'I'm not going.'
'Mr Carpenter.' Still that unplaceable something in his eyes. 'I shall count to three. Please don't make this any more distressing than it has to be. I don't enjoy this, you know.'
'Fine,' Paul said. 'One, two, three.' He paused. 'Your go.'
Nothing happened. It was almost as though Mr Dao was having to work hard just to stay there, as though something was tugging at him now. Paul, on the other hand, felt strangely exhilarated: breathless (well, obviously) but strong, in a way he'd never been before. Any second now, he predicted, Mr Dao was going to start pleading.
'Please?'
'No,' Paul said. 'When did you say Benny Shumway was due? I'd quite like to see him, I think.'
'Time has no meaning here.'
'You know,' Paul said - he almost drawled, though his mum had told him not to when he was nine. 'I don't think that's true, somehow. Otherwise, why are you in such a hurry to get me to come with you? Surely you've got all the time in the world. We could stay here for ever and ever chatting like this, and it wouldn't matter a damn.'
'Mr Carpenter-'
'And besides,' Paul went on, 'if you're telling me the truth, you don't need me to come with you, because I'll just evaporate and blow away, whether I like it or not. That should have happened by now, but it hasn't. Something's wrong, isn't it?'
'Of course not. Nothing is ever wrong here. That's the point. There's nothing that can go wrong, because there's nothing. I thought I'd explained all that.'
'You did. But it's not true. You can't touch me. I'm different.'
'Fuck.' Mr Dao closed his eyes, screwed up his face into a snarl and jumped up and down. 'Fuck, flick, flick, fuck. Yes,' he went on, immediately resuming his usual calm, 'you are, of course, quite correct. The rules do not apply in your case, which is why you are the only person ever to leave this place. The fact that you have done it on more than one occasion is, I must confess, something of an embarrassment. One does not care to have one's shortcomings highlighted, even here, where failure is as irrelevant as everything else. But you are right, Mr Carpenter. Death has no jurisdiction over you. Which means,' he added, with the very faintest of sighs, 'that you are free to leave.'
'Am I?'
'Yes. It was - interesting. We shall not meet again.' Mr Dao paused, and shrugged. 'Never thought I'd hear myself say that, but there you are. Three impossible things before breakfast, and all that. Goodbye.'
Mr Dao started to walk away into the shadows, but Paul yelled, 'Stop!' Mr Dao paused, then walked backwards, as though he was being rewound, until he was exactly where he'd been a moment ago. 'Well?' he said.
'For crying out loud,' Paul shouted. 'You can't just tell me I'm different and death's got no jurisdiction and all that stuff and then walk away.'
Mr Dao smiled, and Paul saw just a trace of salvaged satisfaction. 'Actually,' he said, and vanished.
Paul looked around. There was still nothing; in fact, if at all possible, there was even more nothing than there had been a moment ago. Just by being there, Mr Dao had defined a tiny area; where he'd stood there had been at least a suggestion of something for him to stand on, and just enough light to see him by. Now he was gone, and there was nothing at all.
Nothing, that was, except Paul Carpenter.
Maybe, he thought, this is the sting in the tail. Maybe I really did die and go to hell, and this is how hell is for incurably self-centred people; a universe where nothing exists except me. In which case, it probably serves me right. But.
But. But nothing.
Exactly. The whole point.
Paul thought about that for just over four seconds. Then he dropped to his knees and started yelling, 'Help!'
He yelled for quite some time, except (he could picture Mr Dao in his mind, grinning insufferably) time had no meaning here; there was no time, no space, there was just Paul, a whole universe full of him. A bad place. Very bad. I don't like it here, Paul thought. I want to go home.
'Yes, but if you do that, you'll have to go and deal with people. You were never any good at that. Stay here, this is where you belong. Besides, we never really liked you anyway.
'I want to go home,' Paul tried to say. (But there can't be any words where there's nobody to hear them except yourself.) 'I didn't mean to do any harm. What did I do, anyway?'
'It's never what you do, it's what you are.'
Bullshit, Paul thought, that's just not true. And then he thought: I don't believe that, in which case I can't just be talking to myself Therefore-
Who are you?
He waited. Nothing.
