
The TARDIS was on its way.
2
ISN’T IT NICE?
‘Nice, isn’t it?’
The overheard phrase made Harrison Mandel nod unconsciously. He’d been about to join in with the crowd of sightseers who were all outdoing each other in superlatives (especially the Americans). Really, he thought, the Eiffel Tower was just very high up.
The journey in the jolting, crowded lift had been as mildly terrifying as a Ferris wheel, one that smelt of French tobacco and diesel oil. The tower itself was thunderingly solid but also spoke volumes about the Parisian spirit of defiance. Put up in a hurry for the 1889 World Fair, it had lingered magnificently. It had survived two world wars and quite a few letter-writing campaigns. The criss-cross lattice of ironwork dominated the Paris skyline, but with an air, just an air, that at any moment it might hoist up its stumpy little legs and stomp off to bring some glamour to Bruges.
The thing about the view from the Eiffel Tower was that it gave you a perfect vista across Paris, across the orderly boulevards, the haphazard jumble of palaces and squares and even a few peeps towards the disappointing humdrumness of the suburbs that, by mutual agreement, left the tourists alone. The one thing you couldn’t see from the Eiffel Tower was the Eiffel Tower, which seemed a bit of a shame. If ever a building had been designed to be seen from a great height, it was that one. The best you could do was peer down through its legs, feel a bit giddy, and then go and buy some postcards.
Harrison stood next to a gasping tour party. The Italians were terribly excited, a Japanese couple treated the occasion to a couple of flashbulbs, and the Canadians said that, actually, they had a tower of their own that was a bit higher, but no one was interested. Harrison hung back, squinting down at Elena. He’d bumped into her at a party (now he was very rich, he always seemed to be at parties) and she’d instantly spotted how miserable he was. Elena was everything that Harrison wasn’t. She was confident, glamorous and demonstrative. She’d wrapped him in a hug and said how sorry she was that he seemed so down. This surprised him. After all, he thought, I don’t look that bad, do I? ‘This is one of my greatest friends,’ she’d announced to two bankers and an aspidistra. ‘The poor darling needs cheering up.’
Paris had followed, much to Harrison’s bemusement. He didn’t actually think that Elena was one of his greatest friends. She’d always seemed very nice, in a hugs and scarves indoors way, but he remained unconvinced that she had actually ever given him a second thought. She was beautiful, intense and exciting. Harrison was more of a punctuation mark, and not one of the ones that invited comment.
‘Come see me in Paris, darling,’ she’d enthused, ‘and I’ll show you Life.’ He hoped, he really hoped, that her offer wasn’t to do with his money. Was she hoping for marriage? He’d nervously raised the subject over dinner on his first night and she’d looked, for a moment, disappointed and cross. She’d reached over the table and tapped him on the nose (she was the kind of person who tapped people on the nose, whether or not there were wine glasses in the way). ‘Harrison, yes, you have an awful lot of money. But you have no excitement. Rien. Why should I marry to be bored?’ Harrison felt both relieved and a little disappointed, but she laughed that wonderful laugh that said that everything would be all right.
They took a boat trip down the Seine, gliding between floodlit arches and he’d ventured to tell her it was heavenly. She’d tapped him on the nose again. ‘You don’t mean that. Bien sûr, you are enjoying it. It is pretty. But you are not . . .’ She paused, her arms trying to find the right word somewhere in the warm night air. ‘You are not enraptured. The deal is I will keep showing you all of Paris until you see something that you find truly beautiful. Non?’
So here he was, stood on top of the Eiffel Tower. He could see, a long way down, Elena, reading a book and waiting for him. She’d declined to come up with him, declaring that while Parisians adored their Tower, actually going up it was a little gauche. He thought she’d have been disappointed if he’d told her he had found it delightful.
Harrison glanced over at the two people next to him, every inch in love, if not with each other then certainly with life itself. They were both grinning like schoolchildren. Actually, she was dressed exactly like a schoolgirl, with a short navy skirt, silk blouse tied with a red ribbon, and a neat straw hat perched on golden hair that was on very good terms with the breeze.
He was the kind of man you could only meet in Paris, with a long coat, an even longer scarf, and a lot of curling hair. The overall impression was of a man who had been completely knitted. Apart from the teeth. You could see a lot of the teeth because the man was always laughing.
If only, thought Harrison, that was me.
* * *
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ the Doctor said, waiting for a reaction from Romana.
The Doctor spent a lot of time waiting for a reaction from Romana. Sometimes even K-9, his robot dog, could be more enthusiastic. Romana and the Doctor were both Time Lords from the planet Gallifrey. He’d long ago left behind that world of august domes and hushed cloisters, running away to see the universe, accidentally saving most of it as he went. Romana had joined him fairly recently (was it a few weeks or a few years?). A mere stripling of 125, she had come to him fresh out of the Academy and still had a lot of unlearning to do.
Initially he’d worried that Romana wasn’t enjoying travelling with him at all. She even occasionally referred to their trips as ‘missions’ which made his teeth itch. ‘Romana,’ he’d said to her, ‘there are far too many people who take the universe too seriously. Don’t be one of them.’ She’d simply nodded, very seriously.
