'And you were the mouse, and the stupid things you had to do were the clicking?'
'Suppose so.' Paul yawned. It wasn't surprising that he was feeling worn out. He couldn't remember when he'd last slept; it was either just before his most recent death, or just after his death before last, and besides, time hadn't had any meaning for him lately. Probably he wasn't just suffering from exhaustion but time-lag as well. 'The other stuff you asked about-' He yawned again. 'Sorry, I've forgotten. What was it?'
'Something about Custardspace.' Sophie was yawning too. 'I can't remember either, so I don't suppose it was very important.' She frowned, as though trying to round up a flock of stray thoughts with a very slow, lazy sheepdog. 'What is important,' she went on, rubbing her eyelids, 'is us. What happens next? Where do we go from here?'
'Um,' Paul replied, and he knew that yes, this was really important, really really, but in spite of that he couldn't seem to keep his eyelids apart. Also, his head was very heavy and his neck disappointingly weak. 'Think I'll just,' he mumbled, and rested his head on his forearms. As he closed his eyes, he heard Sophie yawning hugely.
A couple of minutes later, the little bald, round-headed man who ran the sandwich bar came out from behind the counter, checked to make sure all the other tables and chairs were empty, and turned the sign in the window from OPEN to CLOSED, EVEN FOR THE SALE OF PRANCING PORKER CRISPS.
Just to be on the safe side, he shot the bolts on the door and drew the blinds. Then, tiptoeing, he left the room and nipped out into the back, locking the door behind him.
On the other side of the door, he grinned, though there was a smidgeon of sadness in his empty black eyes. In a few minutes he'd cease to exist, at least until the next time (and when that happened and he was jerked back into existence he was pretty sure that he'd wake up as someone else, a slightly but crucially different personality, because that was what always happened. He'd never be Frank Laertides again, at any rate; in which case, even if his son was still alive when the next call to duty came, he wouldn't be Paul's father any more. Pity, that. He'd created worlds and bred countless billions of different forms of life to inhabit them, but he'd never actually been a father before. It had been a strain, all that worry and stress, not to mention frustration and disappointment, but on balance he felt it had enriched him. And been fun.)
But - he shrugged - there you go. Meanwhile, the last step, the last procedure was now under way and, barring horrible accidents, was bound to succeed. Just to be sure, he'd slipped half as much again of the world-famous JWW love philtre as was strictly necessary into Paul and Sophie's coffee. According to the helpful leaflet that came packed in with each bottle, exceeding the recommended dose wasn't bad for you physically, it just enhanced the effect; but it could, in certain cases, make life pretty trying for the relatives, friends and neighbours of the happy couple, particularly if they were cursed with weak stomachs. Not every pair of overdosed lovers would inevitably grow into the sort of nauseating couple who think up cutesy new pet names for each other every week and hold hands in the waiting room at the tax office; but the risk was there, and was not to be underestimated.
On the other hand, he decided, the course of true love never did run smooth. But where the two idiots next door were concerned, so far the course of true love had been a dodgem ride organised by Virgin Atlantic. If ever there was a case for adding an extra tablespoonful just to make absolutely sure, this was it. In fact, he'd have bunged in a bit more, only then there wouldn't have been any room left in the cups for any coffee.
Well, he thought. Time he wasn't here.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he couldn't tell the difference, which told him he'd arrived. Time had no meaning here, of course, so strictly speaking he wasn't late for the afternoon whist drive or the eleven o'clock origami class or the early-evening cookery course (vegan dinner party recipes with Julia Sniff). But he couldn't be bothered right now; they'd always be there and so would he. Instead he relaxed, let go, savoured the experience of no longer existing. He found he didn't like it much, but there wasn't an awful lot he could do about that.
Paul opened his eyes. His neck hurt. 'Sophie?' he said.
'Honeybundle?'
What did she just call me? He lifted his head off the table, straightened his back and looked at her. 'Are you feeling okay?' he asked warily. 'Fluffinuffin,' he added.
They looked at each other for a moment; then, like a rogue asteroid, the penny dropped.
And Paul thought - well, he knew what he thought, though it had taken him all this time to admit it to himself, but it did occur to him to wonder what was passing through her mind. I would give good money, he said to himself, Dad, if you're listening, to know that right now. And you owe me a flyer, if you remember.
But there wasn't any answer, and he realised that his father -Mr Laertides, Uncle Ken - was gone, wouldn't be coming back. And neither would any of them. And he was alone, which was just a downbeat way of saying free.
Except that he wasn't; because he didn't actually need magic, chocolate-coated dragon droppings or the imp-reflecting mirror in the JWW boardroom or any gadgetry of any kind to see what was going on inside Sophie's head right now. He could read it in her face, in clear, for free.
