In Your Dreams

by Holt, Tom

  Paul could believe that, though it wasn’t a comforting thought. ‘I just wish,’ he said wearily, ‘that I didn’t have to get involved, that’s all. I’ve got enough problems as it is— I don’t need things like that in my life.’

  ‘Chicken,’ Mrs Tanner’s mum jeered. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are. Most men your age, they’ve got really scary stuff to contend with: mortgages and pensions and commitment and the patter of tiny feet. All you’ve got to worry about is dragons and the Fey.’

  She dropped Paul off in the street outside his flat, and he managed to stop her following him in without using actual violence, which was progress of a sort. It was only when he’d kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the sofa that he began thinking about some of the things he’d seen and heard that evening. Somehow, the absence of Sophie was worse than ever; he wanted to shout at her for the things she’d said, or burst into tears and snivel, but he couldn’t. When he climbed into bed and turned off the light, he felt for a moment as though he was back in the dungeon cell; except that this time he was alone. He stuck it as long as he could, then switched the light back on and looked round for a book. Unfortunately, the only one he could reach without getting out of bed was the copy of Beowulf that Benny had lent him, and he really wasn’t in the mood. He got up and made himself a cup of tea; no sugar left, and the milk had things floating on the top. Some hero, he thought.

  Some time after two a.m. he fell asleep on the sofa and dreamed restlessly about three-headed dogs and maroon Volkswagens, and a hospital ward full of sleeping children who wouldn’t wake up.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Mr Carpenter,’ said Countess Judy. Delivered with the full force of the eyes, the most devastating modulation of the voice, it should have been enough to freeze him like a packet of sweetcorn. It explained why the Fey were reduced to fighting civil wars, since no external enemy would dare take the field against them. It was the Goddess in her triple aspect as Headmistress, Unapproachable Ice Princess and Aunt. It didn’t work.

  ‘But you can’t just leave them there,’ Paul protested, so loudly that they could probably hear him in the corridor. ‘You’ve no idea what that place is like—’

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I have. I’ve been there myself.’

  That was enough to shock him into silence. ‘Oh,’ he said, after a brief toe-curl of acute embarrassment; then he rallied and continued: ‘In which case, you know how really, really bad it is in there.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Apart from her mouth, the Countess didn’t move at all. Come to that, Paul could never remember having seen her blink. Not once. Like a painting. ‘Which is why I sent you to rescue Mr Shumway. And now,’ she went on, calm as a sea of mercury, ‘you tell me that you were captured and barely managed to escape. Since you are the only member of the pest-control team still at liberty, we would seem to have run out of options. I take it that you’re not volunteering to try again.’

  She had him there; because, he realised with a pang of shame, nothing on earth would make him go back. The full force of it had only hit him when he’d woken up that morning; it had been dark, and for a split second when he opened his eyes and couldn’t see anything he thought his rescue had just been a dream and he was still down there. He’d been so scared, he hadn’t been able to move for about fifteen seconds.

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t be up to me,’ Paul said, defensive as a child who knows it’s in the wrong. ‘I’m only a trainee, I haven’t got a clue how you’re supposed to go about breaking out of magic dungeons. But you, and Mr Suslowicz, and Professor van Spee—’

  Still Countess Judy hadn’t moved. At any other time, that would’ve been enough to freak Paul out on its own. ‘You should know by now,’ she said, ‘that heroism is entirely species-specific. Humans can be heroes; so, under certain circumstances, can dwarves, like Mr Shumway. Giants, goblins and the Fey, however, are explicitly excluded. On account,’ she added, with the ghost of a smile, ‘of being officially classified as creatures of darkness; in other words, the enemy. That rules out Mr Suslowicz, Mr Tanner and myself; and Professor van Spee is four hundred and sixty-two years old, and suffers from chronic asthma. It’s you or nobody, Mr Carpenter. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do. Mr Shumway knew the risks; likewise Mr Wurmtoter, although I notice you haven’t mentioned him. In case you’d forgotten, he too is missing in action. As for Ms Wurmtoter – your car – she was a fully qualified practitioner before her transformation, and doubtless entirely aware of the perils of her chosen career. Professionals, Mr Carpenter, all three of them. We should honour their sacrifice and move on.’

