Just this once, the gun made no reply. Cursing under his breath, Regalian reached into the looking-glass, scrabbled for the revolver and flicked it back through the glass .
And found himself looking at his reflection in a mirror. But his reflection was holding a Scholfield revolver and he wasn't. And then there was just the Scholfield, lying on the mantelpiece on the other side of the glass.
'Oh hell,' Regalian whispered.
He reached out and put his hand on the surface of the mirror. It felt smooth, cold and depressingly solid. Which is, of course, exactly how mirrors do feel, in the real world.
'Marvellous!' he growled. 'Oh that really is completely fucking marvellous. What the hell am I supposed to do now?'
He turned and looked around, examining the room. It was large, well-furnished and cosy. A glass-fronted bookcase by the fireplace housed a complete set of the works of Carson Montague, also known as Albert Skinner. Oh Christ!
For every entrance an exit. For every exit an entrance. He turned back, but the mirror was gone. In its place was a window, with a bullet-hole in it, and in his hand he noticed the Scholfield, with a little wisp of smoke drifting out of the gap between the cylinder and the barrel; and, beyond the window, a man in dungarees shaking his fist and pointing at a shattered cucumber frame.
'Freeze!'
Skinner did as he was told. In the big looking-glass directly in front of him, he could see the bounty hunter's face; not to mention the long, black Colt revolver in his right hand.
Christ, he said to himself, I know you. Goddammit, yes!
'Okay,' the bounty hunter continued. 'Turn around, real slow, and keep your hands where I can see them.
And if you was having any fancy ideas about making a grab for that gun on the mantelpiece ...
'The thought,' said Skinner truthfully, 'never crossed my mind.'
'Hoy,' Titania hissed under her breath. 'Who is this idiot?'
Skinner sighed. The only thing that puzzled him was why he hadn't thought of it before.
'Titania,' he said wearily, 'I'd like you to meet my hero. Slim, this is Titania, Queen of the Fairies.'
'Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am.'
'I last saw Slim,' Skinner went on, in a mirror. Well, a window, to be precise, but it was being a mirror at the time. I shot him. I think that's why I'm here. Isn't that right, Slim? I have the horrible feeling,' he went on, 'that he's my alter ego. You know, the part of me I don't like. In fact,' he continued, 'he's probably the reason why I used to find it difficult to look myself in the eye in the shaving mirror every morning.'
'Gosh,' Titania said. 'It's a funny thing, but when people give me these simple, logical explanations I always end up more confused than I was to start with. What does he want, exactly?'
Skinner shook his head. 'Whatever it is,' he said, 'I don't want to know about it. Hey, Slim.'
'Yeah, partner?'
'What the hell do you want anyhow? I mean, there's got to be a reason, hasn't there?'
Slim laughed, briefly and without humour. 'Reckon so,' he said. 'Now why don't you-all just use your brains while you still got them?'
'Hell, Slim, you know me,' Skinner answered. 'Never was any good at plots.'
'Sure enough,' the bounty hunter replied. 'It's 'cos I ain't through with you yet, bud. Not by a long way.'
He raised his hand, pointed the Colt and fired.
It would be an exaggeration to say that the whole of Skinner's life flashed before his eyes, because he'd had a long and interesting life and there simply wasn't time. He'd got as far as his sixth birthday party, when Jenny Mason ate too much jelly roll and was sick on Mom's new carpet, when he realised he was still alive.
He turned round. The bullet had hit the looking-glass dead centre, and all that remained of it was a few splinters of glass tucked into the edge of the frame.
CHAPTER NINE
Jane let herself in through the front door, dumped her portable WP and sagged into an armchair. It had been a long, long day.
In retrospect, the police had been quite reasonable considering the fact that she had offered no explanation at all for her presence in the building apart from saying that she'd been researching for a book down in the sewers and had got lost. They had left her with the distinct impression that she'd been suffered gladly, but they'd let her go. Eventually.
