by Tom Holt
Only two weeks to go. He couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER SIX
‘To begin with, it was cats,’ Pete said, idly nibbling a plastic ruler. ‘Everything else I could pretty much take or leave alone, but just the faintest whiff of a moggy and I was completely out of control.’
A week since Duncan had joined Messrs Ferris & Loop, solicitors. Quarter to twelve; all the day’s work long since done and profitably dusted, and the lunchtime drinking ceremony only fifteen minutes away. Duncan had come to look forward to it, even though the procedure was invariably the same. Quick march to the pub, drink twelve pints of Guinness, leave, and no more than a dozen sentences spoken from start to finish. But, as Pete had pointed out, when you’ve known each other as long as we have, you don’t need to be forever chatting away.
Pete was by far the most talkative of the gang. Duncan wondered whether this was because he’d briefly escaped to teacher training college before the long arm of Luke Ferris reeled him back in again, or whether he’d made his abortive break for freedom because he wasn’t quite like the others. Probably the latter; which in turn might account for his habit of dropping by for a chat around half-eleven, which had become something of a daily ritual. None of the others had come by for a chinwag; indeed, their chins generally only tended to wag when they were drinking beer or baying at the moon.
‘I quit, though,’ Pete went on. ‘I just told myself one night: from now on, no more cats. And it worked. Haven’t had a cat now for - what, three years this April. Sheer will-power, too. No support from the rest of ’em, and bugger-all from anywhere else, either. You can’t just stroll into Boots and buy yourself a cat-impregnated patch or a box of cat-flavoured chewing gum.’
‘I see,’ Duncan said. ‘So it was simply guts, determination and strength of character.’
‘Exactly,’ Pete replied, yawning. ‘That and Luke telling me he’d rip my throat out if I ever so much as sniffed another cat as long as I lived.’ Pete frowned. ‘Luke can be a bit of an old worry-wart at times,’ he said. ‘Apparently we were getting in all the local papers - well, you know how people are about their pets. And I’d be the first one to admit, I was laying into the suburban moggy population a bit, people were bound to notice sooner or later. That’s the thing about Luke: like it or not, he’s always right.’
There was something about the way he’d said it; almost the way you’d imagine Lucifer talking about God, when he was plotting the rebellion of the fallen angels. Maybe, Duncan told himself, there’s more to this than just cats. Maybe.
‘So,’ Duncan said, mostly just to keep the conversation going, ‘you’re cured as far as cats are concerned.’
‘Yup.’ Pete spat out a few shards of scrunched plastic. ‘And besides,’ he went on, glancing at Duncan out of the corner of his eye, then looking away, ‘once you’ve seen Millie, it’s hard to work up much enthusiasm for small game. I mean, I can show a little polite interest in a fox or a dog - a proper dog, I’m talking about now, a Labrador or a Staffordshire, not the small fuzzy rubbish - but let’s face it, it’s not the same. Luke says I should try and get over it, but it’s not as easy as that.’ He sighed. ‘Ah, but Man’s reach must exceed Man’s grasp, or what’s a Heaven for?’
A quotation, presumably. Pete went in for quotations; probably a legacy of his time in teacher training. He never talked about his brief sojourn in the Real World, but he carried a sort of aura of difference around with him that was hard to overlook. Obviously Luke was prepared to tolerate it, though presumably there were clearly established limits. He tried to remember what Pete had been like at school; but when he cast his mind back, all he tended to get was a series of group photos. Remembering the gang, the gestalt, was easy enough. Trying to prise the individuals out of the group was as tricky as catching eels while wearing boxing gloves.
‘Anyhow,’ Pete went on, adjusting his perch on the edge of the desk. ‘The billion-dollar question: how are you settling in? On balance a good career move, or would you rather still be at Craven Ettins?’
‘On balance?’
Pete nodded. ‘On balance.’
‘Fucking wonderful,’ Duncan replied with a huge grin. ‘I mean, the superpowers—’
Pete nodded gravely. ‘They are rather nice, aren’t they? After a bit, you start to forget what it was like, back before you could do all the cool stuff; when you couldn’t smell worth shit, or hear. Really, I don’t know how the humans survive, with only fifty per cent sight and about ten per cent of the other senses. You’re so vulnerable, for one thing. Like, how the hell can anybody get run over by a car? You think, surely they must’ve heard it coming from miles away. And then you remember, sort of. No, that’s a lie,’ Pete said abruptly. ‘The nearest you ever get is sort of like history, or archaeology even. You know more or less what happened in the past, but you can’t begin to imagine what it must actually have been like.’
