'Yes, but-'
'And you've already done that,' Mr Laertides went on, 'so that's the hard part out of the way. The rest's easy, it's just telling a few lies over and over again until eventually they stop being lies and become true. Now, how much trouble could that be, compared with dying and coming back to life again?'
For a long time - long enough to make a sandwich or wrap a small parcel - Paul said nothing. Then, in a little tiny voice, he asked: 'What did you have in mind?'
'Ah.' Mr Laertides's grin was back, gaping in his face like a volcanic fissure. 'Now we're getting somewhere. Here's what I had in mind. You come to Brighton with me and help me out with a few small jobs - nothing boring or yucky, not even doing any magic; just sitting in a corner during meetings making notes, running a few errands, stuff like that. In return, when I get back to the office on Monday, I'll tell them all you died. Yet again. Had a relapse of death, and this time you've copped it, you aren't coming back. And don't worry, they'll believe me, because when they go round to your flat they'll find a body, and it'll be you, and they'll have an inquest and then a funeral, and everything completely legal and above board. Or that's what they'll believe, at any rate. Just another basic glamour, really.'
Paul looked at him. 'You can do that?'
'In comparison,' Mr Laertides said confidently, 'you need two first-class honours degrees and a doctorate to fall off a log. Trust me,' he added with a grin, 'that's my job, it's what I do. So there you'll be, dead, no more boring, dumb-looking loser you. Then, after a decent interval, like maybe a week, I'll tell Dennis Tanner and the rest of them that I've found someone to take over your job. Enter the new you; and you carry on where you left off, but without the incredibly debilitating handicap of being you. What do you reckon? Sound good to you?'
'But-' Paul frowned. His mind was gridlocked with ideas, objections, worries, practicalities, trivia. 'Why have I got to go back to JWW?' he said. 'If you're so smart, can't you see I hate it there?'
'Only because you're a pathetic loser,' Mr Laertides pointed out. 'New improved Paul Carpenter will get on like a house on fire, probably realise what a really wonderful place it is and how incredibly lucky he is to work there. Besides,' he went on, 'the whole point of this gig from where I'm sitting is to get you to come and work for me. It's the price of the deal, take it or leave it. Up to you entirely.' Before Paul could stop him, he'd reached over, grabbed Paul's wrist and held his palm outwards in front of his nose. 'Your choice,' he added, as Paul gawped at the reflection suddenly showing there. 'You could be him, or you can stay being you. No rush to decide, the offer stays open for the next three seconds.'
Paul froze, counting in his head, one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi. One second left to make a choice like that, it was crazy. He couldn't be expected to make a decision like that in less than a fortnight. Three-Missi- 'Well?' asked Mr Laertides.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was bizarre, attending his own funeral. Being the kind of pathetic loser he'd always been, Paul had imagined what it might be like many times. Each time, he'd pictured a small (a pathetic loser, yes, but a realist) crowd of family and so-called friends, all torn apart with guilt and shame because they'd failed him, never understood him, been horrible to him and now it was too late to set things right. He'd pictured them over and over again, heads bowed as they stood in the rain beside his open grave - obviously it'd have to be raining - looking down at their shoes, miserable and wet, while his disembodied spirit floated above the treetops, sticking out its ectoplasmic tongue at them. It had always been a strangely comforting fantasy, which was why he'd kept coming back to it.
Instead- 'People keep staring at me,' he hissed at Mr Laertides, as they filed out of the crematorium into the painfully bright sunlight.
'They know it's me. I'm going to be in so much trouble-' 'B ails,' Mr Laertides replied, without any visible lip movement. 'None of them have ever seen you before, and they're all wondering who you are. Probably they think you're my boyfriend.'
'What? At my own funeral? That's so-'
'Keep your voice down,' Mr Laertides growled. 'Who's that large woman with the luminous hair? Her over there, just ducked behind the laurel bushes for a smoke.'
'Who? Oh, that's my mother.' Paul frowned. His shoes were too tight for his new feet. 'It was nice of her to come, though, all the way from Florida. Pity Dad couldn't make it, but apparently he's in some posh golf tournament, and the quarter-finals are tomorrow. Bastard,' he added.
'You should go and talk to her,' Mr Laertides said. 'Offer her your sympathy at her sad loss. Who's that girl standing on her own at the back? Ex-girlfriend, by the look of her.'
