'It was this little sandwich place,' Paul said. 'Kind of like a poor man's Starbucks, just a few yards down the road from the Waterpebbles where I got Frank - Mr Laertides's book.'
'Book.'
'That's right. Didn't Mr Laertides tell you? He sent me out to pick up a book he'd ordered in Waterpebbles.'
'Right.' Mr Tanner's scowl deepened. 'You're quite sure about that?'
'Of course. You just ask Fr-'
'Mr Laertides doesn't seem to remember it quite like that,' Mr Tanner said. 'He told me you vanished for a while, didn't say where you'd been when you got back, and you had a styrofoam cup of coffee and a cake box in a bag with yellow showing through. He didn't say anything about any book.'
'But it's there. On his desk.'
It hadn't been, of course. When Mr Tanner went to look, there was no sign of a big book full of pictures of medieval Canadian illuminated manuscripts; and when Paul told him what he'd seen in the book, Mr Tanner just looked straight past him, as though he was pretending for Paul's own benefit that he hadn't heard it. He even sent Christine to see if she could find the sandwich bar; and needless to say she couldn't. No trace of it to be seen, she reported back. The location Paul had described, she added, was the lingerie department of Marks & Spencer, it wasn't even a separate shop.
Mr Tanner reported her findings to Paul in the strong room, where he'd been locked in, closely watched by the four large goblins. They hadn't said a word while he'd been waiting for Christine to get back, but they'd stared at him a lot, and two of them had mimed chewing food, and grinned. He really didn't want to think what they meant by that.
'So what are you going to do?' Paul asked, when Mr Tanner had finished telling him about Christine's expedition. 'Are you going to call the police?'
Mr Tanner almost sort of laughed. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'We prefer to deal with this sort of thing ourselves. Security, you see. Besides,' he went on, 'if we had you arrested for murder all they'd do is lock you up in prison for the rest of your life, and what good would that do anybody?' He sighed. 'Much better if we handle it our way - which we're fully entitled to do, of course, since we own you. That way, it's just an accountancy issue. Writing off a dead loss, as it were.'
Paul really didn't like the sound of that. 'But this is stupid,' he said. 'I didn't kill anybody, really. I went to that coffee-bar place-'
'The one that doesn't exist.'
'Yes, but lots of things don't exist where you lot are concerned, you know that better than I do. It was probably a magic sandwich bar.'
'Really.' Mr Tanner raised an eyebrow; if he'd been taller, faintly greenish and had had pointed ears, he'd probably have said, 'Fascinating.' 'What's the difference between a magic sandwich bar and an ordinary one?'
'I went there,' Paul said grimly, 'and I had a coffee and a custard slice. Then when I was about to go, the bloke said have another coffee, on the house; and another slice of cake. I said I had to get back to the office, he said I could have them to take out. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so I said yes.'
'I see. And he gave you a poisoned cake. Any idea why?'
'No, of course not.'
'You hadn't upset him or anything?'
'No. At least, I don't think so. I asked him if he had a twin brother who ran a fine-art-and-toothbrush shop, and he said no, he came from Manitoba, he'd left there because of the war.'
'What war?'
Paul shrugged. 'The Canadian civil war, I suppose. Only of course-'
'Ah,' said Mr Tanner, 'that war. Before you follow this line any further,' he went on, 'maybe I ought to mention that in the sorcerer community we don't actually recognise insanity pleas as a valid defence to a murder charge. Just thought I'd tell you that, before you sprain your imagination.'
Paul drew a deep breath, because he'd need a lot of air if he was going to explain about Canada, and Miss Hook, and custard, not to mention swords and mermaids and various other related issues. But as he did so he caught sight of the look in Mr Tanner's eye and decided it could probably wait until later. Until after they'd had him ritually killed, for example. Instead, he said, 'Really, I didn't do it. Why would I want to do a thing like that, anyway?'
Mr Tanner shrugged. 'We were hoping you'd tell us that,' he said. 'We did sort of wonder.'
'Because,' Paul went on, 'there's absolutely no reason why I'd want to hurt him, let alone kill him. He saved my life once. Well,' Paul amended, 'he sort of saved it. And he took me out to lunch on my first day here, which was a really nice gesture. All right, he did kill me that one time, but that was a total misunderstanding, he thought it was all perfectly OK, and I didn't hold a grudge or anything.'