She’d kept travelling with him and he was beginning to worry glumly that she wasn’t enjoying it one bit. Normally when his companions weren’t having fun they’d tell him so quite brutally. Often by getting married or, in one case, wandering off halfway through a rather thrilling battle with a supercomputer in the Post Office Tower. But no, Romana stuck with him. Terribly serious, terribly efficient, but just a little bit of a pill.
And then, one day, just to prove him wrong, she’d regenerated for the fun of it. The Doctor had regenerated many times and for a variety of reasons (one day he feared meeting someone who’d list them all in order), but he’d never dared change bodies for a laugh. That had rather impressed him. It was one thing to be able to renew one’s body at a time of deadly crisis. It was quite another to take the legs in a bit. In their game of pan-dimensional one-upmanship, Romana might just have won.
Worse, she had regenerated so easily. Whenever the Doctor did it, it was the closest he’d ever got to having a hangover. He’d spend days thrashing around feeling sorry for himself (mental note: next time, must try a bacon sandwich). Romana had regenerated with barely a shrug, before trotting off to defeat the Daleks.
That was the problem with this new Romana. Even the outfits were amazing. Suddenly, for the first time in his many li
ves, the Doctor rather feared that he was no longer the cool one.
* * *
Which was why he’d been hoping to land somewhere impressive. He’d felt a tiny bit of a thrill when the Randomiser had picked Paris. Never fails.
‘Well, I think it’s nice,’ the Doctor repeated, hopefully.
Romana looked around and nodded. The Doctor’s hearts sank just a little towards his boots.
‘Well, it’s not quite as you described it,’ Romana said eventually, with a smile that could just have been polite.
‘Oh?’ the Doctor said carefully. The TARDIS was parked around the corner. With a bit of luck they could be back there in ten minutes and on their way somewhere else. Yes, that was it. Call it a misfire, blame the drift compensators and try again. Paris. Bad idea.
Romana looked around again, sniffing the air, and her cautious smile broadened. ‘No. It’s so much better.’
That was a relief. ‘It’s the only place in the universe where you can truly relax,’ said the Doctor, truly relaxing.
‘It’s marvellous!’ Romana sniffed the air again, getting a lot from it. Petrol fumes, wood smoke, rain on pavements, and, more than that, animals and vegetables being roasted over minerals. She exhaled. ‘Ah, that bouquet!’
‘What Paris has,’ the Doctor said, warming to his subject, ‘is an ethos, a life, a . . .’
‘Bouquet?’ suggested Romana, being genuinely helpful.
‘A spirit all of its own that must be savoured. Like a wine, it has a . . .’
‘Bouquet?’
‘It has a bouquet.’ Having fished around and failed to find a better word, the Doctor borrowed hers and pronounced it definitively. ‘A bouquet. Exactly. Just like a good wine.’ He couldn’t help offering a bit of seasoned advice. One traveller to another. ‘Of course, you have to pick one of the vintage years . . .’
‘What year is this?’ asked Romana, a suspicion forming in her mind. ‘I forgot to check.’
‘Ah yes, well . . .’ Caught out, the Doctor narrowed his eyes at a passing seagull. ‘It’s 1979 actually. More of a table wine, shall we say? The Randomiser is a useful device but it lacks true discrimination.’ For a moment he was lost in surprisingly fond memories of the French Revolution and Robot Napoleon the Twelfth. Then he grinned, a broad Welcome Mat of a grin. ‘Shall we sip it and see?’
‘I’d be delighted.’
Turning away from the view, Romana couldn’t help smiling, partly with relief. The Doctor’s definition of a ‘vintage year’ undoubtedly meant alien invasion, several bloodbaths and an exploding stately home. Just for once she could do without all that. Just for once, it would be nice to land somewhere and just have fun. What was it that humans called it? A holiday. Yes, that was it.
‘Shall we take the lift or fly?’
The Doctor sucked a finger and stuck it in the air, testing the wind speed. It had been a while, but, well . . . He glanced around at the tourists they were sharing the viewing platform with. The Japanese photographers, the chattering Italians, the slightly glum-looking Englishman. Well, yes, it might cheer him up. ‘Let’s not be ostentatious,’ he cautioned Romana.
‘All right, then,’ she nodded. ‘Let’s fly.’
Tempting. But no. ‘That would look silly.’ The Doctor grinned again. ‘We’ll take the lift.’
* * *
So, they went and stood inside a box that was, for once, exactly the same size inside as outside.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Romana.
‘Are you speaking philosophically or geographically?’ The Doctor watched as the ground, that lovely exciting ground of Paris slid gently closer.
‘Philosophically.’
‘Then we’re going to lunch,’ he said firmly.
‘Lunch!’ Romana repeated, giggling happily. They so rarely got a chance to stop for food. Her last meal had been what the TARDIS food machine had sworn blind wasn’t a British Rail cheese and pickle sandwich, but Romana had remained unconvinced.
