'After you, then.'
'Shut up quibbling and get through that door.'
'Fine love interest you turned out to be.'
Regalian, having screwed up what remained of his courage, opened the door with a flying kick and went through the doorway in a low gunfighter's roll, as recommended by the Israeli secret service.
The advantage of this manoeuvre is that you come Out the other side with your weight nicely balanced on both feet, shoulders square, gun at the ready in a textbook Weaver stance in position to engage targets within a forty-five degree arc of fire. It's about as good as you can get, but it still doesn't provide for all eventualities. Like, for example, there being a table in the way. When
Regalian regained control of his movements, therefore, he found himself sitting in the middle of a white tablecloth, surrounded by smashed crockery and spilt tea, pointing his gun right up the nose of a strange-looking individual in a top hat.
For a brief moment, he was at a loss, then the correct explanation registered, and he looked round for confirmation. He found it.
'Terribly sorry,' he said. 'You must be the Hatter, and you're the March Hare.'
'Yes,' replied the Hatter. 'What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?'
'Just passing through.' Regalian started to inch his way off the table, trying his best to cause as little further damage as possible. There was a sharp crunch as he knelt on a plate of cucumber sandwiches.
'This really isn't on, though,' complained the Hare. 'I mean, yes, we are supposed to be off-the-wall, kooky characters from the back lots of the human subconscious. We're quite prepared to hold our paws up to that one, sure. Still doesn't give you the right to come bursting in here trashing our crockery.' It sighed, and pointed at what was left of the teapot. 'I mean, how the hell are we supposed to get the Dormouse in that?'
'Can't stop,' Regalian muttered. 'Send me the bill for the damage, okay?' He rolled off the table, holstered the gun and stopped. 'Hang on,' he said. 'Just one thing. Am I human or a beaver?'
The Hare and the Hatter looked at each other. 'Is this one of those wordplay gags,' asked the Hare wearily, 'like the treacle-well and the best butter and so on, because if so, we really aren't in the mood.'
'Nope. Just a simple request for information.'
'Fine. You're not a beaver. Whether you're human or not is a matter between you and your author, in which I have no wish to get involved. Now piss off.'
'Obliged to you. Goodbye.'
After he had gone, the Hatter and the Hare exchanged long, significant looks.
'And we're supposed to be the goofy ones,' said the Hatter.
'That's the trouble with this business,' the Hare agreed. 'Too much amateur bloody competition. Come on, let's get this lot cleared away.'
They lifted off the tablecloth, shook it free of Wedgwood shrapnel, replaced the cups, saucers and plates, and made a fresh pot of tea. In doing so the Hatter got tea-stains on his shirt-cuffs and the Hare cut his paw. The Dormouse stayed fast asleep.
'Okay,' said the Hare, 'that's all right, then. Now, where were-?'
There was a crash.
'Oh for crying out loud,' said the Hatter.
'Enough,' agreed the Hare, dodging a fast-spreading tea-slick, 'is enough. From now on it's paper plates and a disposable tablecloth.'
'Excuse me.'
'Alternatively,' suggested the Hatter, 'we could try moving the table.'
'Excuse me.'
The Hatter scowled. 'What do you want?'
Titania stood up, brushing bits of broken china off herself. 'Sorry about this,' she said. 'We didn't realise you were here.'
'Evidently.'
'Did you,' Titania persevered, 'see a man come this way a few minutes ago? Big chap, tall, probably holding a gun?'
The Hare gave her a long look. 'We did just happen to notice him, yes. Friend of yours?'
'Yes.'
'Figures.'
'Which way did he go?'
The Hare rubbed its chin. 'Let me see,' it said. 'If memory serves me correctly, he came in where you did, landed on the teapot, crawled all over the sandwiches, stood on the sugar bowl, kicked over the cake stand and went off that way.' It pointed vaguely at a house behind them. 'What is it you people are going to, anyway? Some sort of Hell's Angels convention?'
Titania turned to Skinner, white-faced. 'Are you going to let him talk to me like that?' she demanded.
'Yes. Look,' he added, 'it wasn't my idea to have a love interest. Nobody asked me.'