Poetry, almost. Duncan raised his eyebrows. This took slightly more effort than it used to do; his eyebrows, like his hair, were growing at a remarkable rate, and shaving was getting to be such hard work every morning that he was seriously considering growing a beard.
‘I’ve got that to look forward to, then,’ he said. ‘I take it you’ve got no regrets.’
He’d said the wrong thing, yet again. On the other hand, it wasn’t so scary saying the wrong thing to Pete, without the others there. Transgressions committed in front of the whole pack were met with about half a second of total, frozen silence, and then the subject was changed and it was as though it had never happened; Micky might laugh, if it wasn’t too dreadful an error, but otherwise the protocol was unvarying. Pete on his own might look shocked or disgusted, but there wasn’t the same desperate falling-overboard-in-the-North-Atlantic-in-winter drop in temperature that’d probably kill you if it lasted for more than a second and a half.
‘Regrets?’ Pete said, without much expression. ‘I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention. Why? You wishing you hadn’t joined?’
‘Me? God, no.’ Duncan meant it, too. But that wasn’t the same thing as having no regrets. ‘I can honestly say I’ve never been happier in all my life. I mean, it’s perfect, isn’t it? Not just the superpowers,’ he added, ‘the—Oh, I don’t know. It’s sort of the Three Musketeers thing, all for one and that stuff. Being part of the group again. Knowing you belong.’
(Knowing your place? Well, if you put it like that.)
‘Quite,’ Pete said. ‘It’s very important, belonging. Though a certain amount depends on who you belong to.’ He lifted his head and sniffed. ‘They’re coming,’ he said. ‘Pub time. You realise I haven’t had a single cold since I got bitten? Marvellous. Not a single snuffle. Worth it just for that, if you ask me.’
Apart from the Allshapes estate accounts, the work part of Duncan’s working day was generally short and sweet. The Ferris Gang didn’t tend to talk about work much. Their attitude seemed to be that it was a bit like ironing: it had to be done and you were better for it, but it did so cut into your free time. Nevertheless, Luke had taken the trouble to reassure him that he was performing up to expectations; doing all right were the words he used, but from Luke that was high praise, practically gibbering with enthusiasm.
Two new estates to start off when he got back from the pub. He tore into them, got the initial letters written, drew up the schedules of assets, all that. The clock said two-thirty. He sighed happily and looked out of the window.
Nothing to do.
There was always Bowden Allshapes. Duncan frowned. He didn’t like to admit it to himself, but his repeated failures with those bloody accounts were starting to prey on his mind. He’d even mentioned it to Luke, who looked at him oddly and asked if the punters were getting difficult. No, he’d replied; well, then, Luke said, and that had been the end of the discussion. Even so; he’d had the feeling that Luke had been a bit taken aback, as though Duncan had used a word he hadn’t understood. There’s no such word as can’t; which of his annoying
female relatives used to say that? He couldn’t remember offhand, because his family belonged to the unsatisfactory part of his life, which was now over. He couldn’t quite see Luke Ferris as an aunt, even if he sounded like one sometimes.
Nothing to do.
When they had nothing to do, the rest of the Ferris Gang slept. They had little beds, like the one in Duncan’s office. They curled up in them (not forgetting to turn round three times first) and went to sleep until it was time for their next meeting. It was, Duncan had to admit, supremely logical, like all the things animals do: conservation of energy, which to animals is as valuable as money is to humans. Unnecessary exertion to a werewolf would be like setting fire to a wad of banknotes. He’d tried nodding off like they did himself. Sometimes it worked, though he slept in his chair, slumped forward over his desk with his head pillowed on his forearms. It wasn’t something he could do at will, however; he couldn’t use sleep as a way of fast-forwarding through the boring bits of the day, as they could. He hadn’t got the knack of switching off his brain. He could close his eyes and practise deep, even breathing, but his thoughts carried on spinning round, like the tumblers of a fruit machine. Simple, really. They could sleep because they had no cares or troubles. He—
Sod it, he thought, this is silly. Outside, it was a bright, crisp day, and the streets were humming with remarkable sounds and smells. He got up and headed for the front office.