'That's all right then, is it?' he said.
'Suppose so.' She shrugged. 'Depends on you, really.'
'No, it depends on you.'
'No, it-' Suddenly she looked round. 'Bloody hell,' she said. 'They've locked the doors on us, we're trapped in here.'
Abruptly, the doors blew open, the blinds shot up, and the sign in the window swung round. A tall woman in a light blue coat wandered in and asked for a cup of tea and an almond Danish.
Sophie frowned for a moment, as if struggling to remember where she was, then said, 'Sorry, we're shut.'
'It says you're open on the door,' the woman pointed out.
'Go away,' Sophie said.
The woman stiffened, gave Sophie a poisonous look and drifted out into the street. 'We'd better go,' Paul said.
'All right,' Sophie replied. 'Where?'
'No idea,' Paul said; at which point, something on the blank wall opposite caught his eye. At first sight, he'd taken it for a tourism poster: a map, with big, jaunty, friendly lettering at the top. He stood up and went closer. It was a map, all right, but not of any place he recognised. A slice of coastline, by the look of it, or half an island; and skewering it like a kebab stick, an arrow; and at the thick end of the arrow, the words You Are Here.
'Here, Sugar-angel,' he said, 'have a look at this.'
(Sugar-angel, he thought, oh my God.) 'So what?' Sophie said. 'It's just a map.'
'Yes,' Paul said, 'but it's a map of somewhere that doesn't exist.'
'What?'
'It's a map,' Paul repeated, 'but there's no such place.'
'Yes, there is.'
'No there-' A few headache tendrils probed the tender walls of his skull, but he ignored them. He tried to remember - geography lessons with Miss Hook. Of course, he'd been notorious for not paying attention. 'There is?'
'Of course there is,' Sophie said firmly. 'New Zealand.'
'New what?'
'Zealand.'
Paul thought for a moment. 'Never heard of it,' he said.
'Really?'
'Yes. Look-' He stopped. Fine, it slipped neatly into place in a now-familiar pattern. There was stuff he'd been prevented from learning when he was at school, for the sake of the Grand Design. Accordingly, there was a reason why he'd not been allowed to know about this island place, New whatsit. And what could that reason possibly be? 'Tell me about it,' he said.
She looked at him. 'Tell you about New Zealand? Now?'
'Yes. Please,' he added, because please is like the little paper umbrella you find lolling in the corner of fancy drinks, serving no useful purpose but some people get strangely upset if it's not there. 'I need to know why I've never heard of it.'
'Oh.' Paul watched Sophie play tha
t back in her mind, draw a blank and resolve to overlook it for now. 'Well, I don't actually know a lot. It's sort of near Australia, and the people are sort of Australians only not quite so bouncy, and they filmed Lord Of The Rings there, and I think that's about it, really.'
'Thanks. So why does that arrow say, "You are here"?'
'I don't know, Dreampumpkin,' Sophie admitted. 'I mean, it's lying, but there's no reason to believe it's anything to do with us. Maybe the man who owns this place comes from there, or his son's over there working on a bloody sheep ranch.' She shook her head sadly. 'It's working at JWW;' she sighed. 'After a while, you automatically assume that anything weird must be about us personally.'
Paul considered that for a moment. 'Nice idea,' he said, 'but I'm not buying it. Bloody hell, there's this whole island I've never heard of before, and suddenly there's a map of it on a wall.' He frowned. 'Is it big, this New Whatsit place?'
'Fairly.'
'Like, say, the Isle of Wight?'
'Bigger.'
'Bloody hell.' For a moment, Paul couldn't find room in his mind for anything beyond anger at a world that had had so much fun at his expense. Kick him around, don't tell him stuff everybody else knows, kill him repeatedly, and when you've finished with him, flush him round the U-bend where he belongs. Even his happy ending was tainted; it came out of a bottle and it was compulsory, a convenient tying-off of loose ends for God: let's get shot of these two redundant instruments of the Great Plan by making them fall in love. 'Screw it,' he said, with sudden and terrible resolution. 'They can't just fire us. We've got rights.'
'Paul?' No wonder she's looking at me like that, Paul thought; the worm is turning so fast you could use it as a masonry drill. 'But the whole point is, we wanted them to fire us. We only stayed because that bastard Tanner-'
'Doesn't matter,' Paul shouted. 'Doesn't matter a bit. They can't screw up our entire world and then just shoo us away.' He calmed down a bit, but the determination was still there. 'They've got to do something about it,' he said. 'They can work magic and stuff, they must be able to put us right.'
Sophie frowned, puzzled. 'You mean counselling or something?'
