The Better Mousetrap

by Tom Holt

  Which left her in an awkward position, with only one way out. She took a deep breath.

  ‘I work for Carringtons,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Excellent firm,’ he said. ‘By the way, how’s old Colin Gomez these days? He did a marvellous job for us once. Infestation of pixies at our Swansea plant. Had ‘em all cleared out in no time, we hardly lost any production.’

  She thought about the pixies. The recommended method was cyanide gas. ‘It was Mr Gomez who sent us,’ she said. ‘On behalf of your fellow directors.’

  She’d hoped that that would be enough to send the penny tumbling through space. But he just looked mildly puzzled. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘That’s right. They hired us to kill you.’

  Mr Pickersgill froze; all apart from his eyes, which turned round and huge. Magnified by his glasses, they looked like fried ostrich eggs.

  ‘Because,’ she went on, ‘you’re a troll. And, as you probably know, trolls count as supernatural vermin, which means they can be killed-well, any time, so long as you obey the regulations.’ She paused, to give him a chance to digest what she’d just said. He seemed to be having trouble with that.

  ‘Killed,’ he repeated. ‘Heavens.’

  ‘Now,’ Emily continued, and to her surprise her voice sounded level and calm. ‘You can tell by the fact you’re still alive that-well, I’ve got a few issues with this assignment.’

  ‘Issues.’

  She nodded. ‘The way you people run your company is none of my concern,’ she went on, ‘but I’m assuming they want you out of the way for some other reason besides you being a—’

  ‘Quite. Yes.’

  ‘Fine. On the other hand-‘ (help me out here, damn you) ‘- you’ve got to appreciate my position. If I go back to my bosses and tell them I didn’t do the job because I don’t like the thought of killing someone because they’re a nuisance to their business colleagues, I’ll quite probably lose my job. And-no offence my career means more to me than your life does.’

  ‘Perfectly reasonable view,’ Mr Pickersgill mumbled. ‘Perfectly reasonable.’

  ‘So.’ She was making terribly heavy weather of all this, she knew. ‘I’m asking you if you can think of any way I can not kill you, without disobeying a direct order and being told to clear my desk by half past five.’ Pause. ‘I’m open to any sensible suggestions, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to hurry you along a bit. I’m sorry, but I’ve got a whole load of paperwork to catch up on when I get back to the office—’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Mr Pickersgill held up a doormat-sized hand. ‘I do apologise. This has come as something of a shock, but I think I can see a way. Would you mind very much waiting here for a moment, while I see to something? I’ll get Denise to bring you in some coffee and biscuits.’

  The biscuits turned out to be ginger nuts and Rich Tea. Emily watched Erskine eat one of each and not die of arsenic poisoning, then helped herself. The coffee was good, too-proper filter coffee, not instant.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Mm?’ she replied with her mouth full.

  ‘With all due respect,’ Erskine said, and you could believe he actually meant it, ‘should you have done that? I mean, warn him and—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘No, I should’ve let you chop his head off with the magic sword. Then we’d have got the work order signed by one of the other directors, and gone back to the office. But I didn’t feel like doing that, so I didn’t.’

  ‘Ah.’ Short, thoughtful silence. ‘This is one of those ethical things, isn’t it?’

  Emily sighed. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Actually, you may want to write this down. Ready?’

  Notebook out. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Good. In this business,’ she said slowly, ‘we don’t do ethics. As far as we’re concerned, ethics is southern East Anglia pronounced with a lisp. Got that? You can call it Spitzer’s Law if you like. By the same token, we don’t go around scragging company directors, either. It’s—’ She paused, trying to think in Erskinean terms. ‘It’s beneath the dignity of our profession. We have an understanding with the Mafia. We don’t rub out people’s business rivals, they don’t tamper with the fabric of perceived reality. It’s perfectly simple. And it’s I after E in “perceived”.’

  ‘Right.’ Erskine reversed his pencil, erased a few letters with the rubber end and made the correction. ‘So what do we do?’ Emily frowned. Good question. ‘We drink our coffee,’ she said.

  There was a long, pensive silence after that. It lasted until the door opened and Mr Pickersgill came back in. He was smiling and holding an envelope. There was blood all round his mouth.

