by Tom Holt
Cue Theseus, whose name is probably Max. He opens his mouth . . .
‘You bitch!’ Regalian shouted, and ran.
Where to, he wasn’t sure, Fiction or Reality, all one big happy . . . He stopped running, his breath coming hard. No point running. Main Street.
What had the man said?
All you gotta do, son, is fight and lose.You know that. Fight and lose.
He looked up; and he was facing Max.The clock started to strike twelve.
Max, in black, two guns on his belt, looking more like Jack Palance than Mr Palance could ever hope to do even if he took lessons.
The tumbleweed wobbled and fell over. Far away, the swinging door of the saloon banged in the wind. A bell rang. In the background, the wedding party stopped to watch; otherwise, the street was deserted, the way Main Street always is.
All you gotta do is fight and lose.
Yes! Restore Reality, have the hero die at the hands of the villain. Fat chance.
‘Okay, stranger,’ Max drawled. ‘This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.’
Basic authorship theory.
The hero always wins. He has no choice.
There are times when this can be a confounded nuisance.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Regalian replied. ‘Tell you what, you can have the whole of the top bit, from the bank down as far as the general store and the watering trough, and I’ll even throw in the big open space behind the smithy. You could build a whole factory estate on that if you wanted to.’
Max didn’t reply. On his right hand he wore a skintight black leather glove. It was hovering about an inch and a half above the pearl grips of his Peacemaker. He grinned.
And the realisation hit Regalian like an express train hitting a cow on the line; he’ll draw and I’ll be faster, and I’ll kill him. And that’ll mean Fiction has won, and there’ll be no more Reality, ever. Even if he manages to shoot me, I’m still a sodding vampire, I can’t die. Not that it’ll come to that, of course, because I’m the hero. And the hero’s always faster on the draw. Always.
From the direction of the upper saloon balcony, he heard the grinding click of a Winchester rifle being cocked. Of course, he realised, the sniper; the one who always gets shot and falls through the balsawood railings. Only he’s not here to kill me, he’s here to make sure, in case I miss . . .
But I can’t.
I can’t, dammit. If I turn through a hundred and eighty degrees and shoot straight up in the air, the bullet will fall on his head and kill him. If I somehow manage not to shoot at all, he’ll miss, his bullet will ricochet off a wagon wheel and come back and hit him straight between the eyes.
This is the way the world ends; not with a whimper, but a bloody loud bang.
And . . .
Max went for his gun. And before he’d cocked the hammer, before the Peacemaker was even clear of the holster, the Scholfield was out and cocked and levelled at his heart and—
There was absolutely nothing Regalian could do. He felt his finger tighten on the trigger, and the sear broke and (Max’s gun was out now, and his thumb was on the hammer; too late, too late, too late) the hammer fell.
The Scholfield cleared its throat.
It had only one line, but it was a honey. When the film was over, it would be the line everybody would remember.
‘Click,’ it said.
The bullet from Max’s gun - sterling silver, ninety-nine-point-nine per cent fine - hit Regalian smack in the heart. He jerked, hit the ground like a sack of potatoes and lay still.
Max screamed, turned, raised the gun to put it to his head and fire it into his own ear. He pulled the trigger, missed; and the bullet went past him and hit Skinner on the saloon balcony. Crash! went those balsawood railings. Thump! went that heavy body.
Horrified, Max tried to back away but there was nowhere for him to go. He threw the gun from him. It hit the ground, the impact jarred the hammer, a shot rang out; the bullet ricocheted off a wagon wheel, missed Hamlet’s head by a fraction of an inch, sang off the tin-plate sign over Barker’s Store, smashed through the window of the saloon and hit the pianola, which immediately began to play Buffalo Girl.
With a sickening crunch!, the bomb in Hamlet’s chest exploded.
Max whimpered and stared at his right hand. The black glove had gone. He glanced up. The rim of his hat was now white.
‘No!’ he screeched. ‘No, please!’
He sank to his knees; and Jane, making her way sedately towards the train that sat puffing quietly like a contented pipe-smoker at the end of the street, stepped over him without looking down.
