by Tom Holt
Mr Gogerty stopped dead, frozen in the act of knotting his tie. Then he rewound and played back the last bit of the message. Except for one number, the address was the same as the one he’d written in his notebook when he’d looked up Kevin Briggs.
Hooray for serendipity. He sat down and pecked in the number with the butt of his pencil. Three rings before rather high, slightly nerdish man’s voice helloed.
“Stanley Gogerty,” he said, “returning your call.”
“What? Oh, right, yes, hello. Thanks for calling back. Um.”
Ah, Mr Gogerty thought, the public. Not an entity he ever chose to do business with. Not that he had anything against them as such, but whenever they were involved in a case, they tended to complicate it. For one thing, they didn’t think properly. Professional people think in straight lines, the shortest distance between the two relevant points. At their best and brightest, the public think in a series of wide concentric loops, their thought processes in slow, lazy orbit around the matter in hand.
“You wanted to consult me about a problem,” Mr Gogerty prompted.
“Yes.”
Mr Gogerty closed his eyes and counted to ten. After a lifetime of dealing with the public, he’d learned to count to ten very, very quickly. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
Arguably, of course, it wasn’t entirely their fault. They’ve been trained practically since birth to live in awe of the professional classes, so naturally they get a bit tongue-tied. Understandable but annoying. “Well, it’s complicated,” the voice said. “I’m not sure where to begin, really. And I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Can we come and see you or something?”
Mr Gogerty noticed the change from singular to plural. “Better still,” he said. “It so happens I’ve got a call to make in your neck of the woods, so I’ll drop in and see you.” He glanced at his watch, automatically correlating the triplicate reading. “Would, say, half past ten be convenient?”
“Um.”
There’s a particular tone of voice, immediately recognisable, that’s only ever used by an Englishman who thinks someone’s about to try and sell him something. Mr Gogerty frowned. He didn’t want to scare this Mayer character off by sounding too enthusiastic, but the prospect of a possible new lead was flooding him with nervous energy. “Well?” he snapped. “Sorry to rush you, but I’m on a schedule.”
Mr Mayer was discussing something with an offstage female voice. He heard it hiss, “Oh for crying out loud, Don,” and that seemed to resolve the issue. “Yes, that’s fine,” said Mr Mayer. “Half ten, my place. See you there.”
If asked, Mr Gogerty would deny he was an intuitive sort of guy. Conclusions firmly based on solid evidence refined by logical analysis; that was how he liked to conduct his business. Hunches were for amateurs and charlatans. It was a bit galling, therefore, to have to admit to himself that he had a hunch – not just any hunch, a megahunch, a hunch the size of the Sydney Opera House – about this Mayer person. Defiantly, as he finished knotting his tie and doing up his shoelaces, he tried to rationalise it. The synchronicity, for one thing. He wished he’d had the presence of mind to ask Mr Mayer how he’d heard about him. Something else as well: a certain desperation in his manner, a hint of honest-to-goodness panic – understandable in a member of the public coming up against some manifestation of the world of the profession for the first time, but maybe there was a bit more to it than that. Also, he remembered, Mr Mayer hadn’t asked him what his charges were. A significant omission, but one that could mean many things.
Well, no point speculating without data. He shut the office door and locked it, sprinted briskly down the stairs into the street and hailed a passing taxi. It drove straight past him without stopping.
He frowned. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Among his many accomplishments, Mr Gogerty had a firm grasp of the Words of Command. He could raise storms and quell them, subdue lions, elephants and small, yapping dogs, bring about partial eclipses of the sun, summon lifts, attract the attention of barmen and waiters and, up till that precise moment, hail taxis. Basic stuff. Asking him to do it was like asking Gordon Ramsay to boil an egg.
No more taxis to be seen anywhere. He glanced at his watch. Wouldn’t do to be late. He started to walk, heading east, and caught the Tube at Livingstone Square. A train came along straight away, and he had the carriage to himself.
Coincidence, he thought, as the train rattled deep into the earth. Coincidence is a technical term for a pattern of events you’re too stupid to identify. He called up a street map on his phone screen and zoomed in on the immediate vicinity of Clevedon Road. There was, he felt certain, something basic and obvious that he’d been missing right from the start. Furthermore, it was a wood-for-trees sort of thing, the kind of thing he might overlook but which would be obvious to an untrained civilian. He hated those. Frowning, he turned the map upside down, and then rotated it to the left through ninety degrees.
The train stopped, the way they do. At first he barely noticed, then he told himself to be patient, then he looked at his watch. Only one dial.
Bad. He ordered himself to stay calm and looked slowly round the empty carriage. Nothing to see, no sinister shapes lurking in shadows. Everything was as normal and mundane as it could possibly be. But his hands were sweating, his heart was going like a lawnmower engine and his watch had only one dial, instead of the three it had been made with.
It was then that he remembered that the Livingstone Square Tube station wouldn’t be built until 2016.