  Paul’s anger didn’t shrivel away, as it would normally have done. To his great surprise, it crystallised into cold, hard determination, and he hid it in the back of his mind, where even the Countess couldn’t see it. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I see. Fine. I’m sorry for coming barging in here like this . . .’

  A very slight shrug, maybe one and a half degrees per shoulder. ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Carpenter. Your reaction was entirely understandable and shows a laudable concern for the well-being of your colleagues. We pride ourselves on our team spirit here at JWW. And now,’ she said, ‘I must ask you to put your recent experiences behind you. As will be obvious, the loss of our pest-control department and our cashier places us in a most unfortunate position. We shall, of course, start advertising in the trade journals for suitable replacements; in the meanwhile, however, I’m hoping very much that you will agree to mind the store, as I believe the expression is.’

  It took a couple of seconds for that to sink in. ‘Me?’ Paul whispered. ‘Do the heroism and be the cashier? But I can’t. I don’t know how—’

  Countess Judy raised her hand. ‘My partners and I have every confidence in you,’ she said. ‘Mr Shumway was of the opinion that you were competent to practise as a pest-control operative, or else he’d never have released you early from your in-service training programme. We shall, of course, not undertake any major new commissions in that department until a full-time replacement has been found. However, I shall expect you to service all existing contracts in the interim, and deal with emergencies for our regular clients. As for the cashier’s job, I appreciate that you will require an assistant; I thought perhaps that our new receptionist, Ms Horrocks, might be suitable. She has broad experience of office procedures, according to her résumé, and I’m sure Mr Tanner’s mother would be prepared to cover for her on reception. I’m aware that officially she’s on maternity leave, but if she’s fit enough to break into the dungeons of the Traumburg, she ought to be up to sitting behind a desk for a week or so.’

  The outright refusal died on Paul’s lips like a microwaved slug. Working with Melze, the two of them together . . . Admit it, he told himself, it’d be fun. It’d be – well, like old times, when he was sharing an office with Sophie, and that had been enough to make him want to get up and go to work in the mornings, even though he knew perfectly well that what awaited him there was weirdness, goblins, bewilderment and fear. And Sophie – as he admitted it to himself, he squirmed – Sophie had never been half as much fun to be with as Melze, she’d never really been his friend – On the other hand, even he wasn’t so naive as to think that Countess Judy would suggest something that he’d like without some ghastly, exploitative ulterior motive. On the third hand (pretty soon his train of thought was going to have more hands than Shiva, but what the hell) did that matter? Did it hell.

  ‘All right,’ Paul said. ‘Yes, I think that’s a great idea. After all,’ he added, ‘it’s only going to be for a week or so.’

  ‘Maybe a little longer,’ Countess Judy said softly. ‘Clearly we’ll be taking our time, making sure that we find the right people. You can’t rush really important decisions, like who you’re going to be working intimately with for the foreseeable future.’

  Paul looked up and stared at her, then looked away in confusion. She had a way of saying intimately that made him feel like a twelve-year-old boy trapp
ed in a changing room with thirty extremely tall strippers. ‘Um, yes,’ he said. ‘I think you’re absolutely right there. So, let’s do that. Fine.’

  There was triumph and malice in her smile; not bad going, to fit so much into something so small. ‘Perhaps you’d do me a favour and sound Ms Horrocks out on the idea,’ she said. ‘Though I’m sure she’ll have no objections.’

  Well yes, Paul thought, as he hurried down the corridor towards the front office. Yes, I’ve been suckered into doing two difficult, horrible jobs, for no extra money. And yes, she was blatantly obvious about it, using Melze to bribe me with. Cool.

  (And Benny? And Monika, and even Ricky Wurmtoter, who was as weird as a blenderful of hummingbirds but who’d always been sort of nice to him? He shooed the thought away with the fly swatter of fatalism; if Countess Judy reckoned nothing could be done for them, she ought to know. They’d just have to stay there; locked away, along with Sophie, in the dungeon in the basement of his memory where he stashed all the inconvenient guilt. I can’t believe I’m doing this, he told himself; but himself was remembering the last time he’d had lunch with Melze, the way she licked crumbs off the corner of her mouth, and thus wasn’t in the mood to listen.)