Hamlet woke up.
He was sitting at a table. On either side of him was a child; to his right, a boy of about twelve, and to his left a six-year-old girl, with pigtails and freckles like a foxed mirror. In front of him was an empty plate. Everyone else’s plate was heaped with slices of grey, sad-looking meat and vegetables boiled into semi-deliquescence.
‘Why isn’t Hamlet having any?’ demanded the girl.
On the other side of the table, a harassed-looking woman who was obviously Mummy made a little Give-me-strength sighing noise.
‘Hamlet isn’t hungry, dear,’ she said.
‘I think Hamlet’s very hungry,’ replied the girl. ‘I think Hamlet should have some too.’
‘Actually,’ Hamlet said, and then stopped. It suddenly occurred to him that he was invisible.
Except possibly to the girl, who turned and gave him a long, serious stare. ‘Don’t you?’ she said.
‘Actually,’ Hamlet replied, ‘I’m not all that hungry, thanks all the same. Look, can you actually see me?’
‘Of course I can,’ replied the girl.
‘Sarah,’ said Mummy, ‘I think we’ve had enough of Hamlet for today, so just eat up your nice tea and then you can watch television.’
‘Can they see me?’
‘Of course not,’ said the girl. ‘They’re silly.’
The sour-looking bald man who was palpably Daddy clicked his tongue and scowled at Mummy. ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘I said to you, Don’t encourage the child, it’ll get out of hand.’
‘I think Hamlet’s gone to bed now,’ said Mummy loudly. ‘You can say goodnight to him later if you like.’
The girl shook her head. ‘Hamlet hasn’t gone to bed, have you, Hamlet? He says he’d like some food now, and ice cream for afters.’
‘No, really, it’s very kind of—’
‘Another peep out of you, my girl,’ growled Daddy, ‘and it’s straight up to your room for you. Understood?’
‘She’s crazy,’ said the boy to nobody in particular. ‘My teacher says people who talk to people who aren’t there are crazy and ought to be locked up, otherwise they turn into serial killers and go around stabbing people.’
‘Mummy, Kieron’s being horrible again, tell him to stop.’
‘Kieron . . .’
‘Central Casting? Hello? Is anybody there? Look, what the bloody hell . . . ?’
‘Mummy, Kieron’s upset Hamlet and made him cry. Make Kieron go to his room, Mummy.’
Yes, hello? Now what?
‘What the devil is this?’ Hamlet growled. ‘And how do I get out?’
Some people are never satisfied.
‘I think Sarah ought to go to her room,’ said Kieron, pouring gravy into the ravine between the mashed potato mountain and the cabbage swamp. ‘She’s the one who’s gone crazy and started talking to people who aren’t there.’
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
I mean, we find you a perfectly good job . . .
‘Perfectly good job? You call being some brat’s imaginary friend a perfectly good job? In your dreams, chum.’
It’s all we’ve got going at the moment. Either that or a bit part in a Mister Blobby cartoon. Take your pick.
‘Kieron, leave Sarah alone. Oh God, now look what you’ve done. Go and fetch a cloth.’
‘Mummy, Kieron’s spilt gravy all over H
amlet’s sleeve. That’s not fair, Mummy.’
‘Did you say a Mister Blobby cartoon?’
Yes.
‘On reflection,’ said Hamlet slowly, ‘and looking at it, you know, holistically, I can see where the character has potential. Okay, a limited audience, but certainly potential. I’ll take it.’
That’s all right, then. Ciao.
‘Kieron? Kieron!’
‘Mummy, Hamlet’s gone ever such a funny colour. Do you think he’s going to be sick?’
Titania woke up.
What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? It was, she realised, her voice. And the man standing over her, smelling of vinegar, sweat and something extremely pungent which might well have been jute, had a long, hairy snout and enormous ears. Hey ho, back to work again.
Now what, she asked herself, the hell was all that about?
(And, in the back office at Central Casting, Julie turned to Christine and asked exactly the same question.