Paul was about to point out that Sophie hadn't come when he realised who Mr Laertides had meant. 'That? Mr Tanner's mother. You know, from the office.'
'Are you sure? It doesn't look like her. No claws or fangs, for one thing.'
'She's in disguise. Well, not disguise, exactly. She likes to dress up as humans.'
Mr Laertides shrugged. 'Whatever. In any event, she's adding a bit of tone to the proceedings. Call no man's life wasted, I always say, when there's a mysterious beautiful girl in floods of tears at his funeral.'
Paul shook his head. 'That's not floods of tears,' he said. 'She's probably just picking her nose behind a handkerchief.'
'Floods of tears,' Mr Laertides repeated firmly. 'Though since it was her that had you killed, it may just be a show she's putting on for the lawyers, in case your family decides to sue.'
Paul shook his head, as his seven-year-old cousin Penny ran past, chasing a pigeon. 'No dice,' he said. 'They went to see a lawyer in Orlando, soon as they heard what happened. Apparently they lost all their rights to compensation when they sold me to JWW. You lot could sue, the firm, I mean, but I don't suppose Mr Tanner'd be too happy about suing his own mother.'
Mr Laertides grinned just a little. 'Dennis Tanner is incapable of happiness,' he replied. 'It just sort of soaks away into him like water in the desert. Are any of your friends here?'
'Dave and Chloe said they'd try and look in for the reception,' Paul replied. 'Howard sent my mum a nice card, with lilies on it.'
He looked away. 'Actually it was a birthday card, but he gummed a bit of white paper over the inscription.'
'Touching.' Mr Laertides yawned. 'I wonder what's taking so long,' he said. 'You didn't have any metal bits inside you, did you? You know, hip replacements, pacemakers, stuff like that?'
Paul thought for a moment. 'Tooth fillings,' he said, 'that's about it. Talking of which, who the hell decided on cremation? I've always thought it's a bit, you know, yucky.'
'Better than being eaten by worms, surely. I expect it was your mother, as next of kin.'
'Well, she might have asked me first - Look, they're coming out.' Paul pulled a face. 'I suppose that's me there, in that little box thing. I don't know the procedure at these things. What happens next?'
'Depends. Twelve, by the way.'
'Twelve what?'
'People here. Mourners. I counted. That's not including us, of course. Even so.'
'Fourteen,' Paul said defiantly. 'And there'd have been more if it wasn't for the football. England versus Kiribati.'
Mr Laertides dipped his head. 'I know,' he said. 'There was someone sitting behind us during the service, listening in on headphones. We were six-nil down at half-time, if you're interested.'
'You're right,' Paul said quietly, 'it's absolutely bloody ghastly. I shouldn't have come. It's so. . .' He shrugged. 'Twelve people,' he said. 'Not much to show for a life, is it?'
'Never mind,' Mr Laertides said, 'you'll just have to do better next time. Shouldn't be difficult,' he added. 'One dozen to beat. It'll give you something to work towards.'
Paul frowned. His mother was trying to get the lid off the little box; either she was going to scatter him in the Garden of Remembrance or use him as an ashtray. The lid popped off unexpectedly, fine wisps of grey powder went everywhere, and his mum sneezed.
&n
bsp; 'Figures,' Paul said. 'When I was alive she always said I got right up her nose sometimes. I'm pleased to see dying hasn't changed that.'
'It's good that you can make jokes about it,' Mr Laertides said indulgently. 'In case you were wondering, by the way, what's inside that little box is the ashes of two hundred copies of the Financial Times, glamourised to pass for your mortal remains. A suitably ephemeral note, I thought. So, have you seen enough already, or are you dead set on hanging on for the reception?'
Paul shrugged his shoulders. Thanks to the strong magic he'd learned over the last few days, he had something to shrug with, for a change. 'Let's go,' he said. 'I get the general idea.'
He turned his back on them and headed for the car park. So far, he had to admit, the great make-over of his existence hadn't gone precisely as he'd hoped. The biggest disappointment, of course, was that Sophie hadn't bothered to show up, but probably that was for the best too. Either she'd have been genuinely upset, which would've made him feel bad, or she wouldn't, which would've been worse. Maybe she couldn't get the time off work, he told himself. That would be JWW all over. Only twelve, though; that wasn't good. Even Uncle Ken was missing, he noticed; Uncle Ken had always remembered Paul's birthday, but apparently couldn't be bothered to make an effort for his death. It was enough to make him wish he'd made a will so he could have left nothing to any of them, except that there hadn't been anything to leave, apart from dirty laundry, inchoate washing-up and a few tins of baked beans.