* * *
Well, thought Mr Williams, peering through the shop window. Never been here before.
Not that he minded. It had been a very long time since he’d seen anything other than pavement, tarmac, the frontages of other shops. Today, the view from the window was of a beautiful green meadow, with a backdrop of mist-wreathed hills. He unlocked the front door and stepped outside to find himself standing on the verge of a single-track lane. Stone me, he thought, the countryside.
“Eileen,” he called out. “Come and look at this.”
She’d be pleased. She used to like the countryside, back in the days before It. That was all so long ago now that he wasn’t sure there was still any countryside left; the rate they were building houses nowadays, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if they’d used it all up. Apparently not. From where he was standing, he couldn’t see a single man-made structure, unless you counted gates and hedges. Not, he couldn’t help thinking, an ideal spot for a dry cleaners, but since they’d only be there for a day, it didn’t matter terribly much. Maybe – the idea burst in his mind like a firework – they could shut the shop and go for a walk; take a picnic lunch even, make a day of it. Could this possibly be Its way of granting them a well-deserved, much-needed holiday?
“Where’s this, then?” Eileen said.
“Dunno.” He turned and smiled at her. “Nice, though, isn’t it?”
“It’s the middle of nowhere.”
“Yes.” Suddenly his heart was full of joy and certainty. “Eileen, love, how about taking the day off ?”
She stared at him. “What, you mean not open the shop?”
“That’s right.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“We can’t.” She’d lowered her voice as if she was afraid It might hear her. “We’ve got to open the shop. Otherwise…”
He smiled. “But there’re no customers,” he said gently. “Like you said, it’s the middle of nowhere.” Now it was his turn to whisper. “Know what I think? I reckon It wants us to have the day off. Otherwise, why bring us here, where there’s no people?”
“You don’t know that,” she said. “There could be a town or something nearby.”
“Where?” He pointed through the open door. “Just think, Eileen,” he said. “We could go for a stroll, just the two of us. Fresh air. When was the last time we walked more than ten yards without coming up against a wall?”
She shrank back a step.
“I don’t like it,” she said. “It doesn’t feel right. Shut the door, for crying out loud; it’s giving me the creeps.”
“That’s just because it’s been so long,” he replied gently. “Think about it. When was the last time we went out that door and shut it behind us?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“And you know why?” Light was spreading inside his head, and he wanted to laugh out loud. “Because every time we even think about leaving the shop, some bugger comes in with a load of dirty clothes that want cleaning, so we never get time.” He stood perfectly still and quiet, as though waiting. “See?” he said happily. “No customers.”
“That’s because you still got the CLOSED sign up.”
She had a point. He reached back and twisted the sign round. “There,” he said. “Now we’re open for business, official.” He waited again, ten seconds. “Well?”
She looked up at him, and mixed in with the fear in her eyes there was hope. “You’re right,” she said. “Normally, we’d have had a customer in by now.”
“We could take a picnic.”
He’d chosen the right line of argument. Her eyes softened and widened, and she whispered, “I’ve got that cold chicken.”
“Fantastic.”
“And a bit of cheese and some salad. Oh, could we? It’d be…”
Yes, he thought, it would. “Come on,” he said. “Before anyone comes along.”
It didn’t take her long to pack the picnic basket. She didn’t even stop to do her hair or put on a face. Ten minutes later they locked the shop door behind them and set off down the lane, not looking back. In the distance sheep were bleating, birds were singing, and those were the only sounds: no subliminal rumble of traffic, no dull pulse of someone else’s music vibrating through the walls, no background hum of the machines, no gabbling voices of customers. The sun was bright and gently warm – real light, not electric; they’d forgotten how different real light was – and a faint breeze stirred the leaves in the hedge, just enough to cool them. They walked for ten minutes, following the lazy curves of the lane, and then Eileen said, “Did I remember to turn off the gas?”
“Probably,” he replied.
“Maybe we should go back and—”
“No.”
She didn’t argue. In fact, she hardly said a word. She was too busy looking about her, as if she’d never seen anything like this before. They stopped in a gateway and took in the view. Below them, a great meadow rolled gently down to a beech-shaded river, then swept back up to a distant skyline. There were cows, black and white against the green, and a red tractor crept along the top of the ridge, slow as a beetle.
She looked at him. “How long?”
“No need to rush,” he replied.
The lane started to climb, a gradient so slight they hardly noticed it. They passed a small wood, beyond which the hedge gave way to post-and-rail fencing, so they could see even further. A rabbit darted out in front of them, paused for a moment to stare, then bolted into the long grass at the side of the lane.
“This is really nice,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied.
A bend in the lane brought them to a cluster of buildings: a farmhouse, presumably, with a yard and outbuildings. They peered over a low wall and saw a big fat pig sprawled comfortably in the doorway of its sty. It reminded them both of Eileen’s cousin Norman, but neither of them said anything.
“He looks happy,” Eileen said.