'Nor me,' Titania snapped. 'Believe me, I was much happier with the damn donkey.'
Skinner nodded. 'More your type,' he said.
The Hare banged on the table with a spoon. 'Look,' it said, 'would you two clowns mind having your argument somewhere else? We're five pages behind schedule as it is.
'Sorry.' Titania crunched her way to the edge of the table and dropped to the ground. 'We'll pay for the damage, of course. Just send the bill to-'
'Get out of here, both of you, before I call the flamingos.'
'We're just going.'
This time, the Hatter and the Hare waited ten minutes before clearing away the breakages and re-laying the table. They also moved the whole shooting match ten feet to the right. Then they sat in brooding silence, not eating or drinking, just in case. There were bits of broken china in the sugar, and the Victoria Sponge would never be the same again.
After a while, the Hare looked at its watch.
'I think,' it said, 'we're probably safe now. Right, you pour the tea and I'll see what can be done with this blasted cake.'
At which point, Alice came hurrying in, ran full-tilt into the table (which was, of course, ten feet out of position) and landed face-down in the black forest gateau. There was a long silence.
'Stuff it,' said the Hare, resignedly. 'I turned down a part in Our Mutual Friend for this. I'm going home now, and if anybody tries to stop me I'll break their bloody neck. So-'
He stopped. Someone was prodding a gun in the small of his back.
'Okay,' growled the bounty hunter, emerging from behind a bush. 'Nobody moves, or the rabbit gets it.'
'I would strongly advocate,' said Rossfleisch, rather self-consciously, 'that everybody remains exactly where they are. Otherwise ...'
(This, of course, is the entirely legitimate literary device of drawing parallels. One character unconsciously echoes another, setting up a resonance that crosses over the divisions of situation and form.
In all fiction, there is a tendency to symmetry and balance. Particularly balance. For every cue, a reply. For every entrance, an exit.
And for every exit, an entrance.)
The siege had lasted three hours.
Outside the building, the usual muster of police cars, vans, men with flak jackets, men with megaphones, men with television cameras. Another day, another melodrama.
Inside the building, two men - well, two humanoids -facing each other.
Not quite in and not quite Out of the building (to be precise, wandering around in the sewers underneath the building with a torch, a portable word processor and a very wry expression, because of the smell), a novelist.
Gee, mused Hamlet, but life can be a right bugger sometimes. Now if I was really Hamlet, the Hamlet, I could launch into a bit of impassioned oratory and talk this idiot into letting me go, or at least send him to sleep, which would amount to the same thing. A bit of blank verse, a few slices of heavy-duty industrial-grade imagery, and Bob's your uncle. But no. All I can think of to say is, Gosh, this is silly, isn't it? and that doesn't quite have the necessary voltage to do the job.
Nevertheless, one can but try.
'Gosh,' he said, 'this is silly, isn't it?'
The mad scientist nodded. 'I quite agree, my dear fellow,' he said. 'Ludicrous. It only goes to show how low scientific research is in some people's scale of priorities. Still,' he added, drumming his fingers on the casing of the cassette player, 'the remedy is in your own hands. You'r
e completely bullet-proof. All you have to do is lead the way, and we could be out of here in no time at all.'
'Yes, but-'
'In fact,' said Rossfleisch, glancing at his watch, 'if this goes on much longer I may have to insist. I really can't afford to waste much more time in here. I have experiments that need constant monitoring.'
Hamlet edged closer to the window. With luck, he might just be able to jump through it before the doctor had time to switch on the tape.
'All the same,' he said, 'it's a bit thick, don't you think?
I mean to say, all this fuss and bother and sirens going and men with rifles and things. Have you seen-?'
'Please come away from the window.'
Hell! 'But like you said, I'm bullet-proof, there's no danger-'
'In case you should get the urge to jump. That wouldn't do at all, you know.'
'An. Right.'
He was just about to try another line of argument, something involving the bearing of fardels, although if anyone asked him what a fardel was he'd have to admit he hadn't a clue, when his high-performance ears picked up a strange noise. A scrabbling sound, coming from under the building.