In the corridor he bumped into Clive.
‘Going somewhere?’ Clive said.
Duncan nodded cheerfully. ‘It’s a nice day and I’ve got nothing much on. Thought I’d go for a walk.’
‘Oh.’ Clive looked at him. ‘I see.’
‘I might stroll down to the river, maybe.’
‘Fine.’ Clive frowned. ‘Well, why not? Yes, I’m sure that’ll be all right. Excuse me, I’ve got to get this lot copied before the punters arrive.’
Something about Clive’s manner suggested that he didn’t want to be caught associating with dissidents. Duncan hesitated, but for the life of him he couldn’t see that he was doing anything wrong. He carried on, and met Micky coming out of the lavatory.
‘Where are you off to?’ Micky said.
‘Just going for a walk,’ Duncan replied. ‘It’s a nice day, and—’
‘Outside?’
‘Yes.’
‘On your own?’
Something prickled against Duncan’s collar. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll be careful crossing the road, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I don’t want to get run over.’
‘Why are you going outside on your own?’
Suddenly, Duncan understood something that had been puzzling him on and off for eighteen years. The reason, he discovered, why he’d always felt uncomfortable around Micky Halloran was that they didn’t like each other very much. One of his oldest and closest friends, yes, but not a friend he liked.
‘Because it’s a nice day and I’m bored stuck in here with bugger-all to do,’ he said pleasantly. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’
Micky gave him a look. ‘We usually do things together,’ he said. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed?’
Duncan shrugged. The truth had set him free, just like it’s supposed to do, and he didn’t feel uncomfortable any more. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But the rest of you are busy, so I thought—’
‘I’m not busy.’
‘Clive is,’ Duncan replied, quick on the draw, like a gun-slinger. ‘He’s got a client coming in, he just told me.’
Micky nodded. ‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘you can wait till he’s free, and then we can all go out. Go and ask Luke, I expect he’ll be up for it.’
‘I don’t want to bother anybody,’ Duncan said sweetly. ‘Luke’s probably having a nap, if he hasn’t got a meeting or anything. Why go disturbing him, just because I fancy a breath of air?’
Duncan could have sworn that Micky’s ears twitched, as if they wanted to go back but were restrained by the stupid inflexibility of human anatomy. ‘You don’t want to go wandering about outside on your own,’ Micky said. ‘Where’s the point? You go out, you walk around for a bit, you come back in. What exactly does that achieve?’
The difference was, Duncan realised, that eighteen years ago he’d never have dared to stand up to Micky Halloran like this. It was an issue they’d never resolved by combat or any other formal means, but Micky had always been above him in the hierarchy, for some reason never explained or analysed. Perhaps it was just because he was slightly taller, or had a deeper growl; maybe subconsciously, Duncan had always known that Micky could beat him in a fight. Unimpeachable logic for fourteen-year-olds in a playground gang; didn’t cut it as between two adult officers of the supreme court of judicature.
‘Oh well,’ Duncan said. ‘I just feel like it, that’s all. If anybody needs me for anything, I’ve got my mobile with me. See you later for the run.’
For a moment, Duncan was sure that Micky was going to stand in his way to stop him going, and he felt his muscles tense, ready for fighting. But Micky was looking past him, over his shoulder.
‘Duncan.’ Luke’s voice. ‘You going somewhere?’
Just the trace of a smile on Micky’s face. ‘I was just nipping out for a breath of air,’ Duncan said, but he couldn’t get any real conviction behind it. Not when it was Luke he was talking to.
‘Oh.’ Luke passed Micky and stood between Duncan and the lift door. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Clive’s got clients coming in at three-fifteen, and then Pete’s got that call from Canada at four. I think we’re all free after that. Say twenty past four, here. Any idea where you want to go?’
Very pleasant and reasonable. Duncan felt his strength draining away, as though there was a hole in his foot. ‘That’s all right,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve just remembered, I’ve got those stupid Allshapes accounts to sort out. I really ought to get them out of the way, while I’ve got a bit of spare time.’