  She was answering the phone when he got there; she looked up and smiled, then carried on telling whoever it was that Mr Tanner was out of the office at the moment but would call him or her (or, since it was Mr Tanner and possibly a personal call, maybe it) right back as soon as he returned. Paul stood fidgeting, unable to decide on the exact choice of words; and as he waited, it suddenly occurred to him that maybe Melze wasn’t going to be thrilled to bits and pieces at the thought of being stuck in the cashier’s office all day, or at the prospect of working ( intimately ) with him. Hadn’t thought of that; and neither, now he mentioned it, had Countess Judy. But it was a possibility, a distinct possibility—

  ‘Hello, you,’ Melze said, as the phone clicked back on its cradle. ‘Haven’t seen you to talk to for ages.’

  She was smiling, and the warmth in her eyes hit Paul like a chocolate bullet. He’d seen smiles like that (mostly aimed at other people; pointed at him usually only when he was asleep) but this one was right up close, you could toast muffins over it. ‘Been busy,’ he mumbled. ‘Bloody work, you know. How are you getting on?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s all right, I guess. I mean, everybody’s really nice and I’m not rushed off my feet and stressed out, it’s okay. But – well, it can get a bit boring sometimes. I’m not complaining, but it’d be nice if there was a bit more to it, you know?’

  Paul gawped at her for at least two seconds before he managed to figure out how his voice worked. ‘Odd you should say that,’ he mumbled. ‘How’d you fancy helping me out in the cashier’s office?’

  She squeaked. ‘Great,’ she said, ‘I’d really like that.’ Then she frowned, very slightly. ‘What’re you doing working in there, though?’ she said. ‘I thought you were supposed to be learning about glamour and stuff.’

  ‘Change of plan,’ he croaked. ‘Benny Shumway’s – on holiday for a bit, so I’m covering for him; and Countess Judy thinks I could use some help, which is absolutely true—’

  Melze’s eyes sparkled; they were saying, ‘Thank you for choosing me,’ and of course he couldn’t tell her otherwise without sounding totally rude and ungracious. ‘Fantastic,’ she said. ‘Who’ll be doing reception instead of me? Oh, let me guess.’ She twitched her nose. ‘Old Red Eyes is back.’

  Mr Tanner’s mum, who’d snatched Paul out of the dungeons of the Fey; he really ought not to snigger about her behind her back. He sniggered. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Rather her than me. When do I start?’

  Melze was good at it, too, though Paul was hardly surprised at that. She knew which box file the pink requisitions had to go in after they’d been stamped, and how to reconcile the green inter-office transfers with the end-of-day printouts, and which forms to use to record unused second-class stamps left over at the end of a VAT quarter. When he’d asked her how the hell she knew about that, she just grinned and said, ‘Magic.’

  Paul spent the whole of the morning in the cashier’s office. He justified it to himself by saying that he was hiding there, in case some client turned up downstairs wanting a dragon slain or a vampire staked; but he’d never had much luck with lying, least of all with lying to himself. Just spending time with her was wonderful, in a way that being with Sophie had never been. He felt relaxed, unguarded, happy; he could almost be himself and not have to worry about how woefully inadequate that made him feel.

  At five to one Melze shut the ledger he’d ostensibly been explaining to her (though the flow of information had been going in entirely the opposite direction) and said firmly: ‘Lunch. Not that Italian sandwich place. I’m buying.’

  ‘Fine,’ he murmured. ‘Where were you thinking of?’

  She pursed her lips slightly. ‘Didn’t you say there’s a great little Uzbek place just round the corner? The one you went to with Mr Wurmtoter.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Yes, but it’s fiendishly expensive and really crowded, you haven’t got a hope of getting a table unless your grandfather booked one for you on the day your father was born, and I can’t remember offhand where it is, either—

  ‘I like Uzbek food,’ she said briskly. ‘Let’s go.’