Mr Tanner frowned. 'He killed you? You've got that a bit arse-about-face, surely.'
'No, he killed me, with a crossbow.' Paul stopped short; because, of course, Ricky Wurmtoter hadn't shot Phil Marlow with a crossbow, he'd shot Paul Carpenter- The same penny appeared to have dropped in Mr Tanner's mind, though it bounced off in a different direction. 'A crossbow,' Mr Tanner said. 'I remember the late Paul Carpenter telling some sort of cockamamy story about Wurmtoter shooting him with a crossbow. Are you saying he shot you too? Because-'
'Sorry,' Paul said desperately, 'I was, um, mixing him up with someone else I once knew. So, please forget I said that. Red herring. The fact is,' he went on, 'I only actually met him for the very first time today, when he asked me for that bloody cake. Why'd I want to kill someone I'd never even met before?'
Mr Tanner shook his head. 'Lots of people do that,' he said. 'Soldiers, for instance. Also, more to the point, assassins and hired killers. Would that happen to be a sideline of yours, by any chance?'
That notion was so absurd that Paul started to laugh, but he didn't get very far. There was a look in Mr Tanner's eyes that soaked up laughter like blotting paper. 'No,' Paul said. 'No, it isn't. I never killed anybody in my life.'
'Until today.'
'Not even today,' Paul said; and as he spoke, he recalled the graceful arc the TV anchorman's head had described as it sailed through the air. 'I gave him a cake. That's different. Obviously someone wanted to kill me, and-'
'Right. And why would he want to do that?'
Paul shrugged. 'I already told you, I haven't got a clue. Maybe he didn't know the stupid thing was poisoned. Maybe it was all an accident or something, I don't know. Look, why don't you ask Mr Laertides? He'll tell you, I'm not the killing-people sort.'
'Frank Laertides told us about the cake,' Mr Tanner said quietly. 'He's as shocked and appalled as the rest of us. Blames himself, he said.'
That was a singularly nasty moment; because Mr Laertides was the only person who could corroborate the story about how Paul Carpenter turned into Phil Marlow. It had crossed Paul's mind several minutes ago that one way out of the mess would be to turn back. It'd be embarrassing, sure enough, and there'd be a lot of very awkward questions, but at least he wouldn't be a murder suspect. Phil Marlow would simply disappear, and Paul Carpenter would come back again, like a soap-opera character stepping out of the shower. But Paul wasn't at all sure that he could turn himself back without Mr Laertides's help; and now it seemed that either Mr Laertides believed he was a cold-blooded killer, or else he was trying to frame him...
'I think I've had about enough of you for one day,' Mr Tanner said. 'We're having a partners' meeting in an hour to decide what to do with you. Shouldn't take long. In the meantime, you'll stay here. You can try and escape if you feel so inclined, but then my third and fifth cousins here will rip you into shreds and eat you, and there's a remote chance that that'll be a nastier way to die than the one we decide on at the meeting. Up to you, really. I wouldn't want to influence your decision one way or another.'
The door snapped shut behind him. Paul could hear soft, muffled clicks as the wards of the lock dropped into place. Between him and the door stood the four goblins; they were watching him the way Hong Kong gourmets study the restaurant carp pool.
He wondered what on e
arth he was going to say to Mr Dao this time.
Probably it wouldn't be so bad, not once he'd settled in. What was it Mr Dao had said? Nothing to hope for, nothing to be afraid of. He had, of course, an incredible advantage over all other human beings who'd ever stared death in the face before; been there, done that, got the winding sheet. He knew exactly what was coming next; and sure, it was a swizzle that he'd miss out on the rest of his life, all the years he could reasonably have expected to live - the balance of his miserable, insecure twenties, followed by the stressed-out thirties, responsibility-laden forties, gradually dwindling fifties, over-the-hill sixties, decrepit seventies and so on, assuming he'd ever have made it that far. There would be spring, summer, autumn, winter that he wouldn't be there to see, and life would go on for everybody else. But, in all fairness, he couldn't really get terribly worked up about that, since he'd always have been Paul Carpenter, for whom life would always prove to be a parcel excitingly wrapped in brightly coloured Christmas paper, containing socks. The edge of the scythe is no big deal; it comes sooner or later, and once it's done its job, everything falls into a perspective so vast that none of it could possibly matter. People are mostly afraid of death because of the pain it'll bring to those who love and need them; but Paul had been to his own funeral, seen the dry eyes and the remarkably small amount of grief and misery his absence had caused. Nothing to hope for; nothing to be afraid of. It wasn't what he'd have chosen for himself, and on a fundamental level it was bitterly unfair, to the point where, if he'd had the time and the stationery, he might even have written to the papers or his MP about it, maybe even thought about starting up a pressure group - People Against Death, or the Anti-Mortality Network. But it could so easily have been a whole lot worse. Somebody might've given a damn.