'Hey ...' he said, and checked himself quickly. Best not to let the loony know about it, he reasoned. After all, it might be help.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Hey,' Hamlet improvised, 'did you realise you can see right across the city from here?'
Jane pushed.
Whatever it was she was pushing against, it lifted; and she found she was looking up into a room. A boiler room, by the looks of it, or something similar.
She was, of course, hopelessly and irretrievably lost. When she'd been standing at the edge of the police cordon, staring at the building in which she knew Hamlet to. be trapped, and wondering what her hero would do if he were here, it had seemed the most logical thing in the world to head for the nearest manhole cover and drop in.
That had been some time ago.
Since then, she had reassessed her priorities. Yes, she still wanted to find Hamlet and rescue him. But more than that, more than anything else in the world, what she really wanted to do was get out of the drains and have a long, scented bath lasting maybe three months.
She hauled herself up out of the sewer, closed the cover behind her and sat down on a wooden crate to rest and think about what to do next. While she was thinking, she switched on the WP and waited for it to warm up.
It started to beep.
It wasn't the ouch-you're-hurting-me beep she got when she did something wrong, or the hurry-up-I-want-more-paper beep. It was somehow more friendly; no, that wasn't the word. More positive. It was a come-on-don't-dawdle-it's-this-way sort of beep, and it gave her the impression that the machine wanted to tell her something. If it had been a dog, she realised, the WP would be rushing round her feet with its lead in its mouth.
'All right,' she said, 'which way?' Beep. Beepeepeepeepeep. BEFEP!
'Sorry?'
Beepeepeepeeepeepeepeeepeeeeep!
'I'm terribly sorry, I don't under-' BEFEREEFEEFEEP!
'Oh, right, up the stairs. Got you. And then what?' Beep. Beep. Beep.
'You mean a fire door.' Beeeeeeep. Beepeep. Beep.
'What, because of the snipers? Yes, good point.'
Beep.
'Yes, all right, I'm coming as quick as I can.'
She scrambled to her feet, hefted the word processor and started to jog up the iron spiral staircase that led out of the boiler room. Halfway up she stopped and frowned.
'Just a minute,' she demanded. 'Who the hell are you and how come you can-?'
Beep.
'Oh I see. Sorry. You did say left at the top, didn't you?'
Beeeeeeeeeeep.
'No, I haven't the faintest idea what a fardel is, but I promise I'll look it up as soon as we get home. Now, is it left or isn't it?'
Beep.
Hamlet held his breath. Any moment now. Then straight through the window, hit the deck, remember to roll, and...
'Who were you talking to just now?' the Doctor asked quietly.
'Me?' Hamlet swallowed hard. 'Oh, nothing, just soliloquising. You know, thinking what a rogue and peasant slave I've been all these years.'
The Doctor glowered at him. 'There's someone coming, isn't there?' he said accusingly. 'Someone you can talk to without actually speaking.'
'Gosh,' said Hamlet, 'you are clever, aren't you? I wish I was as brainy as you, it must be wonderful to be so-'
'Behind the curtain, quickly,' the Doctor snapped. 'Come on, jump to it. I'm afraid I'm in no mood for silly games.'
Behind the curtain. Oh joy! 'Must I? What about the snipers? You said just now-'
'Do as you're told!' the Doctor growled, and he brandished the cassette recorder significantly. Masking a grin the size of Yorkshire, Hamlet nodded and stepped behind the curtain ...
A hint for aspiring character-nappers. Stop and think what a curtain is. Reflect for a moment what happens when a character steps out in front of a curtain, and what also happens when he goes behind one.
Some curtains are better than others. The best sort are fireproof and required by law to be raised and lowered in the presence of five hundred empty seats and the ice-cream queues. Next best are the thick, dusty red velvet jobs with gold tassels. At a pinch, though, any curtain will do. Or even, if the worst comes to the worst, an arras.
Suddenly, Hamlet knew exactly who he was and what he was supposed to do next. With a brave flourish he drew the sword that was now hanging by his side, identified the bulge in the curtain and lunged with all his might. The correct line was, 'A rat! A rat!', but he was in a hurry.