  Paul led the way to the best of his recollection, until eventually Melze grabbed his sleeve, took him back the way they’d just come, and kept going until they got there. As he’d anticipated there was a queue almost out into the street, but she swept on past it, straight to a corner table, where the head waiter was waiting to take their order.

  She ordered behili palov for two with kalinji bread and a pot of Tashkent black tea, and while they were waiting for it to arrive, she brought Paul up to date with her life story. Most of it, apparently, seemed to be about boring jobs and useless boyfriends; it surprised Paul that someone who had so much going for her should have had such a rotten time. Surely, if you were good-looking and bright and fun to be with, shouldn’t the world do exactly what you wanted it to, like a well-trained dog? That had always been an article of faith, as far as he was concerned; his life had been a rolling sequence of disasters because he was an unsatisfactory mess, and if only he’d been better-looking/smarter/ cooler/more tanned/better dressed, things would have been entirely different. He hadn’t objected to the system particularly, once he’d figured out how it seemed to work. On the contrary, knowing he’d never really stood a chance had been a comfort, an excuse for not trying. But if there was no such system, no such rules, things suddenly became alarmingly arbitrary; and by implication, if he hadn’t managed to get the things he wanted, it was somehow his fault, rather than the responsibility of his parents and remoter ancestors, for landing him with a set of genes and a station in life that meant there was no point in bothering to aspire— While these fraught issues were whizzing through his mind in a sort of frantic Brownian motion, he kept nodding and making little sympathetic noises as Melze embarked on an account of yet another disaster. Apparently he was doing the right thing, because as she talked, she was looking at him with a warm, thoughtful glow in her eyes, like a predatory angel.

  ‘And basically, that’s it,’ she said; and Paul, looking up with a mouthful of behili palov, concluded that the briefing was complete. ‘So,’ she went on, ‘that’s all my gory details. How about you?’

  He shrugged and swallowed rice. ‘Oh, nothing to tell, really. I mean, like I told you, I’ve been here about nine months now and I suppose I’m sort of getting used to it. Split up with my girlfriend just before you arrived – she reckoned that she couldn’t stand the sight of me any more, and I guess I can see her point. That’s all, really.’

  Melze pulled a face. ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ she said. ‘Like, what are your plans for the future, where do you reckon you’re going, all that sort of thing. And don’t say you don’t know
, because I don’t believe you. I know what you’re like, always the quiet one with loads going on just below the surface. For instance, I don’t believe you just sort of drifted into this magic thing by sheer fluke and then found out you had the gift or whatever you call it, straight out of the blue. Something like that, you must’ve known all along that you were different, special.’

  The correct answer was, of course, ‘No.’ It wasn’t the answer that Paul gave. Instead, he found himself hinting, implying, suggesting; in fact, if the impression he was giving was anything to go by, he was a pretty enigmatic and fascinating piece of work. Effective magic, commented a tiny little voice somewhere in the back of his mind; see, you can do it if you try. He was telling her what she wanted to hear, though, and surely that was a good thing.

  And then there came a moment when neither of them were talking. His hand was on the table, he wasn’t sure how it had got there; and slowly, deliberately, she reached out her hand toward it. He saw it and looked at her; she was staring, no, gazing at him, and he was caught in her regard like a rabbit in headlight beams.

  The pain shot up from his wrist into his elbow, from there to his shoulder. It was like various sorts of pain he’d actually experienced, and others he’d only imagined – toothache, crushing, slicing, burning, stinging, electrocution, tearing, stabbing. It punched the air out of his lungs and stopped his heart for a second, until a reflex cut in and made him pull his hand away. The pain stopped immediately, though the shock lingered. His hand and arm were numb for a couple of seconds, and then the pins and needles set in.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Melze said, and her voice was slightly panicky. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Paul snapped. ‘I don’t— Sorry, I just got this pain in my hand, like a twinge or something.’ Inside him, a little voice protested that if that had been a twinge, the First World War had been a slight difference of opinion. ‘Cramp,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’