'I'll miss the flat, though,' he said aloud. 'What's going to happen to all my stuff?'
'Sold,' Mr Laertides replied. 'The whole lot'll just about fetch enough to pay off the outstanding week's rent.' He grinned. 'Don't worry, I've seen to it. A friend of mine does house clearances, he bought the lot, you can owe it to me until you start work again and get your first pay cheque. While we're on the subject, I went and saw your landlord. Said my nephew was moving to London, and I heard there was a flat going. My friend's got all your stuff in cardboard boxes at his lock-up, and he'll put it back this afternoon. All right?'
'Oh,' Paul said. 'Thanks,' he added. 'I mean, it's only junk, but-' He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't want to have to say that everything his life had amounted to was there, so little of it, so worthless, just things, but it was all he'd got. 'Thanks,' he repeated. 'You've been to a lot of trouble.'
'It was my idea,' Mr Laertides replied. 'It's up to me to keep the inconvenience down to a minimum. Now, I don't know about you but I could do with some lunch.' He yawned. 'Ricky Wurmtoter didn't make it down, I noticed. I thought you and he got along all right. You saved his life or something.'
Paul shook his head. 'Not really,' he said. 'I helped him get shot of Countess Judy, but that didn't make us best buddies. Besides, he was probably off on business and couldn't get away.'
Mr Laertides got in the car. He had a huge open green Bentley, conspicuous as an exploding gas main. 'She wasn't there either,' he said. 'You're upset about that, I can see. Maybe she just couldn't face it.'
'Yeah, right.' Paul didn't want to talk about that. 'It doesn't matter,' he said. 'I couldn't care less, actually. I'd have missed my CD collection, but I can do without Sophie Pettingell. Or any of them,' he added, with a shrug. 'Which is just as well, really.'
'That's the spirit. What we need,' Mr Laertides said, starting the engine, 'is comfort food; which boils down to a simple choice, pizza or pie and chips. Your choice.'
'Pizza,' Paul replied. 'See?' he added. 'Decisive. I'm improving, aren't I?'
'Bloody, bold and resolute,' Mr Laertides replied gravely. 'I ought to point out that I detest pizza and it gives me wind, but this is your special day. My treat,' he added.
Paul looked round at him and thought, Why's he doing this? for the seventy-fifth time that day. He knew the answer in general terms, of course. Mr Laertides wanted something from him, something only he could do or get or be, in connection with some JWW-type scheme. There would be a great deal of money in it for him, none of which was likely to come Paul's way. It would almost certainly end in tears, and only a complete and utter idiot would've got involved in it in the first place. On the other hand - he happened to catch a glimpse of his new face in the wing mirror of Mr Laertides's beautiful car. That's me, he thought in wonder. And, since everything he'd ever done had always gone wrong anyway, and Man is born to sorrow as the toast falls buttered-side downwards, why the hell not?
'So that's you fixed up,' Mr Laertides was saying. 'You've got somewhere to live, a job to go to in the morning, and you look the way a Hollywood star thinks he looks when he checks himself out in the mirror.' He paused, stamping down on the accelerator to overtake a milk float. 'All you need now,' he said, 'is a name.'
'Philip Marlow,' Paul said, smiling. 'Mr Tanner should be expecting me. I'm the new assistant.'
The woman behind the desk scowled at him through her half-inch-thick glasses. 'I'll let him know you're here,' she said. 'Take a seat, he won't be long.'
No gorgeous blonde, sultry redhead, stunning brunette or lotus-eyed Oriental beauty on reception today; instead, a massive fifty-something with hair like steel wool stretched back in a bun, and a wart on her chin. It took Paul fifteen seconds to figure out that this was Mr Tanner's mum's equivalent of full mourning. He was touched, but obviously couldn't show it. He nodded politely, sat down and picked up a two-year-old colour supplement from the pile on the table.
