Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt

by Earth, Air, Fire

  So much maritime imagery, Paul wouldn't have been surprised if Mr Tanner had hopped up onto his desk and started dancing a hornpipe. And the hypocrisy of it all; run a tight ship, indeed. Paul Carpenter could never have got away with any of that kind of twaddle in a million years. Was it really just because his nose was a bit straighter, his ears a tad less elephantine? Not that it mattered. He'd read somewhere that scientists had conclusively proved that the difference between drop-dead gorgeous and back-end-of-a-bus ugly was usually no more than twenty-five thousandths of an inch... He surfaced from his reflections in time to hear Mr Tanner buzzing someone else. 'I've asked Vicky to join us,' he was saying. 'She'll show you round, tell you where everything is. She'll be doing your general typing and filing. We've only just promoted her out of the typing pool, but she seems like a bright enough girl.'

  Dear God, Paul thought, they're giving me a secretary. Somehow it struck him as bizarre, faintly barbaric, like an arranged marriage, or sacrificing a chicken to the gods. But that'll mean giving orders, telling someone what to do; I can't do that. Correction: Paul Carpenter couldn't have done that. But Paul's not here any more, is he?

  'And if there's anything you need help with,' Mr Tanner was saying, 'there's always Sophie Pettingell, the junior clerk.' Mr Tanner paused, frowned. 'Her manner takes a bit of getting used to,' he went on, as though he was trying to sell Paul a semi-derelict second-hand car, 'but she's a good little worker when she sets her mind to it.'

  Paul felt his right hand clench into a fist; but no, bashing Mr Tanner's face in wouldn't be a good idea, not even for popular, likeable Phil Marlow. Besides, he reminded himself, this is Mr Tanner, you know he's an arsehole, so what do you expect? A fundamental rule of life had just, he realised, become relevant to him for the first time ever: just because someone likes you, it's not obligatory to like them back.

  'Sorry,' Paul said, 'what was that name again? Sophie-'

  'Pettingell,' Mr Tanner repeated. 'I expect you'll run into her sooner or later. At the moment she's been drafted in to work with Theo van Spee.' Pause, and Mr Tanner looked at him; you don't need me to explain why, his expression was saying, gratefully.

  Clearly the death of Paul Carpenter was something nobody wanted to talk about. Fine by me, Paul thought.

  A knock at the door. Paul had his back to it, and so he heard the voice before he saw the face. By then, Mr Tanner was doing introductions: 'Vicky, this is Philip Marlow, who you're going to be working with.' She said how nice, or words to that effect; he knew her voice instantly, which was probably just as well. He wasn't sure he'd have recognised her without her tail.

  'Hello,' she said, and smiled; and Paul thought, Thank God for Mr Laertides and the medicine, without which- Actually, he'd been completely wrong about one thing. He'd have recognised her straight away in any context, because of that hair; bright, soft auburn with gold streaks so light they could almost be silver. Only just promoted her out of the typing pool, Mr Tanner had said; that should've put him on notice, only he hadn't been paying attention. Must stop that. Too slack, too Paul Carpenter. Talking of which - he did a quick systems analysis, hoping he wasn't being too obvious about it, and was vastly relieved to find that, despite the hair and the voice and the smile, the medicine did appear to be working. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said brightly.

  The next half-hour was awkward, to say the least. Vicky led him down the corridors and up the stairs, into offices and interview rooms and closed-file stores and kitchens; it was all completely familiar, of course, but also somehow strange, not because it had changed, but because he had - it was as though Robinson Crusoe had returned to his island incognito on a package tour and the guide had shown him his cave, his lookout, the beach where he'd seen the footprint. 'And this is the junior clerks' office,' she was saying, as she knocked on the door and Sophie's voice, typically petulant, called out 'Come in.'

  She was sitting at the desk, and all Paul could see of her was the crown of her head, poking out over the top of a huge mound of Mortensen printouts. Then she disappeared completely for a moment, and emerged a second later round the side of the great pile. Her eyes had the dead look of the long-term paper-shuffler, and she looked at them both blankly without saying anything.

  'This is Philip Marlow,' Vicky said, her cheerful tone faltering slightly in the face of Sophie's vacant stare. 'He's joined us as Mr Laertides's assistant. Phil,' (at what point had he become Phil?

  Not that he minded, he just couldn't remember), 'this is Sophie

  Pettingell, the junior clerk.'