Christine hesitated. She could explain how, in order to revitalise the imagery and counterpoint the structural device of the Bottom/Titania sequence, which was just beginning to lose a teeny bit of its bite after three quarters of a million performances, it had been decided that it’d be fun to do to Titania something quite like what they’d been doing to Bottom all these years, only more so; that it would undoubtedly have a tremendously positive effect on her future interpretation of the role knowing exactly what a pillock one feels when one gets caught up in a divine comedy and put through Aristotle’s mangle; how it was a combination holiday, training course and potential-unlocking role-playing scenario all rolled into one. Or she could basically ignore the question.
‘Dunno,’ she said accordingly. ‘Bit of fluff on the terminals somewhere, I suppose.’
‘Poxy thing.’
‘Yeah.’)
The Scholfield woke up.
The ceiling had turned, it noticed, to glass; and the floor was green baize. And someone had tied a ticket to its trigger guard reading $10 garanteid one carful oner.
‘Where am I?’ it murmured.
‘Hogan’s Ironmongery and Provisions,’ replied a battered-looking Remington. ‘Main Street. Dodge City. Second hand, sorry, I beg your pardon, pre-owned section, main display case. Where’d you come from, then? Last time I looked, you were a ratty ole Webley with a knackered cylinder axis pin.’
‘I heard that.’
‘Oh, he’s still here, then. Don’t mind him, he’s British, they’re all a bit snotty.’
‘I just got here,’ murmured the Scholfield thoughtfully. ‘Are we for sale, then, or what?’
The Remington snickered quietly. ‘Could say that,’ it replied. ‘More like Special Offer, actually. Ole man Hogan, he’ll be giving us away free with them colourfast cotton-rich shirts next.’
‘No demand,’ added a nickel-plated Colt Navy in the corner of the case. ‘Quiet town, this.’
‘Dodge City!’
‘Armpit of the goddamn galaxy,’ sighed the Remington. ‘When they’re not in church they’re sitting at home embroidering samplers. No injuns. A body could rust right through and nobody’d care a blind cuss.’
With a terrific effort, the Scholfield moved its barrel thirty thousandths of an inch to the left, until it was able to see the date on the copy of the Dodge City Tribune which someone had left lying on top of the case. June 15th, 1883.
Marvellous, muttered the Scholfield to itself, absolutely marvellous. Thanks to my quick thinking, ingenuity and imaginatively flexible approach to the rules of heroic fiction, there’s a happy ending. All the rest of the gang are probably on some amazingly wonderful new assignment somewhere as a reward, and what do I get? I end up in a dusty case in a junk shop in a, open quote, quiet town, close quote. Comes of being a gun, I suppose. They never stop and think a gun’s maybe got feelings too. Drop us; do we not break? Take us apart; do our springs not fly across the room and disappear forever behind the sofa? Has not a gun screws, pins, cylinder latch bolts . . . ?
Just then the bell over the shop door rang, and a tall, dark man with long black hair and a bushy moustache strode across the threshold. The storekeeper looked up from his ledgers and switched on a retailer’s special smile.
‘Good day,’ he simpered. ‘Mr Hickock, ain’t it? How’re you settling in down at the Old Parsonage?’
‘Swell,’ replied the stranger. ‘Say, I’m interested in buying a pistol. You got any?’
The Scholfield held its breath . . .
Skinner woke up.
The first thing that he noticed was that his coffee had gone stone cold. The second was the broken window.
‘Goddamn kids,’ he muttered.
Among the things he didn’t notice was the lack of a Scholfield revolver in his desk drawer, largely because (as things now stood) he didn’t expect there to be one. He’d never owned a Scholfield. Firearms in general made him nervous, which was one of the reasons why he’d given up writing cowboy stories years ago and now confined himself to wholesome tales for kiddies with a high fluffy-bunny-to-page ratio and no sex and violence whatsoever.
More money in it, too.
Under his elbows was the keyboard of his trusty Remington typewriter, and he observed with a scowl that, by falling asleep on it, he had caused it to type oghurqwoieh , which wasn’t the sort of word his readership could relate to. Most of his readers had difficulty with horse and cow, let alone oghurqwoieh. He reached for the typewriter rubber.