  ‘I’ve discussed the matter with my colleagues,’ he said, ‘and we won’t be requiring your services after all. I’ve signed a cheque for your wasted time and call-out charges; I’ve left it blank, perhaps Colin Gomez would be kind enough to fill in the correct amount. Please give him my regards, by the way.’

  He put the envelope on the desk. There was a big red thumbprint on the back flap.

  ‘Your colleagues—’ Emily said quietly.

  Mr Pickersgill burped and apologised. ‘My former colleagues,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much for your sensitivity and discretion. I’m sure we’ll be doing business again in the near future.’ He took the handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed at the blood around his mouth. ‘I’ll see to it that the new board puts all our supernatural work your way in future, it’s the least I can do.’ He winced sharply and put a hand on his chest. ‘Dear me,’ he added, ‘indigestion. My doctor did warn me about eating between meals.’

  Erskine, she noticed with a small degree of pleasure, had gone ever such a funny colour. ‘That’s all right, then,’ she said. ‘We’ll be getting back to the office. Nice to have met you.’

  ‘The pleasure was all mine.’ Mr Pickersgill beamed at her. ‘Let me show you out.’

  He led the way back to the front office. Emily followed, with Erskine trailing nervously after her, hugging the golf bag in his arms like a baby. At the street door she shook hands once again with Mr Pickersgill, trying hard not to see what was under his fingernails. Then he reached inside his mouth with a forefinger and thumb and tugged at something. She heard a brittle snapping sound; then he reached for her hand and pressed something in it. ‘A small token of thanks,’ he said. She hesitated, then glanced down. It was slightly damp, about the size of the top joint of her thumb, and it sparkled. ‘They grow back,’ Mr Pickersgill assured her with a pleasant smile. Then he noticed Erskine, who was standing there looking fuddled. ‘And one for your colleague, of course,’ he added.

  ‘Really, you shouldn’t,’ Emily started to say, but by then Mr Pickersgill had broken off another tooth and pressed it into Erskine’s hand. He stared at the troll as though he’d just kissed him on the mouth, then looked at what he’d been given, yelped and dropped the golf bag. It came open at the neck, and the magic sword slid out like a landed fish.

  Mr Pickersgill looked at it with an expression of extreme distaste. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, in a slightly strained voice. ‘For the— Well, you’d have had to, I can quite see that. Allow me,’ he added, as Erskine went to retrieve it. He stooped down-an impressive performance, given his size-and took hold of the sword’s hilt. It screamed.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Emily heard herself say, as embarrassment flooded her mind. ‘They’re programmed, you see, and technically you’re a—’

  The scabbard fell off the blade, and it twisted in Mr Pickersgill’s hand until he dropped it. The sword fell to the floor, nicking his trouser leg on the way down. Mr Pickersgill hopped out of the way with an agility hard to credit in such a large creature. ‘I do apologise,’ he mumbled, his eyes fixed on the sword, which was still quivering a little as it lay on the carpet. ‘Thoughtless of me, I do hope I haven’t damaged it in any way. If there’s anything like that, you must send me the bill, I insist.’ The sword shuffled half an inch towards him across the car
pet, its edges shining blue. Magic swords will cut through anything, but they’re criminally lacking in tact.

  ‘Put it away,’ Emily hissed, but Erskine was frozen solid. She darted forward and grabbed the sword like a mother pulling her child out of a fight. She was prepared for it, but even so; as her hand closed round the hilt, she was filled with an urgent need to strike, send the troll’s head spinning off its shoulders— Without stopping to think, she snatched up the scabbard and ran the blade down into it. She felt the sword shiver, then relax.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mr Pickersgill was saying. ‘Now you’ve cut your finger. Lorraine, plasters and disinfectant, quickly, please.’