  'Hi,' Sophie said.

  Which was odd. Sophie didn't say 'Hi', in roughly the same way that she didn't run singing through meadows full of spring flowers while wearing floral-print dresses. Nor did she smile at people she'd never met before. For a split second he assumed that she was pleased to see Vicky, but apparently not; in fact, if she'd registered Vicky's existence at all it could only have been for an instant and then she'd dismissed it as irrelevant and unnecessary, possibly even unwelcome. No; she was smiling at him, and saying 'Hi' and- Blushing?

  Water doesn't flow uphill, the sun doesn't rise in the west, lead weights don't hover in mid-air when you drop them, and Sophie Pettingell never, ever blushed. It was just one of those things, a given, Scotty looking sad and moaning, 'I canna change the laws o'physics, cap'n.' But her dark eyes were wide, and she was looking at him the way- He fumbled around in his memory and found what he was searching for. She was looking at him the way Paul Carpenter used to look at girls, at least until they noticed and asked him not to.

  The same Paul Carpenter would've said 'Um' at this point, or something equally brilliant. But he was in his little box now, ashes to ashes. 'My God,' Paul said, 'you look busy. Is it always as bad as this around here?'

  Sophie laughed, or rather simpered (and E announced that it had had enough of equalling mc2, and was planning to start a new life in Patagonia with the square on the hypotenuse). 'Not usually,' she said. 'But it's been really, like, hectic since Paul - he was the other junior clerk, but he-' She stopped dead and shook herself like a wet dog. 'It's just me now, and so I've got to do all his work as well.'

  'That's awful,' Paul said, and she nodded three times very quickly. 'It's not so bad,' she said bravely. 'So, you're working with Mr Laertides, then.'

  'That's right.'

  'I haven't actually met him yet, myself,' Sophie said. 'But I'm really, really interested in that side of the business.' She hesitated, and in one of those rare, brief flashes of insight that you get sometimes when you least expect them, Paul realised that she didn't actually know what Mr Laertides did. 'So maybe-'

  'It's a fascinating area, media and public relations,' Paul said rapidly. 'And Frank's quite possibly the best there is, so if you do get a chance to sit in with us, you couldn't hope for a better start.' He smiled encouragingly, just in case there was the slightest possible ambiguity, and a sort of stuffed expression covered Sophie's face, one which was immediately familiar to Paul from a long succession of mirrors. 'So,' he said, 'who are you with right now?'

  'Oh, nobody,' she said very quickly; then she blinked twice (he could almost hear the sucking sound of the mental foot being extracted) and said, 'I mean, I'm doing three months with Professor Van Spee, he's applied sorcery and stuff. But I've only got a few more weeks to go.'

  A tongue ferociously clicked a few feet to Paul's left and made him break eye contact. Vicky was still smiling in a non-specific manner, like a water-cannon blasting an unruly mob, but there was a hard edge to her expression that you could've sharpened knives on. 'Actually,' she was saying, 'we've still got a lot to see, so maybe-' She tailed off, suddenly aware that she didn't have the sympathy of her audience. 'We ought to be getting on,' she added firmly. 'Really.'

  'Oh, right,' Paul said. 'Well, it was nice meeting you, and I expect we'll be seeing more of each other quite soon.' Sophie nodded enthusiastically, like a seal watching the piece of fish in its trainer's hand. 'Best of luck with the Mor
tensens,' he added. 'I don't envy you that job.'

  'Oh, someone's got to do it,' Sophie replied cheerfully. 'See you soon, I mean, bye.'

  He could feel her eyes watching him all the way out of the door.

  There was a slight edge to Vicky's manner as they finished off the tour, but Paul was too preoccupied to worry about it, or even to reflect in general terms about what Vicky was doing, on two legs, out of the typing pool. He felt like someone who's just been told something in a foreign language that he only knows a few words of, and it's either that he's won a million dollars on the lottery, or else he's under arrest for espionage and due to be shot at dawn, or possibly both. He'd shared his own sad company for enough years to recognise the symptoms, the lemming-like rush over the cliffs of At First Sight. The difference was that hitherto he'd always been the lemming, not the cliff. But there was no other way to account for Sophie's extraordinary behaviour; and if he was right, then that was absolutely wonderful.

  Or, looked at from a slightly different perspective, a total and utter disaster.