And then there was a sound. Coming through the total absence of anything, it was rather like the creation of the universe, except that in the beginning there wasn't the Word. There was, in fact, the Moo.
'Sorry?' Paul yelped, startled.
'Moo.'
Moo, he thought; and then, Oh, for crying out loud. 'Moo?'
'Moo.'
And there she was, ambling towards him with that utterly relaxed, laid-back look about her that only cows can manage. She was smallish for a cow, a sort of light sandy beige, with big eyes, little pointy horns and a bell on a collar round her neck. She looked like something out of a butter advertisement.
'Excuse me.' Many, many times before, Paul had felt an utter fool, but never more so than now. 'Excuse me,' he repeated, 'but are you Audumla, the Great Cow of Heaven?'
She nodded, and her bell tinkled softly. 'Moo,' she said.
'Ah, right. I've, um, heard of you.'
'Moo,' she replied, with the faint air of good-natured boredom of any celebrity stopped in the street and told who they are. Her vast brown eyes surveyed him as thoroughly as a billion-dollar research project, and blinked once. She swished her tail. She looked unspeakably cute and friendly and cheerful and, what was the concept he was groping for, ah yes, Swiss. Now there was a thought: could a Swiss cow possibly have created the universe? That would account for the precision mechanism of the seasons, the perfect timing of comets, the fact that two blades of grass picked at random are exactly identical. But the Swiss, even the bovine Swiss, could never have created people. Too messy.
'God, I'm glad to see you,' Paul said; and then he stopped and wondered, Yes, but why? It's a cow. Why on earth should I be so pathetically relieved to see a cow?
'Moo,' said Audumla; and Paul thought, Here we go again, because if only he could understand Cowspeak, he was sure that she'd just answered his question. The answer, and he'd missed it - just like being back at school.
'I see,' Paul said. 'Thanks. Look, can I get out of here? Can you help me get out?'
'Moo.'
Paul closed his eyes and opened them again. 'Is that a yes moo or a no moo?'
'Moo.'
There was a proverb about that, he reflected. 'Sorry,' he said, 'just to clarify. Nod for yes and, um, swish tail for no. Can you help me-?'
'Moo.' Audumla nodded her head, and the bell tinkled like all the church bells that ever were. Then she started licking her left front hoof.
'That's fantastic,' Paul said. 'Um-'
She looked at him. He waited. She looked at him some more.
'Sorry,' Paul said. 'But, um, can we be a bit more, you know, precise. Like, how can you help me get out of here?'
'Moo.'
'Oh Christ,' Paul said wretchedly. 'Just my luck, just my bloody rotten luck. Here I am dead, and I bump into a cow who knows how to get me out of here, and the sodding thing can't speak English.'
'Of course I can speak English, silly,' said the cow. 'I was just being annoying.'
Ninety per cent of Paul wanted to dance around in circles rejoicing. The other ten per cent wanted to force-feed the Great Cow of Heaven her cowbell. Fortunately, Paul was a democracy.
'Please,' he said. 'Please can you tell me-?'
'How to get out of here, yes.' Audumla shook her head, as though dislodging a notional fly. 'Piece of cake. Actually, you know what to do already. At least, you ought to, if you've been payi
ng attention.'
Aaargh, Paul thought. 'Let's assume,' he said, 'for argument's sake, that I haven't.'
'All right.' The cow licked her lips with an insole-sized pink tongue. 'Professor Van Spee told you about the other Portable Door, the one he made for himself. Yes?'
Paul nodded. 'Now you mention it,' he said.
'He told you it's here, in the bank, in a safe-deposit box.'
Audumla turned her head to nibble a tuft of hair on her knee. 'That's your way out. Told you it was simple,' she added.
Fuck, Paul thought. 'That's not actually a lot of help,' he said. 'You see, I've sort of pissed off Mr Dao rather a lot. I don't suppose he's going to be in the mood to leave his keys lying about accidentally on purpose where I can find them.'
Cows can look at you the way no other living creature can. They have a special, cows-only bemused gaze that says, 'Why are you doing that, you very strange person?' in a way that mere words never can.
'Well, if I can't get the keys,' Paul said, 'how'm I going to open the safe-deposit box? Unless you just happen to have a stick of dynamite stashed away somewhere.'