  News to her; Emily glanced down and saw a little red line on the pad of her middle finger, like a paper cut. Instinctively she put the finger to her lips and licked it. ‘Please don’t bother,’ she said loudly and clearly. ‘It’s just a—’

  But the receptionist was already there, with enough medical supplies to equip a hospital. Emily gave up, and held her hand out obediently. As she did so, she had the strangest feeling. It was very faint, and it was definitely centred in her hand, though gradually starting to creep up her arm; but the nearest thing she could compare it to was the wonderful clarity of hearing you get just after you’ve had wax syringed out of your ears. Silly, of course, because you don’t hear with your fingers—

  ‘There you are,’ the receptionist said brightly. ‘Good as new.’

  That was what she said, and Emily heard it perfectly clearly, every word. At the same time, though, just as if someone else was speaking simultaneously, she could just make out the same voice—

  -Load of fuss about nothing, as if I didn’t have enough to do—

  - only very quiet, just on the threshold of her hearing. She stared at the receptionist, who smiled pleasantly, gathered up her first-aid stuff and went back to her desk.

  ‘Thanks,’ Emily muttered. ‘Now we really must be going. Goodbye, Mr Pickersgill. Come on, you.’

  ‘Goodbye, Ms Spitzer.’ Horrible, vicious creature. Get rid of it, make it go away. ‘Safe journey.’ Hope it falls under a bus, serve it right, vicious, nasty. ‘See you again, I hope.’

  By the time she’d reached the pavement outside, her head was spinning, and her whole body felt like one enormous, bloated ear. She staggered across to a lamp-post and leaned against it, desperate to get a grip. Voices in her head; they warned you about that in college. An occupational hazard, particularly in pest control. If you’re lucky, they go away again after a bit, but whatever you do, don’t listen to them or do what they tell you, and most especially, don’t be tempted to raise an army and drive the English out of Aquitaine— But no, it wasn’t that kind of voice. It wasn’t telling her to do anything; it wasn’t really a voice in that sense. It was more like-yes, that was it; more like the simultaneous translations they have at the UN or Brussels, but without the slight time-lag. When the receptionist and Mr Pickersgill had spoken to her, she’d heard them twice; the words said out loud, and a translation—

  Oh, Emily thought. That.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Erskine was peering into her face, intruding unbearably into her space. ‘You’re acting very strange. Shall I call an ambulance?’

  ‘Shut up, Erskine.’ Yes, she knew exactly what this was. She’d read about it, years ago, in mythozoology. Except, she hadn’t… She screwed up her eyes, as though peeling onions. The sword. She’d cut herself on it, after it had fallen on Mr Pickersgill’s leg and cut him first. Could it really have happened like that? It seemed so unlikely. But the effect; she most definitely wasn’t imagining it.

  Bloody hell, she thought. ‘Taxi,’ she snapped. ‘Come on, don’t just stand there. And watch what you’re doing with that stupid thing.’

  Erskine scuttled away, leaving her feeling weak but somehow-lightened, as though someone had turned the gravity down by a third, just for her. Because if she was right, and it was what she thought it was … She blinked three times in a row. It was amazing. People had died trying to achieve what she’d just done by accident, and just think of the advantages.

  And the drawbacks, she reminded herself. The drawbacks.

  Erskine had caught a taxi; it was sitting purring at the kerb, its door invitingly open. She managed to wobble across the pavement, nearly banged her head on the door frame, and flopped into a wonderful, comfortable seat. She heard the door slam, and the driver said ‘Where to, miss?’

  (Nice arse, tits too small, bit on the chunky side but— )

  ‘Cheapside,’ she snapped angrily. ‘And you’re disgusting.’

  ‘Oh. Right you are, miss.’

  The taxi jolted along steadily for a while. Emily didn’t feel like talking, and Erskine just kept turning the diamond tooth over and over in his hand.

  ‘Is this worth a lot of money?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Do you think-I mean, are we allowed to keep them? Or—’

  ‘Depends,’ she said, too weary to bother looking at him.

  ‘Ah. I mean, depends on what?’

  ‘Oh whether you’re stupid enough to tell anyone you were given it.’

  ‘I see.’ Another pause. ‘But don’t you think we should?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right.’ And another pause. ‘I’m sorry about what happened. With the sword.’

  Emily sighed. ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘Just try not to be so clumsy next time.’

  ‘I will, definitely. Um, what did happen with the sword?’