He still couldn't decide on what to say to Mr Dao. Fourth time unlucky was a bit too flip; I'm back a trifle understated. He toyed with You call this an awfully big adventure? but there was the risk that Mr Dao wouldn't get the reference. Like it mattered, anyhow. Very soon there'd be nothing left of him at all, and in all conscience he couldn't see how that'd be a great loss to the universe. Or to himself.
The goblins were scowling at Paul, all fiery red eyes and pointy teeth. At any other time he'd have been scared stiff, but now there was nothing to be afraid of, and it was a bit dull, just sitting here. He looked at the biggest goblin and smiled.
'Hey,' he said, 'you. Turd-face.'
The goblin didn't like that; Paul could see him making an effort to control his temper. It was amusing, really.
'I'm talking to you,' he said. 'Here, you fancy a game of cards or something?'
The goblin sneered, baring further and sharper teeth. Paul shrugged. 'Screw you, then. You'd only have lost, anyway. I can tell just by looking at you that you're really, really stupid as well as incredibly ugly. Also,' he added after a moment's reflection, you smell. Not as badly as the other three, I grant you, but pretty bad nonetheless. Tell me, are you soluble in water or just totally slobby?'
The goblin just stood and stared, and Paul gave up. We've got to stop meeting like this? Nah, too clichéd. Mr Dao, I presume? A bit lacking in sparkle. Probably better just to smile politely and ask where the lavatories were.
'Pssst.'
He frowned. It was a goblin voice; sibilants through a mouthful of very long teeth are quite distinctive. But none of the four guards had said anything, and he was pretty sure it had come from behind him.
'It's me. Don't look round.'
Interesting. Maybe not interesting enough to stay alive for, but Paul's curiosity was piqued. Also, he didn't much feel like looking round anyway; he knew the strongroom - there was nothing on that wall apart from shelves and a few battered old tin boxes.
'It's me,' the voice repeated, 'Colin. Wanted to ask you; you still got those Van Spee crystals?'
Colin. Colin, Colin. Oh yes; the goblin he'd met in the pub, who'd offered him four million pounds for the rest of the crystals he'd stolen from the jar in the professor's desk; also, the goblin who'd briefly replaced Sophie in St James's Park. Hence, presumably, the inquiry. Very slowly he lifted his head, then pressed his chin against his chest.
'Swap. I rescue you, for the crystals. Deal?'
Paul repeated the manoeuvre. One of the guards looked up, but only briefly. Why not? Paul thought. They won't be any good to me where I'll be going if I don't get out of here quickly.
'Done. Stay still, don't move.'
At last; orders he could obey to the letter. Annoyingly, the tip of his nose chose that moment to start itching, but he ignored it.
The light went out.
Cursing and clattering over in the direction of the doorway told Paul where the goblins were; also, low muttered bitching about which of them was supposed to have brought the torch. Assuming it was Colin who'd somehow doused the light (a single shadeless sixty-watt bulb, Paul remembered from earlier visits), he didn't see how it was going to help, since the guards were still very much in place between him and the door, which was the only way out. So: neat trick, but he was underwhelmed. He yawned slightly.
Then someone grabbed him by the sleeve and hissed, 'Come on!' in a rather frantic whisper. Paul stood up and allowed the invisible hand to guide him, until his shin banged into something hard and thin; his best guess was, the shelves on the back wall.
Conclusion: Colin was taking him in the wrong direction. Goblins, Paul thought, with an unuttered sigh.