The sword-blade bent like a bow and snapped, just as Hamlet winked out of existence and dematerialised in a shower of golden sparks.
On the other side of the curtain, Dr Rossfleisch stared in complete bewilderment at the filing cabinet, which had six inches of rapier blade protruding through the side of the drawer marked 'N - P', and so entirely failed to notice the door opening, Jane coming through, or the torch landing hard and square on the back of his head.
Hamlet opened his eyes.
He expected to see the ramparts of Elsinore. He expected to hear the sound of frantic voices and running feet, the flicker of torches in the courtyard below, the confused echo of shouted orders.
No such luck.
What he did see was a dark, rather cluttered room, furnished in the late Victorian style, with dark, solid furniture, gas lamps and VR picked out in bullet holes on the far wall. In the corner, some obscure scientific apparatus hiccupped quietly to itself. The walls were lined with leather-bound books. There was a healthy fire crackling in the grate, and on the mantelpiece a slipper stuffed with tobacco.
'Remarkable,' said a voice from the armchair.
He looked up, and saw a long, thin man with a sharp nose and a high forehead, wearing a silk dressing gown and smoking a big, curved pipe. He had a horrible feeling he knew who it was.
'From your appearance,' said the man, 'I deduce that you are somehow connected with the theatrical profession. The traces of makeup just below the hairline and the rather eccentric boots are conclusive on that point. From your general demeanour, I gather that you left the place you have just come from in something of a hurry, probably,' he added, after a moment's consideration and a puff of blue smoke, 'in fear of your life. The colour of your hair and the set of your cheekbones imply Scandinavian descent, and I would venture to suggest that you are a Dane. The manner in which you arrived here is also,' the man said, and smiled crookedly, 'most suggestive. However, the hilt of a broken sword in your right hand puts the matter beyond any semblance of doubt. Your Highness,' he added, with mock deference. 'And how stand matters at Elsinore?'
Despite his other preoccupations, Hamlet was impressed.
'Cor,' he said. 'You worked all that out just by looking at me?'
The man nodded. 'Elementary, my dear Hamlet,' he said.
In the hallway of the
house there was a looking-glass.
Regalian, out of breath from running fast, stood in front of it and stared. Yes, he said to himself, a great big mirror with an ornate frame hanging over a mantelpiece. I remember now. This is exactly what it looks like.
'Your hair needs combing,' observed the Scholfield.
'Apart from that, what's the big deal? I thought we were meant to be-'
'Shut up,' Regalian ordered. 'We're here.'
'Yes, I know we're here,' the gun replied. 'But I thought we wanted to be somewhere else.'
Regalian smiled thinly and pointed. 'Somewhere else is that way,' he said.
'Don't be silly, that's just a wall,' the gun said. 'Maybe you're thinking of ghosts. In case you weren't aware, you're not a ghost. Trust me, I know about these things.'
Regalian thought for a moment, and then started to unbuckle the gun belt.
'Here,' whined the gun, 'what the hell do you think you're-?'
'I've got to go back and get the others,' Regalian replied, laying the belt on the mantelpiece. 'You can stay here. Won't be long.'
The gun squirmed in its holster. 'Here, you can't do that. What are you doing that for?'
'Because,' Regalian snapped, 'I've had enough of you to last me a trilogy, that's why. Now shut up or we'll leave you behind.'
'Eek!' The gun wriggled and, with a frantic effort, managed to slide out of the holster, edging its way in millimetre stages towards the mirror. 'You can't leave me here on my own,' it wailed, 'they're all nutcases in this book, I'll end up as a paperweight.'
Regalian reached out to replace the Scholfield in its holster but somehow it eluded him and made a phenomenal spasmodic leap, two inches at least, towards the surface of the glass. It miscalculated, hit the frame and cocked itself. Regalian grabbed again - it was like trying to catch a goldfish in a bowl - missed and connected with the trigger. There was a loud bang.
'Strewth!' Regalian exclaimed.
The recoil must have edged the gun right up against the glass, because the gun wasn't there any more. But its reflection in the mirror was.
'Hey,' Regalian shouted, 'how did you do that?'
My Hero Tom Holt. Page 14