As for what had happened to Hamlet, she had a theory about that, and she was horribly afraid it was correct.
Still, she reassured herself as she put the kettle on, if I'm right it does mean he's back more or less where he belongs; or at least, back with his own kind. Kind of his own kind. In any event, beyond her help, which was all that mattered as far as she was concerned.
When the coffee was made, she broke into a new packet of chocolate digestives, curled up on the floor in front of the fire and reached into her bag for the book she'd been reading on the train. Not exactly her usual thing, Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle; but it had been the only book on the bookstall that didn't have a naked female on the cover, and she had to admit, she'd forgotten how readable the old things were, once you'd got into them.
The book fell open at the place she'd left off. She read:
'One moment,' said I. 'You have, no doubt, described the sequence of events correctly, my dear Holmes, but there is one point you have left unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in London?'
Before Holmes could reply, the young stranger leaned forward, his face a mask of the most intense emotions. 'Hey, Jane,' he cried, 'is that you? For fuck's sake, woman, where the hell have you been all this time, I've been trying to reach you for bloody hours. Look, you've got to get me out of here, they're all a bunch of raving nutcases and there's this bloody great dog, you would not believe the size of this sodding dog, and it jumps up and puts its horrible paws on your chest and licks your damn face off, so get your bum in gear and find some way I can- By all that's marvellous, Mr Holmes,' he exclaimed, 'I can scarcely believe
Jane closed the book with a shudder. Her first reaction was, No, the hell with it, it's out of my hands now. Let the little creep find his own way home; or he can stay there, get a job and a mortgage, just like the rest of us. She threw the book into a corner, folded her arms and tried to think of something else.
Tried, and failed. But somehow, in some weird system of logic that she couldn't hope to understand, he was her responsibility. Because, if she didn't help, nobody else would. Because ... Because.
Hell!
Later, though. First, she was going to have a bath, a toasted ham sandwich and a good night's sleep, and that wasn't negotiable.
And, in due course, she slept.
There you are. Where have you been, for Chrissakes? You think it's easy getting through on this frigging thing?
Still fast asleep, she sat bolt upright in bed and swore. 'Not you as well,' she shouted. 'Go away!'
The dream of Skinner clenched its fists in rage. You goddamn lazy bitch, it ranted, I'm stuck in this lunatic asylum and you want to go back to sleep? Jesus, lady, if you don't get me outa here, I will personally make sure you never sleep again. You hear me?
'Hold on, now,' Jane mumbled. 'I thought all that was under control. Haven't you been through the looking-glass, then?'
Oh sure. I'm just haunting your dreams for something to do. Of course I didn't. That lousy stinking wimp of a hero of yours ...
'Don't you talk about Regalian like that.'
Why not? The spineless little geek just pissed off and left us here. Just...
Us?'
Yeah, us. Titania and me. And now we're...
'What, the Titania? As in ill-met by moonlight, proud? The one with the donkey?'
Yeah. Why don't you listen when people tell you things?
'What's she doing there, for God's sake?'
I don't know, do I? Skinner exploded. It's your goddamn book!
Jane lay down again, turned her face to the pillow and growled like a tiger. Th
e dream stretched out an incorporeal hand towards her shoulder, but he was, after all, only a dream.
'Look,' Jane snarled into the pillow, 'get this straight, you third-rate hack. This - is - not - my - book. Understand?'
The hell with you too, sister. Just get me out of here, okay?
Look, I gotta go, there's a queue of goddamn chessmen outside this booth and they're getting impatient. You know where I am. Now get on with it.
The dream faded; but before Jane could wake up, another face floated in front of her mind's eye. It was vague and hard to make out, and somehow it wasn't the face it should have been, because it looked uncannily like Skinner, only it wasn't. To be precise, it looked like Skinner's reflection in running water.
Hello? Can you hear me?
'Regalian! God in heaven, you gave me a start. What are you-?'
Listen, I'm in trouble. You've got to find some way to get me out of here.