'Now,' the voice said in his ear. Before he could ask, 'Now what?' or anything along those lines, a heavy boot kicked the backs of his knees, folding him up like a newly ironed shirt, and a solid hand in the small of his back shoved him forward, off balance. He grabbed for a support to stop himself going down flat on his face, but there wasn't anything to grab on to. He felt himself lurch forward. He was falling. Squelch.
Even before he'd spat out the mouthful he'd unintentionally ingested, Paul knew what he'd fallen into, because it was practically inevitable. Soft, squidgy, and he was wallowing in the stuff. So this is what it's like to be a prune, he thought as he felt himself starting to sink. There are many terrible ways to die, and during his more morbid moments he'd speculated about quite a few of them, but drowning in custard wasn't a possibility he'd ever addressed. Short-sighted of him, he realised, bearing in mind just how lousy his luck could be.
Then a hand grabbed the collar of his jacket; there was an unspeakably vulgar slurpy-sucking noise, and he was out of the custard, back into the air. He tried to open his eyes, but they were gummed shut with the foul stuff, and by the time he'd wiped it out of the way with his knuckles he'd been stood upright again, like a toy soldier. He wobbled a bit until he got his balance back, and looked round.
Oh, for crying out loud, Paul thought, I'm still in the bloody strongroom; that horrible little goblin's screwed up the rescue, and I'm back where I- But then he noticed a couple of significant details. No guards. Oil light lit. Door open.
'There you go,' said Colin the goblin, slapping him offensively on the back. 'Piece of cake, no pun intended. Right, where are those crystals?'
'Hang on.' Paul turned until he could see the goblin, who'd been standing behind him. 'Give me a moment, will you?' The goblin nodded. Paul took a couple of deep breaths and knuckled away a bit more custard from his eyes and face. Then, with a degree of speed and agility he didn't think himself capable of, he whirled round and grabbed Colin's throat in both hands.
'What the flick-' Colin spluttered, and then found he was a bit short on air.
'Quiet,' Paul snapped. 'Right.' First things first, he thought. 'Thanks,' he said politely. 'For rescuing me, I mean.'
The rest of Colin's face was turning as red as his eyes, and he was gurgling like the last quarter-pint of water going down the plughole. Paul took that as meaning 'you're welcome,' and nodded.
'Next,' he went on, 'if you ever do anything like that to me again, I'm going to squeeze your neck till your head bursts. Got that?'
Co
lin nodded a little; enough to be going on with. 'Sure?' Paul asked. Another nod, accompanied by a sort of wheezy snort. He let go, and Colin flopped to the ground in a messy heap.
'That's all right, then,' Paul said briskly. 'You bastard,' he added, 'just look at me, I'm all covered in bloody custard.' Replaying that one in his mind, Paul had to admit he was probably stating the extremely obvious. 'Now then,' he went on, 'how do we get out of here?'
'Door,' muttered Colin, and waved a claw.
'Yes, I can see that, thank you very much.' Paul sighed. 'I wasn't talking about the room, actually. I meant this - this whatever it is, where we are now. This dimension thing.' He shrugged. 'Custardspace, or whatever you want to call it. Only, I've been in it already once today, and I know how you get yourself into it, but not how you leave. Presumably you know the answer to that.'
Colin the goblin scowled up at him, his red eyes bright with loathing and terror. 'Yup,' he said. 'And there's no need to go strangling me when I've just saved your stupid life.'
'I didn't strangle you,' Paul pointed out. 'I just squashed your neck a bit. Quite a big difference.'
'All right, whatever. Now,' said Colin, getting to his feet (he wasn't covered in custard from head to foot, Paul couldn't help noticing), 'give me those bloody crystals, or you can stay here for ever for all I care.'
Paul smiled. 'Haven't got them on me, sorry,' he said. 'You think I'd carry something as valuable as that around in my trousers pocket? No, you want them, you get me out of here and I'll fetch them for you. Can't say fairer than that.'
Colin the goblin seemed to take the announcement very badly; his eyes widened, and he growled like a dog. 'Fucking humans,' he said angrily, 'no principles. No wonder our lot don't want to have anything to do with you people. Quite apart from the fact that you're all ugly as hell. You might've mentioned you didn't have the stupid things on you, before we started this.'
Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt Page 21