But they don't do irony. 'No,' Audumla said. 'And anyway, if you blew up the box with dynamite, it'd damage the Door. But you don't need a key.'
'I don't?'
'Of course not, silly. The boxes aren't locked. Why would you bother, down here?'
Paul thought about that, and realised that he'd been missing the point with all the futile diligence of a blind machine-gunner. 'All right,' he said, 'fair enough. But I can't just wander into the Bank and rob it. And anyway, how'd I know which box it's in?'
'Number 18873446229D,' Audumla replied promptly, 'third shelf up on the right as you go in the door, they're in number order, very neat and tidy. And Mr Dao won't catch you, he's busy with your friend Mr Shumway, doing the paying-in and the petty cash.' She lowered her voice just a little. 'Entirely between you and me, but Mr Dao's been fiddling the books, embezzling. From your firm.'
'Get away,' Paul replied. 'Really?'
The cow nodded. 'For the last six years.'
'Um, has he embezzled a lot?'
'Oh yes.' Audumla flicked her ears and chewed for a moment; Paul realised that, for lack of fingers, she was counting on her teeth. 'Six pounds and forty-seven pence. I believe he plans to use the money to buy up newspapers, radio stations and TV companies, like that nice Mr Murdoch. Eventually,' she added.
'But don't tell on him, will you?'
'Wouldn't dream of it,' Paul replied. He hesitated. 'Well, I'd better go, then. Before Mr Dao comes back.'
'Yes.'
Paul turned to go, but found he couldn't; something was pinning him down, like a great weight. 'Um,' he said, 'excuse me, but you wouldn't happen to know what it is about me that means death has no jurisdiction over me?'
'Oh yes.'
Pause. Silence. 'Can you tell me what it is?'
'No.
'Fine.' Paul waited, then went on. 'Why not?'
'It's better that you don't know. Trust me.'
Well, put like that- 'One last thing,' Paul said. 'Are you really, really the Great Cow of Heaven?'
Audumla looked at him, great big round cow eyes. 'Moo,' she said. 'Mind how you go.' Then, without a crack or a hum or a blur or any visible or audible accompaniment (because, apart from the bewildering storylines and the cheesy sets, real life isn't a bit like Star Trek) she vanished; and there was nothing to show that she'd ever been there, apart from a small, slightly steaming brown pile.
'Moo,' Paul said. 'Brilliant.'
He had, of course, forgotten to ask her how to get to the Bank from there, wherever 'there' was. But that was just sloppy thinking, of course. He walked in a straight line, and ten yards or so from the cow-pat he came to the Bank's main gate. There was nobody to be seen in any direction. Well, of course not. Mr Dao was talking to Benny, and the rest of them, the hundreds of thousands of billions of dead people - probably away somewhere playing bridge, or practising German irregular verbs, or learning how to weave baskets.
Moo, he thought, as he barged his way through a revolving door that hadn't been there the last time. And why on Earth would the Great Cow of Heaven approve of Rupert Murdoch? He shrugged. Somehow, involuntarily, more by luck than judgement, he'd solved a fair few of the fundamental mysteries of the universe lately. It doesn't do to push one's luck.
Today the Bank only had one room, and fortuitously that room happened to be the safe-deposit vault. Paul had no trouble at all finding the box, and of course it wasn't locked. Inside there were just two objects: a roll of thin plastic sheeting, spitting image of the one he'd owned for a little while, and a half-empty tin of Bird's custard powder. As simple as that; but maybe everything's simple when you've got the Great Cow of Heaven on your side.
Fine. All he had to do now was find a wall, spread the Door across it, and step through.
No wall.
It came as something of a surprise at first, but when Paul stopped to think about it, why should there be a wall? Not needed here, after all. He retraced his steps, and there, sure enough, was the revolving door he'd come in by; but it was freestanding. No wall.
Bugger.
'I could have told you,' Mr Dao whispered urbanely in his ear. 'Never trust a ruminant. Anything with that many stomachs is bound to have its own agenda.'
'Go away,' Paul said.