This time, Jane laughed so loud she woke herself up.
The theory about the US Library of Congress in Washington DC, which nobody seriously believes, states that, because the library holds a copy of pretty well every book there is, it's theoretically possible to break out of the real world and into fiction through a fault-line somewhere in the boiler room; the argument being that:
(a) truth is stranger than fiction
(b) there's a lot of fiction about nowadays which is so weird that even Aleister Crowley would have to stop halfway through, go back and read the first chapter again before he could work out what's supposed to be happening; which is a pretty tough act to follow
(c) the idea of there being a hole in the reality-fiction interface in the basement of an American public building is so profoundly kooky that it must, a fortiori, be true.
It should be added that no university, even in California, has ever been persuaded to fund further research into the theory, and there is therefore no published data; and the theory's proponents have to rely on anecdotal evidence of maintenance engineers meeting strange, unreal people wandering about when they go down to fix the heating system. These tales can, of course, be easily explained by the fact that it's quite normal to meet strange, unreal people in the basements of government buildings. Who do you think works in these places, after all?
Above all, you wouldn't catch a sane, rational person like Jane Armitage believing a cock-eyed theory like that in a million years. Absolutely not. No way.
'Excuse me,' said Jane. 'Can you tell me the way to the boiler room, please?'
'Sure, no problem. You go down this corridor until you come to a turning on your left. Follow that down about, oh, two hundred yards, and you'll see a door on your right. Go through that, down a flight of stairs and you're there. Okay?'
'Thanks,' said Jane. 'Um ...
'Yes?'
'Can I have your autograph, please?'
'Huh?'
'It's not for me, you understand, it's for my cousin's nephew.'
The helpful man frowned for a moment; then he took the pen and paper Jane had thrust at him, scribbled 'James T. Kirk' and handed it back. Then he sauntered away down the corridor, turned right and was gone.
And sure enough, there it eventually was; or at least there was a door marked:
BOILER ROOM
and underneath in smaller letters:
Authorised personnel only
No smoking
For every entrance, there must be an exit; and vice versa.
Jane hesitated, her hand half an inch from the door-handle. She had, she knew, done many bloody silly things in her life, but never before an impossible bloody silly thing, and she was a great believer in sticking to what she knew best.
On the other hand; for every entrance there must be an exit, and vice versa, and she'd just seen a character walking away down the corridor. Was he, she wondered idly, an exit or an entrance? Depends which side of the door you're on, presumably.
She turned the handle and pushed open the door.
There are agents - people who find you a job, take their ten per cent, and then move on to something else - and there are agents.
Into the latter category fall the superagents, who feed your cat while you're away, insist on being present at the birth of your child and talk you down off the window ledge when the Boston Globe points out the fact that you appear to fall asleep halfway through the second act.
Beyond the superagent is the hyperagent, and there is only one of these. Her name is Claudia, she is extremely selective in who she represents, and above all she gets results. If it wasn't for Claudia, the showbiz legend runs, Jesus Christ would have lived to a ripe old age doing stand-up, weddings and the occasional Bar Mitzvah.
In the course of an extremely long career - other agents never seem to find the time to take a holiday; Claudia keeps promising Death they'll do lunch just as soon as her schedule allows - she has represented a few select characters, most of whom have gone on to become the focal points of major religions.
One of these is Polonius.
Polonius? Yes, Polonius. And she's working on it right now. When Bill Shakespeare originally wrote the play, her client was one of the bit players who come on at the end and say nice things about Fortinbras. By the year 2140, if everything goes to plan, they're going to be forced to change the name of the show to Polonius, Home Secretary of Denmark. Watch this space.
En route, however, there are bound to be hiccups. For example
'Then find him!' Polonius yelled into the receiver. 'Now!'
'Hey, Pol, cool it, will you?' Claudia cooed. 'We're doing everything we can. It's only a matter of time ...'