  ‘What? Oh, I see what you mean. Well, basically, it’s allergic to trolls. And goblins and dark elves and vampires. Instruments of darkness generally. It’s so the bad guy can’t take your sword off you in a fight and use it against you. Assuming the bad guy isn’t human, of course.’ She grinned. ‘That’s the sort of assumption they tended to make, back when magic swords were in fashion. Naive, or what?’

  ‘I understand, thank you.’ Erskine took a long last look at his diamond and put it away. ‘That troll,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Pickersgill.’

  Nod. ‘Did he—?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What, all of them?’

  Emily shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Presumably he took out enough of them to make sure he had the majority shareholding. He may have had to leave one or two alive to make up a quorum at a board meeting, so he could vote himself managing director. I’m afraid I don’t know much about company law.’ She frowned. ‘Have you got a problem with that?’

  ‘Me? No. Well.’ Erskine pulled a thoughtful face. He looked like someone on his way to a fancy-dress party, dressed as Thoughtful. ‘I mean, he’s a troll, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But, on the other hand, the other directors can’t have been very nice people, or they wouldn’t have wanted to kill him just to get control of the company.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which is what he just did,’ Erskine said. ‘By killing them.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Emily hesitated. Yes, but they started it. Yes, but he was polite and nice. ‘Look, the customer’s happy and we got paid. Nothing else matters. All right?’ He looked at her as though she was a burning bush.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  Aaargh, she thought.

  The taxi stopped. She let Erskine pay, since she didn’t particularly want to communicate any further with the driver. ‘I’ll fill out a yellow chit so you can get it back off expenses,’ she told Erskine as they walked into the front office. ‘Would you mind doing the report? I’ve had about enough for one day.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you for trusting me with the responsibility.’

  ‘My pleasure. Now put that stupid thing back where you got it from.’

  Erskine trotted away, and Emily wandered slowly back to her room, closed the door behind her and dropped into her chair. There was the usual wadge of While-You-Were-Out notes and yellow stickies on her desk, but she couldn’t be fussed to look at them.

&nb
sp; The advantages, she thought. And the drawbacks.

  The phone jarred her out of her contemplations. She snatched at it and snapped, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Call for you.’ Aren’t we in a mood, then?

  ‘Fine. Who is it?’

  ‘Frank Carpenter. About Mr Sprague.’

  Oh, she thought. ‘Put him through.’

  ‘Connecting.’ What did your last slave die of? Click, then Frank’s voice, saying ‘Hello.’

  Emily froze. If she was right about what had happened to her at Mr Pickersgill’s office, she really didn’t want to talk to Frank right now. It could be—

  ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  ‘Sorry, can’t talk now,’ she said quickly. ‘Meet me after work?’

  ‘Yes.’ Yippee!

  Oh God, she thought. ‘Where?’

  ‘That pub. Westmoreland or something.’

  ‘Cumberland Arms?’

  ‘Yes. Quarter past six. Bye.’

  Emily rammed the phone down as though plugging a leak with it. Hell, she thought, this is going to be so embarrassing. Unless, of course, there was some way of controlling it.

  There had to be. She jumped up, pulled Bowyer & Leong’s Foundations of Magic Procedure & Practice off her bookshelf and dived into the index. Telepathic communications, reception, suppression of: 12, 78, 566, 819ff.

  When she’d read all the references, she put the book back, sat down again and said ‘Bugger,’ out loud and very clearly. There was a procedure, right enough. Basically, it consisted of saying nursery rhymes over and over in your head when you didn’t want to hear what someone else was thinking. With enough practice, the book reckoned, it became automatic, so you didn’t have to do it consciously. Eventually you’d be able to filter out what you wanted to hear and ignore the rest. Eventually.

  Emily looked at her watch. Quarter to five. She didn’t have time for eventually.

  There must be another way. She tried the New Oxford Thaumaturgy, which said the same as Bowyer & Leong. Likewise O’Shaugnessy’s Theory & Practice and Morrison’s First Steps In Commercial Sorcery. With a sigh, she turned to her last remaining resource, Magic For Dummies. It too recommended nursery rhymes, though in rather less formal language …