'There's no call for hostility,' Mr Dao replied. 'I'm trying to be sensitive. You were having problems coming to terms with the situation. That is, of course, perfectly understandable. In such cases, we find it's best to allow the subject a moment of hope, usually triggered by the manifestation of some apparently supernatural agency or object of faith. We noted that you seemed to believe in the existence of divine dairy cattle, and accordingly framed the illusion in the form that you would be most likely to accept. You believed; you did as you were told, came here, took the Door, only to find that there is no wall to place it against. As is only to be expected, here in the middle of nothing. I trust you have learned the lesson: all hope is illusory. It has no place here. We try to exclude all harmful and misleading influences, for the good of the community. Hope isn't a good thing, Mr Carpenter. Hope is a parasite. It dupes people into soldiering on, forcing themselves to keep going through pain, trauma and misery, until finally they can go no further and end here, where all things end. Ignore hope, and you get here quicker, with less distress and anguish. Now you know the truth about hope, having experienced its bad effects for yourself. Now, perhaps, you will come quietly.'
It was as though there was a fish-hook lodged in every part of Paul's body, each one tugging at him, drawing him away. Really, said every instinct, there isn't any point, you're just being embarrassing. Stop making trouble for everybody. Go in peace.
'Last time,' Paul said, and his voice seemed to come from somewhere else. 'Last time, there was a wall. There was a wall, and I got away.'
'That was because it wasn't your time,' Mr Dao explained patiently. 'Now, it's right and proper that you should be here, and so there is no wall. Give me the Portable Door - you shouldn't really have taken it and I have responsibilities. Give it to me and let me end all this for you. Please.'
'There was a wall,' Paul whispered. 'There is a wall. Get the fuck out of my way and I'll go and find it.'
'Indeed.' Mr Dao was smiling. His face was so calm it was beautiful. 'And where exactly do you propose looking? This-' he waved his arms at the encircling darkness. 'This is all there is, this is everywhere. You can see it all from here. No wall.'
Paul tried to look round, but he had no way of knowing whether his eyes were open or closed. Didn't seem to make any difference. Where all places are one place, why bother?
'Moo.'
'Fuck,' Mr Dao snapped. 'Piss off, you stupid bloody cow. Go and chew something.'
'Moo,' replied the Great Cow of Heaven, and Paul wasn't sure if that was a reply, an explanation, a rebuttal, an insult, an act of forgiveness or all of these th
ings simultaneously. What he did know was that it was also an invitation. He sprang forward, fumbling to unroll the plastic sheet, and slapped it against the cow s broad flanks. It stuck, and he trembled as he smoothed out the folds and wrinkles, like a passionate paperhanger.
'This is your last chance, Carpenter,' Mr Dao was yelling. 'If you leave this time, that's it. Don't ever try and come back, do you hear me? If you leave, it's for keeps, you can never come here again. Think about that, will you? Think about it.'
There was the door handle, solid as solid could be. 'I've thought,' Paul said. 'Cheerio.'
He squeezed the handle as though he was trying to strangle it, and turned it half a turn to the left. The door opened. 'Home,' Paul said aloud, and stepped through.
There was a door in his kitchen wall, one that hadn't been there before. Paul stepped through it, fell forward and landed painfully.
'Bloody hell,' he mumbled, and looked back over his shoulder. Apparently, God only knew how, he'd just walked out of his fridge.
The fridge light wasn't on; it was dark inside. He scrambled up - sharp tweak in the ankle - and peered inside. Oh, he thought.
No milk in this fridge: no mouldy cheese, furry tomatoes, time-expired pots of yogurt. Instead, through where the back of the fridge should have been, he could see an endless absence of anything at all, except for the distant tiny figure of an elderly Chinese gentleman in a silk robe, shaking his fist at him and yelling something he was too far away to catch. Quickly he slammed the door shut, counted to ten slowly, and opened it again.
The milk was off, and the cucumber he'd bought on a vague whim several weeks ago hadn't made it. But there was a light. No darkness, no absence. Paul shut his eyes and sank to his knees, as the fridge door slowly swung shut. There was a gentle pop, as the seals met.
'I did it,' he said aloud. 'I escaped.'
No reply. Not even a faint lowing of distant cattle. Once again Paul was alone. The difference this time was- The difference was, he didn't have to be. If he wanted, he could go outside. He could go to the shop on the corner, and there'd be people there. He was alive.
Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt Page 34