‘I know a place that does a bouillabaisse that’ll curl your hair.’ That is, thought the Doctor, if it was still there. Hmm. It had been one of the few sensible recommendations Catherine de Medici had ever given him.
‘Bouillabaisse.’ Romana lit up. ‘Yum yum.’
The Doctor and Romana were very firmly on holiday.
* * *
Most people agreed that Count Scarlioni was the most charming man they’d ever met. Even those who died during the encounter.
He could fill a room with laughter, gliding through it with a nod here, a wink there, and a beam for everyone. Hostesses clamoured to have him at salons. Ambassadors yearned for him at receptions. Curators begged him to gallery openings. And he’d always come, lighting up the occasion with that ever-present smile of his, which Paris Match had once called ‘the second most famous smile in Paris’. This was a man, everyone agreed, who really loved people.
The one person who did not find Count Scarlioni charming was the Count himself. Sometimes he’d wander the vast corridors of his château, touching the ancient art treasures, the rare and beautiful objets, the priceless bric-a-brac, and, when he was absolutely sure he was quite alone, he’d pause in front of a mirror and look at himself. At his almost perfectly handsome face. At that smile.
When she’d first met him, the Countess had asked him about that smile. It was as if he was in on some glorious private joke. She wanted so desperately to share it. He’d leaned forward across the table and told her:
‘I’m the greatest art thief the world has ever known.’
He’d laughed. And she’d laughed too. But something in his eye told her that, audacious, daring and true as that was, that wasn’t quite the reason for his smile.
Most people wondered what they were put on this Earth to do. Count Scarlioni knew. The problem was, it was quite fiddly.
* * *
The Count lived in one of the most unique addresses in Paris. At the edge of the Marais, in between two scrupulously neat boulevards showing off Baron Haussmann’s work at its finest, was a handsome estate. Over every inch of it sprawled a château. Not the slightly boxy stripped down Hôtel Particulier versions that most nobles made do with for their pied à terre, but a full-sized palace, high walls ranged with turrets and balustrades. Mazes filled the courtyards, peacocks strolled in the grounds, and deer were sometimes glimpsed among the trees. History had failed to notice the Château—the Germans had failed to occupy it, floods hadn’t touched it, the mobs of the Revolution had somehow missed it. The Château was so huge that, even though tout Paris had been to parties there, no one dared claim to have seen all of it.
Some people called it the House of Questions, because there were so many questions about it. When had it been built? How had it survived for so long? Who were its previous owners? Who, really, was its present owner? And, of course, why did no one who lived there ever have any answers?
A particularly poisonous gossip columnist had once cornered Count Scarlioni at a party and confided that she, and she alone, had coined the phrase. How simply wonderful wasn’t it that all of society had taken it up! How wonderful, the Count had agreed with a thin smile. Curiously, when the columnist vanished soon afterwards, no one had asked any questions.
A question that a few people had had answered over the years was ‘What were the cellars like?’ The answers had varied over the years. For once, the tiresome clutter of bottles and leftovers from the Inquisition had been cleared a little to one side. Everything makes way for progress, including the Count’s wine collection. The space was now taken up by a uniquely powerful and very large computer and an awful lot of technology. In contrast to the beautiful dust gathering on the exquisite bottles of wine, the equipment was gleamingly new. It sang to itself, reels of computer tape taking up the melody while pinwheel printers handled the chorus and an oscilloscope chipped in with a merry descant.
In pathetic contrast to brand new and singing with happiness, Professor Kerensky slumped somewhere in the middle of it. His thin, frail figure tottered unsteadily between the banks of equipment. Occasionally he’d grab hold of something expensive just for support. He’d rapidly developed a quite reasonable terror of his employer whilst simultaneously being exhilarated and exhausted by the work.
Today, Kerensky was almost at breaking point, and had reached it courtesy of some paperwork. To be precise, a set of bills printed in red and with FINAL DEMAND stamped on them. It had initially amazed him that he could receive post in his basement. Then it had horrified him as every envelope served only to make him more miserable.
The one good thing about the last few months was the weight loss. If my doctor could see me now, Kerensky told himself as he cut yet another new notch in the frayed leather belt. Then again, there was the exhaustion, and also the vitamin D deficiency that came from never leaving the cellars. I think I may just surprise everyone by dying of scurvy, he thought.
Today was the day of Kerensky’s last stand. He was going to make the Count listen to reason. This was proving harder than he’d thought. The Count had many years of experience sailing through parties ignoring awkward questions, and he didn’t see the point in breaking the habit now.
If Kerensky looked like a half-dead morsel brought in by the Château’s cat, then Count Carlos Scarlioni himself provided a glorious contrast. He always did. He was a man for whom the words ‘suave’ and ‘louche’ had been invented. His face was handsome, thin and quite excitingly cruel. His hair was blonde. His tight suit told you exactly what expensive tailoring looked like, whilst also being in a shade of white that dared you to pour wine on it. His face, almost like a mask, was set in a permanent smile. Kerensky had at first found that smile charming. Now he found it terrifying.
City of Death Page 3