'Yeah,' snarled the courtier, 'sure. Meanwhile, I'm the one who's being made to look a complete idiot. You've no idea how embarrassing it is, standing behind that bloody curtain and nothing happening.'
'Okay, right. Now...'
'I have to pretend to have a heart attack just to get off the stage. You've got to do something about it. The rest of them are starting to get depressed as well. The night before last, in fact, there was only me and the ghost who bothered to turn up at all. And I do my best, but you try keeping a packed house at Stratford entertained with four hours of I Spy With My Little Eye Something Beginning With G, and see how you get on.'
'Point taken, Pol. And as soon as we've got anything, I promise you, I'll let you-'
'Yeah. Well, mind you do. Goodbye.'
The line went dead. Claudia replaced the receiver, chewed the end of her pencil thoughtfully for a moment and reached for her address book.
One of the good things about having a first-class quality clientele is that, when necessary, you can get one client to do a favour for another. She found the number, picked up the phone and dialled.
'Hi, Sherlock, it's me. Look, I need a ... You've got him with you now? That's absolutely wonderful, Sher, but how did you know... ?Yes, of course, you would, wouldn't you. Yes, elementary, quite. Okay, Sher, keep him there, I'll be right over. Ciao.'
Jane blinked.
Oddly enough, what disconcerted her most of all was the smell. Not that it was unpleasant; in fact she rather liked it. It reminded her of second-hand bookshops, the sort of establishment where the proprietor drifts around the place in an old cardigan and carpet slippers mumbling to himself and can never quite bring himself to believe you want to buy a book. It was, she realised, the smell of old paper.
Which was odd, because she wasn't in a library, or a paper mill, or even a second-hand bookshop. In fact, she appeared to be standing in the middle of a .
Yes. Let's not pussyfoot. The whole essence of being a writer is the ability to select the exactly appropriate word. A battle.
A battle, what was more, in the freezing cold snow. About three feet from her ear, a whacking great cannon went off, making the earth shake. The noise hit Jane like a hammer, and she felt her knees sag. Before she could recover, another cannon exploded on the other side of her, and the shock pushed her back on to her feet again.
Nobody seemed
the least bit interested in her, and this came as something of a relief, since she had no right to be there whatsoever and explanations are. always so embarrassing.
The battlefield was occupied by two opposing forces, as is often the way with battlefields. The part she was in was swarming with men in blue coats, tall black hats shaped like chimney-pots, and fancy white leggings that looked excruciatingly uncomfortable. They seemed to be talking in French. In fact, they were swearing a lot. The main topic of conversation appeared to be how, once they got to Moscow, they were going to drink a great deal of alcohol and try and make friends with the local womenfolk. There was also a lot of technical stuff about the loading of cannons, which was beyond the limits of Jane's schoolgirl French and was probably only of interest to artillerymen anyway.
Right, Jane thought. The Napoleonic wars. Snow. Eighteen twelve. Moscow. Oh bugger.
War and Peace. A fine short cut this had turned out to be.
This is the police. We have the wood surrounded. Throw out your gun and let the Piglet go, and nobody's going to get hurt.
The electronically amplified voice died away on the gentle breeze, and all that could be heard in the Hundred Acre Wood was the twittering of songbirds and the gentle humming of the bees. Skinner cringed.
'It's all my fault,' he muttered. 'How could I have been so goddamned stupid?'
'There, there,' Titania replied soothingly through a mouthful of acorns and honey, 'don't blame yourself, we all make mistakes.'
'Sure.' Skinner nodded miserably. 'And the biggest mistake I ever made in my whole life was listening to you.'
'But..
"Tell you what," you said. "Let's retrace our steps," you said. "Let's go back into the river-bank, and see if we can't get into Winnie the Pooh from there, I bet there'll be a way out there somewhere," you said. And now look ...
Titania frowned dangerously. 'I admit,' she said, 'that was my idea. I don't seem to remember anything about breaking into Piglet's house and taking him hostage.'
My Hero Tom Holt. Page 15