And then he remembered his dream. Weird, he told himself as the mental review ended, wasn’t the word for it. One hell of a dream; and a tiny part of him that hadn’t quite got used to the idea that any book by A. Skinner had to have at least five furry animals in the first two paragraphs made the tentative suggestion that he might care to write it down while it was still fresh and use it for something. Lord only knew what, but something.
Well, quite. A dream in which he’d travelled to a strange and terrifying place where the characters in books had all come to life; in which he had a short but extremely instructive liaison with the Queen of Elfland before being chased about by mad gunmen, and . . . Hell, there was more, but it was leaking out like ink from a broken fountain pen. It was gone. Pity.
He was hungry. He could murder a big plate of stinging nettles . . .
Stinging nettles?
Hay?
Carrots?
He shook his head, finished rubbing out oghurqwoieh and phoned the glazier.
Jane woke up.
Third time this week she’d fallen asleep in front of the screen; and this time, her forehead had hit the keyboard, producing a three-inch row of asterisks. She deleted them, and glanced up to see where she’d got to.
Ah yes. The bit where Regalian gets killed.
She hesitated, and frowned. Hang on a minute, she thought, he’s the damn hero. What do you think you’re . . . ?
Her fingers started to move across the keys. This was an unusual occurrence in itself, since Jane was a lifelong member of the two-fingers-and-keep-looking-down school of typing, and whenever she tried to touch-type her words ended up more full of buckshee consonants than a watermelon is full of pips. Without slowing down production in any way, she glanced up at the screen to have a look at whatever the devil it was she was churning out.
‘But why?’ Jane demanded. ‘Why does it have to end this way, just when we’ve finally found each other?’
A faint smile drifted across the hero’s pain-scoured face. ‘Even love,’ he said, ‘cannot bridge the gap between dimensions . . .’
‘Oh for crying out loud,’ Jane said, and pressed the delete key. Nothing happened. Her left hand was still typing. She couldn’t make it stop.
‘When I shot Max,’ Regalian continued, his breath coming in short, painful gasps . . .
Just a cotton-picking minute. He didn’t shoot Max, it was the other way round. I think. And who the hell is this Max guy anyhow?
‘I put everything back the way it should have been. N
ot the way it would have been if Skinner hadn’t shot him in the mirror the first time, because that couldn’t have happened in the first place if something wasn’t badly wrong. I don’t . . .’ He broke off as a horrible spasm of coughing racked his tortured frame . . .
‘No, please,’ Jane said. ‘You can’t make me say tortured frame, whoever you are, it’s just not fair.’
‘Maybe,’ said Jane, ‘Skinner was never meant to write that book.Wouldn’t that account for it?’
Regalian shook his head. ‘I don’t suppose anyone will ever know the real reason,’ he said. ‘All I know is, we’ve got back to Reality but it’s changed. Things aren’t the way they were, but somehow I know they’re as they should be. And that includes my death, and the two of us never . . .’
‘Hush,’ said Jane softly, ‘don’t say any more, just lie still. I’ll . . .’
‘Hey,’ Jane objected aloud, ‘knock it off, sister. I want to know what’s been going on.’
She caught her breath as Regalian shuddered and closed his eyes, his face white with pain. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you can’t die, not now, not like this.’
‘This is how it has to be,’ Regalian answered faintly. ‘Not for us, but for everyone else.Without sacrifice there can be no Jane, is that you, why are you making me say all this bloody pompous bullshit, I wouldn’t be seen dead making a deathbed speech anyway . . .’
‘Regalian!’ Frantically, she clasped his head to her bosom, but too late, too late. He was gone.
‘Regalian!’ she murmured softly through her tears. ‘My hero!’
Jane leaned back in her chair and sat on her hands. For a fraction of a second there, she’d almost believed . . .
No, the hell with that. Too many late nights, too much strong coffee. She pressed BLOCK, then DELETE. Nothing happened.
The bloody thing was just out of warranty, too.
With a sigh, she reached forward, pulled the disk out of the machine and switched off. The screen went blank . . .