Philip Marlow hadn't been his idea, not really. All through lunch he'd dithered, rejecting Mr Laertides's suggestions and making none of his own, until Mr Laertides had asked him, in an apparent change of subject, if he liked old black-and-white thrillers. He'd been unwise enough to say yes, he didn't mind them occasionally, and now here he was. At least it ought to be easy to remember- 'Mr Tanner's ready for you now,' said Mr Tanner's mum. He thanked her and set off towards the fire door that separated the front office from the rest of the building, only remembering as his hand made contact with the handle that he wasn't supposed to know the way. 'Can you tell me... ?' he began; Mr Tanner's mum nodded and reeled off a set of directions which would, he reckoned, leave him stranded in the third floor ladies' toilet. 'Got that?' she said.
Paul nodded. 'I'll find it,' he said, and set off up the stairs without looking back.
Things, he couldn't help thinking, were starting to look up already. For the first time since he'd joined the firm, he hadn't had the embarrassment of fighting off Mr Tanner's mum's extra-goblin brand of mild flirtation as he ran the gauntlet of the front office. He'd been a bit worried about that. She'd fancied him rotten when he was Paul The Mess Carpenter. Given her readily admitted weakness for cute humans, Paul had wondered how the hell Philip Marlow was going to get out of reception with a shred of clothing left on him. Apparently, though, she wasn't in the mood this morning; a blessing, Paul decided, as long as it lasted.
A minute or so later he was knocking on Mr Tanner's door. The first time he'd been in this room, he remembered as he picked his way across the file-strewn floor between the door and the desk, the general ambience of intimidating weirdness had struck him incoherent, and he'd gawped and gabbled like a clown with toothache. Now, being used to it all, he could move through the cigar-smoke fog and under the rows of neatly mounted razor-edged tomahawks that lined every wall without a second look. If he didn't know better, he'd have believed that Mr Tanner was impressed by such a display of insouciance; because instead of scowling at him and grunting, Mr Tanner stood up and held out his hand, like a real human being.
'Dennis Tanner,' he said, 'commodities and mineral rights. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?'
'Thanks,' Paul replied, and sat down. Of course, he now knew all about Mr Tanner's office chair, and lowered himself into it carefully and with precision. ('Don't let it sense you're afraid of it,' Benny Shumway had advised him once. 'Be afraid of it by all means, just don't let it know.') While he did this Mr Tanner buzzed for Christine and placed the coffee order.
'Well,' Mr Tanner
went on, looking at him warily through his round, practically lidless eyes. 'Frank Laertides seems to think very highly of you.'
One of the many things that Philip Marlow could do and Paul Carpenter couldn't was fluent body language. A very slight dip of the head put across exactly the right blend of familiarity and respect. 'I've been lucky enough to work with him before, as you know,' Paul said. 'He reckons we make a good team.' A faint flicker of a deprecating smile. God, Paul couldn't help thinking, communication was really piss-easy when you didn't have to blunder about using stupid old words.
'If Frank wants you on board, that's good enough for us,' Mr Tanner was saying, in a tone of voice Paul had never heard before; practically ingratiating, almost as though Mr Tanner was glad he was here... A strange and sudden thought struck him. This was what it felt like, he realised, to get off on the right foot, make a good first impression. 'It was a stroke of luck you being available at precisely this moment,' Mr Tanner went on, 'since we've suddenly found ourselves short-staffed-I don't know if Frank's filled you in on the background, or-' Paul nodded, and Mr Tanner relaxed a little, clearly grateful not to have to go through a long and dreary story. 'I'm hoping you don't mind jumping right in at the deep end; it'd be a great help to all of us if you could see your way to starting right away, though if that's not convenient-'
'No problem,' Paul said. (Confident, decisive, short and to the point; everything Paul Carpenter had never been. Why, why the fuck did a slight rearrangement of his facial geography make such a vast difference?) 'I have the feeling that it won't take me very long at all to get settled in here. If I may say so, Mr Tanner, you run a tight ship.'
(What did that mean, exactly? A ship that never bought a round? A ship that kept getting wedged in the entrances to small harbours?) 'We do our best,' Mr Tanner replied, and Paul could actually see him swelling, froglike, just a tiny bit. 'We try and make it a happy ship too, of course. We've always found that just sort of comes along once you've got everything running as smoothly as you can. Anyhow,' he went on, 'according to Frank you know the work inside out; anything else you want any help with, just give me a shout and we'll get you fixed up in no time. Meanwhile, all I've got left to say is, welcome aboard.'
Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt Page 12