“It’s a she,” he pointed out.
“So it is.”
Neither of them mentioned the fact that it was the first life form they’d been that close to in years whose washing they hadn’t had to do. It didn’t need saying. They were out of the shop and they were together and the sun was shining. Compared with those three enormous facts, anything else was so small and trivial it didn’t merit attention, except as a component of the most beautiful day either of them could remember.
“It’s so normal,” she said at last. “That’s why it’s so special.”
At which point an engine revved wildly in one of the buildings. They turned to look, and saw an elderly Ford Cortina, draped in cobwebs and plastered with mud and straw, burst through the side of a long wooden shed, scattering splinters of plank and weatherboard like confetti. It raced across the yard, swerved to avoid a parked tractor, scrunched its offside wing against a wall, backed up, hit the corner of a barn and stalled.
It appeared to be being driven by chickens.
“He’s late,” Don said nervously.
It had taken all his courage to go back to the flat. He’d been sure they’d get there to find the police waiting for them, or the army, or the SAS, or sinister men in grey suits or white coats, or, worse still, Ms Briggs.
“She’ll be at work,” Polly had pointed out.
“She might not be. She could’ve taken the day off. After all, it’s her brother. If I’d gone missing, you’d take the day off.”
“Possibly. It’d depend on how busy we were.”
How sweet, he thought. “Anyhow, he’s late,” he said, peering through the sitting-room window, which commanded a superlative view of the dustbins in the yard below. “I don’t think he’s going to show.”
“He’s five minutes late,” Polly pointed out. “Maybe he’s been held up in traffic. Look,” she added, as he started pacing again, “this has got to stop, right? This is your home; you live here. Sooner or later you’ve got to get a grip and…”
Move back in, she didn’t say. It hadn’t been easy, having her brother as a house guest. On balance, she’d have preferred rats. “That’s easy for you to say,” he retorted. “You’re not the one who murdered his next-door neighbour.”
“Don’t start that again.”
“Why not? Strikes me it’s the leading issue of the day.” The phone rang, and he jumped a foot in the air. “You get that,” he hissed. “Pretend it’s a wrong number.”
She gave him a very sour look and picked up the phone. “Hello? Sorry, he’s not here right now. Can I— Oh yes, right. Yes, got that. Thanks then. Bye.”
She put the phone down and turned to face him. He’d gone ever such a funny colour: pale pink with natural-yoghurt highlights. “Well?” he hissed.
“They can deliver your new fridge on Wednesday,” she said. “For pity’s sake, Don, don’t be such a baby.”
“Well, I wasn’t to—”
“I’m going to get something to drink.”
She went into the kitchen, leaving him sunk boneless in his chair. Magic, he thought. If it’s so much hassle, why the hell would anybody want it in the first place? She was right about one thing, though. He couldn’t go on like this for much longer – scared of the phone, driven out of his own flat, forced to live with his sister (never again, he vowed; he’d rather buy an old van and sleep in that). Maybe it was time he pulled himself together and just said no.
Polly came back into the room. “Your fridge is on the blink,” she said. “The little light’s not coming on, and everything inside is rapidly turning into compost.”
One second, then they stared at each other.
“Just as well,” Don said quietly, “they’re delivering a new one on Wednesday.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean you haven’t…”
“Last time I looked, that one was working just fine. So no, I haven’t ordered a new one.”
“Oh.” She backed up against the sofa and sat down. “That’s—”
“And before you say it,” he said angrily, “yes, I’m sure I didn’t buy a new fridge, yes, I’m absolutely bloody positive the old one was working a couple of days ago.” He froze, then lifted his head and stared at her. “What’s the date today?”
“It’s the…” She frowned. “I don’t know; I’ve lost track. Hang on, I’ll look on my phone.”
“No, don’t,” he said quickly. “I don’t think I want to know after all. Was there any beer in the fridge?”
“What? No.”
He realised what he was doing. In books, old-fashioned ones, people in a state of heightened emotion tear out their hair. He’d never known anybody do it for real, except, apparently, him. He looked at the wisps of hair he was clutching between finger and thumb. Well, he thought. Pity for it to go to waste.
“Don,” Polly said, “what are you…”
He spat on the hairs and dropped them, and they grew. When they were the size of rolling pins, they sprouted heads, arms and legs. Polly made a horrified squealing noise, but he shushed her. “Magic,” he explained.
The hairs, there were seven of them, stopped wriggling on the floor, stood up, formed a line and bowed to him. “At your service,” they chorused.
Embarrassing or what? Nevertheless, he gave them what he hoped was an encouraging nod. “Go and find Stanley Gogerty and bring him here,” he said. “Assuming he wants to come,” he added quickly, but by then it was too late. The hairs had already shot up into the air, where they hovered for a split second before zooming, rocket-like, through the window, which opened itself at the very last moment to let them through.
Polly was giving him a look that would probably have etched steel. “You said…”