  'This is Mr Wurmtoter's office,' Vicky was saying, and either she was still royally ticked off about something, or she didn't like Ricky Wurmtoter very much. 'But apparently he's not in. Never mind, I expect you'll run into him sooner or later. Mr Wurmtoter kills things for a living,' she added, 'dragons and stuff. Now, just down here on the left-'

  Yes, I know, you silly cow, that's the stationery cupboard where Julie hoards the pads of yellow stickies; shut up while I'm introspect- ing, for crying out loud. A total and utter fucking disaster, because it looks horribly as though Sophie's just fallen head over heels with someone, and it's not me. Or at least it is me, but- 'And that's about it,' Vicky was babbling, 'apart from Mr

  Laertides's room, of course, and your office, which is right next to it. Just down the passage here on your right, and-'

  Paul stopped and looked at her. She looked back, and deep in her soft brown eyes he saw something he couldn't quite place but which made him take a step back, as though he'd just blundered in on a fight to the death between two strangers. 'Thanks for the tour,' he said. (That old Phil Marlow charm still running on autopilot, when what he really wanted to say was, 'Who are you?' or maybe just 'Eeek!') 'I think I'd better go and let Frank know I'm here. It's been-' Even suave, unflappable Phil couldn't quite put into words what it had been, except that in spite of the strange new experiences - Mr Tanner being polite, Sophie practically drooling down his shirt-front, Mr Tanner's mum not drooling down his shirt-front, and other wonders too bizarre to be comfortably contained in his mind - in spite of all that, it was still very much business as usual at 70 St Mary Axe, and that was both reassuring and infinitely depressing. Looking in the mirror and seeing drop-dead gorgeous (or in his case, having-dropped-dead gorgeous, which amounted to much the same thing) was all very well, but it was still an unsolicited free gift from a partner in the firm: beautifully gift-wrapped and, if he held it to his ear, audibly ticking. What on Earth possessed me to do it? he asked himself, not for the first time; and he knocked on Mr Laertides's door and went in quickly before his subconscious could provide him with an uncomfortable answer.

  'There you are,' said Mr Laertides. He was sitting in front of the window, back to the door, looking out over the street. 'Well? How'd it go?'

  'Odd,' Paul replied. 'Mr Tanner was, well, civil.'

  'It's amazing what people can do when they really try. How about Ricky?'

  'Out.'

  Mr Laertides shrugged. 'I honestly don't think there's any danger of him recognising you. Or any of the others, come to that. Did you go and see Theo?'

  Paul shook his head, then realised that Mr Laertides was facing the other way. Apparently, though, that didn't matter, because he said, 'Probably wise. Who else? Cas Suslowicz? Benny Shumway?'

  What the hell, Paul thought, and nodded. 'And, um, Sophie. She was-'

  'Rude. Brusque. Gauche.' Mr Laertides laughed. 'She's a caution, that Sophie, but she doesn't-'

  'Actually,' Paul said. (And why the hell should he tell Mr Laertides, or why should he care, but anyhow.) 'Actually, she was quite friendly.'

  'Oh.' Mr Laertides turned round slowly and looked at him. 'That's - interesting. So what happened? You knocked and went in, and-'

  Paul nodded. 'And Vicky said, this is Philip Marlow, he's the new.

  'Hang on.' Mr Laertides's eyes had suddenly grown very small and bright. 'Who's Vicky?'

  'Vicky the mermaid. Well, she's got legs now,' (yes, indeed) 'and they've made her my secretary. Tall girl, brown hair with shiny bits. Used to be in the typing pool.'

  Mr Laertides frowned; parts of his face gathered together like a herd of migratory animals round a waterhole. 'Vicky,' he repeated, 'I don't think I've come across her. Anyway, not to worry.' His face opened again, and he looked almost mischievous, like a small boy watching the door he's just balanced a bag of flour on. 'What was it like? Different?'

  'You could say that,' Paul mumbled. 'It may take some getting used to. People liking me,' he added, 'for no reason.'

  Mr Laertides laughed; a barrel-chested, curly-bearded pirate-king laugh that it shouldn't have been possible to dredge out of his stick-insect body. 'There you are, you see,' he said. 'For no reason, that's your basic problem. You go through life believing you don't deserve to be liked, and that's what's caused a lifetime of misery, for you and a lot of other people.'

  The last part left a barb in Paul's attention. 'Other people?'