‘As you like.’ Luke shrugged. ‘We’re all meeting up here at six for the run anyhow. See you then, all right?’
As he pushed through the fire door on his way back to his office, Duncan looked quickly round. Luke was still in position, guarding the exit. So what? The essence of leadership is attention to detail.
I shall have to get myself one of those dear little doggy-beds, like the others have got, Duncan said to himself as he sat down in his chair. Much more comfortable than sprawling over the desk. I’d have no trouble getting to sleep in one of them. He looked round the room and thought, fire escapes. There had to be fire escapes, because of health and safety, but nobody had thought to tell him where they were. It’d be a sensible idea to find out about them, just in case there ever was a fire, or some similar emergency.
He swivelled his chair to face the computer screen. There was a file he’d come across a while back but had never bothered to look at, labelled ‘FloorPlan’. Sure enough, it showed him a map of the office. There wasn’t any writing on it, but a little experimenting revealed that if you hovered the cursor over the place you were interested in, you got a close-up with neat little words: closed file store or cashier’s office or Luke Ferris. He set the cursor dancing like a crane-fly, and before long he found what he was looking for. There was a door next to the library which led to the fire stairs, which came out round the back, in the alley where the dustbins were. He smiled. Somehow, he felt a whole lot better for knowing that - though it did occur to him to wonder why, when he’d asked a few days ago what that door was for, Pete had told him it was where the electricity meter lived.
Flicking the cursor round was fun. Duncan found that he could spin the mouse on its pad with just the very tip of his little finger, and the little spidery letters were pretty as they flashed by . . . Pete’s room, Clive’s room, Kevin, Luke, Micky; a big room just off the main corridor (not the big or small conference rooms, he’d already found them) which had no label at all. He flicked again, like a kitten batting a ball of wool
. Wesley Loop’s room.
He paused and frowned. If he’d got the geography of the place straight in his mind, the cursor was hovering over his own office. But it didn’t say Duncan Hughes. Well, fair enough. Nobody had got around to updating the floor plan yet, megadeal. Wesley Loop; as in Ferris and Loop, presumably. So: he’d inherited the domain of one of the founding partners; pretty cool, right? You don’t just stick a man like Duncan Hughes in a broom cupboard, you give him the second-best room in the building. Hah! When he thought of the dreary little coop he’d been banged up in back at Craven Ettins—
Wesley Loop. He hadn’t heard the name spoken since his first day. Well, fine. They weren’t the chattiest of people, his partners, so it wasn’t particularly remarkable that he hadn’t heard a load of remember-when-old-Wes-got-his-tie-caught-in-the-shredder type stories. Nothing sinister or first-Mrs-Rochester about that. Presumably, the doggy-bed he’d found in the corner had belonged to him, and maybe he’d chosen the colour scheme and the furniture, although Duncan was inclined to doubt that. There was a general consistency about the decor that suggested it had come as a job lot, chosen by someone who’d looked at the price tags rather than the stuff itself and ordered the most expensive things he could find. After all, money couldn’t really mean anything to the Ferris Gang any more.
Four o’clock. He killed the computer screen and leaned back in his chair. He wanted to go and check out the fire escape, but he didn’t relish the prospect of explaining his sudden interest in alternative exits to Luke, if he happened to run into him while he was doing it. He could just about understand why they didn’t like the thought of him wandering off on his own. After all, the defining characteristic of a pack is that it sticks together. That was how it had been at school. Inseparable, the teachers used to say, usually with grim smiles, as they made a point of making sure the members of the Ferris Gang didn’t sit together in lessons. Even so; they split up every evening, didn’t they, when the run was over and it was time to go home. Luke didn’t seem to have a problem with that. Maybe it was just perfectly ordinary, normal corporate bloody-mindedness. He’d drafted enough partnership agreements to know that the one clause that always gets shoved in is the body-and-soul clause, whereby the new junior partner undertakes to work himself to death so that the seniors can have Mondays off to play golf. Presumably there was something of the kind in the huge great thing he’d signed, just before Luke bit him. What with all the excitement and brave-new-world stuff that had followed, he hadn’t given the agreement much thought. It might be an idea to read it, at some point, when he was really bored.