  'Of course. Your parents. Your family. You don't suppose that on the day you were born, the whole lot of them crowded round you, sniffed and made a decision that you were no good? Of course not. It was mostly you - gradually, over the years. If your parents made the decision to sell you to JWW, it wasn't just because they're unspeakable bastards. Partly it's that, of course; but you must've helped.'

  'Thank you,' said Paul. 'Thank you so much.'

  Mr Laertides shrugged; he was a great shrugger. 'Not that it matters any more,' he said. 'They're in Florida, you need never have anything to do with them any more. And everybody thinks you're dead. Now you've got a chance to be whatever you want. The key to not screwing it up this time round is knowing what you want. Simple as that.'

  'Fine,' Paul said. 'And I suppose you know what that is?'

  'Of course I do, it's not like you're a particularly complicated character. You just want true love. I could point out to you how shallow and incredibly self-limiting this is; it's as though I'm asking a six-year-old kid what she wants most of all in the whole world for her birthday and she tells me she wants to be seven. I could suggest a long list of better things to want, and I could probably make you realise how much more useful and beneficial they'd be. I could take you to meet a great many very unhappy people who've found true love but not, for example, money, or health, or freedom. But-' He made a wide gesture with his hands. 'That's none of my business. If you really want two pairs of socks for Christmas, that's what you'll get. Anyhow, I've fulfilled my side of the bargain.'

  Click, Paul thought; the sound of the pieces falling into place. 'Bargain,' he repeated.

  'Bargain, yes. I'm a businessman, not a charity.'

  'But you said, if I helped you with what you were doing at the party convention-'

  Mr Laertides shook his head. 'You don't believe that. You know the score, you were perfectly aware of what I was offering and what the price would be. The straight traditional barter, a body for a soul. Where I do business, innovation is frowned on.'

  Paul looked at him for a while; he didn't move, not a flicker. 'My soul,' he said.

  'Correct.'

  'What does that mean, exactly?'

  'Ah, well.' Mr Laertides smiled pleasantly. 'That's a matter of personal belief, isn't it? Though in your case, you have an advantage over most people - you know where we go when we die.'

  'Those aren't souls,' Paul said straight away, without needing to think. 'They're just - well, leftovers. Scraps. You don't want anything like
that.'

  'Right again. What I want is something completely different. And the good part is, I'm guaranteed delivery.' Mr Laertides shrugged again. 'It's your choice,' he said. 'But so long as you wear that face, you're carrying out your side of the deal, that's all I'm saying. Now,' he went on, 'I think it's time we got some work done, don't you?'

  'No, I don't,' Paul blurted out. 'I want you to tell me exactly what the hell you mean by all that stuff.'

  'No.' Mr Laertides's face had set, still as a photograph. 'I can't do that, sorry. You're just going to have to take my word for this, but if I tell you what you want to know, it buggers up the whole thing. Don't interrupt,' he added, and Paul found that he couldn't, even if he'd wanted to; he had no words and no voice to say them with. 'I need your help,' Mr Laertides went on. 'You, and nobody else but you. The job I have to do is very important to me, and it's also my business and no one else's. Meanwhile, you've been very generously paid for your involvement: an unbreakable heart and the sublime gift of beauty. Cheer up, for crying out loud, you've got the fifth and sixth ace in Life's poker game - what else could you possibly want? Or need, come to that?'

  'Cheer up,' Paul said. 'Why would I want to do that?'

  Mr Laertides stood up slowly and walked towards him, making no noise, hardly disturbing the air. 'I could make you be cheerful,' he said. 'I could make you be happy. I could make it so that every day of your life is filled with sunshine and joy, whether you like it or not. All I have to do is decide, I don't even need to say the magic words or snap my fingers. But, out of the infinite kindness of my heart and because - for some bizarre reason I can't fathom - I like you, I'm not going to do that to you, not if you stop mucking me about and do as you're told. Do you understand me?'

  No, Paul thought, because you're talking drivel. But before he could do or say anything, a memory flashed through his mind. He remembered Sophie, offering to drink the love philtre. Even now, there were times when he cursed himself for being so stupid as to refuse, but he knew that if she'd done it, even being in the same room with her would've been unbearable, because of the magnitude, the sheer horror of the lie. And suppose Mr Laertides could make good on his threat: perfect happiness and contentment for ever, no matter what. Wouldn't that be infinitely worse?