Paul shrugged. 'Don't know, not my department. Up to them. And we're going round there right now, and if they refuse to help, well, God help them.'
'Maybe he will, at that,' Sophie said. 'After all, if you're right, He used to be a partner.'
So they took a taxi to St Mary Axe, and walked up the so-very-familiar pavement to the building they knew so well; and they stopped outside and looked at it for two minutes without moving or saying a word.
It was Sophie who eventually broke the silence. 'Fine,' she said.
'What?'
'I said, "Fine." It's not there any more. Or at least, the building's still there, but now it's a bloody Starbucks. If you ask me, I'd say they've won this round.'
Paul realised he hadn't actually breathed for quite some time. 'No, they haven't,' he said, between gritted teeth. 'They're in there somewhere, hiding.'
'Disguised as Danish pastries, you mean?'
'I mean it's that stuff Countess Judy used to do - effective magic. They've put a spell or a glamour or something on the building, so we'll think it's a coffee shop.' He scowled ferociously. 'Won't work. I know how to break through those things. It's easy, actually. You've got to imagine that what you see is really just old manky wallpaper, and then you find a loose corner and you-' He stood for thirty seconds or so, during which time he pulled some very strange faces. 'You try,' he said.
'Don't be bloody stupid, Sugarwombat,' Sophie snapped. 'It's a real coffee shop. Stop doing whatever it is you're doing, before you give yourself a hernia.'
'It can't be,' Paul protested. 'It wasn't there yesterday, or whenever it was. I'm going in.'
'Please yourself,' Sophie replied. 'I'll just have a cup of tea, though.'
They sat down at a table that should by rights have been the reception desk; but Mr Tanner's mum wasn't there, and although a fairly attractive blonde girl came up to take their order, she didn't grin. 'Excuse me,' Paul asked her.
'Yes?'
'Can you tell me,' he said, 'how long has this place been here?'
The waitress thought for a moment. 'Don't really know,' she said. 'I've only been here, what, eight months, but Ray, he's the manager, I think he's been here since it opened, and I think he said it was three years, something like that.'
'Three years.'
'Something like that,' the waitress repeated. 'Why, have you been here before or something?'
'We used to work here,' Sophie put in. 'When it was just offices.'
'Ah, right.' The waitress went away, and Paul put his face in his hands. Suddenly he felt very tired.
'All right,' he said. 'I still think they're out back somewhere, hiding. But I can't be bothered any more.'
Sophie reached out and took his left hand in hers. 'Forget about it,' she said. 'The main thing is, we don't have to go back. The rest of our lives belong to us.'
Someone coughed, and they both looked round. A very distinguished-looking Chinese gentleman was standing over them, wearing a beautiful dark blue suit. He nodded politely to Sophie, smiled at Paul and handed him an envelope. Paul took it without thinking; then he dropped it as though it was burning his hand.
'Pardon me for interrupting,' said Mr Dao. 'I thought I might find you here.'
Paul stared at him, with a rare and rather unstable blend of fear and hatred in his eyes. 'What the fuck are you doing here?' he muttered. 'You should be-'
Mr Dao nodded. 'Quite,' he said. 'But, as you may have noticed, the world has changed since we last met. In particular, this building. There are loose ends, formalities; a connecting door that is no longer either required nor authorised, and therefore must be sealed off. Perhaps it wasn't entirely necessary for me to come in person to supervise the arrangements, but-' He shrugged charmingly. 'Everybody likes an excuse to get out of the office for a while every now and again. And besides,' he added, 'I wanted to see you.'
Paul felt his bowels loosen a little. 'Me?'
'Quite so. To tell you that this will be our last meeting for a while. To be precise, for sixty-two years, three months, five days, nine hours, fourteen minutes and' - he counted under his breath for a moment or so - 'forty-five seconds from now. And as for you, young lady-' He looked at Sophie for a moment, then shook his head. 'Perhaps you would prefer me not to spoil the surprise.'
Sophie stared at him, then looked away as if she'd just brushed against an electric fence. 'Paul,' she said, 'who the hell's this and what's he talking about?'
'Him?' Paul closed his eyes, then opened them again. 'Oh, that's just Mr Dao. From the Bank. I'm sorry,' he went on, 'but I missed that. Could you just repeat-?'
'No,' said Mr Dao, smiling. 'The letter is not from me, or my associates. Mr Tanner asked me to give it to you. Before you ask, I have no forwarding address for him. I'll be seeing him in-' He glanced at his watch; an original Dali and probably quite valuable. 'In four years or so,' he said. 'I could ask him then, if you like.'
'No,' Paul said quickly, 'that's fine. Thank you.'
'A pleasure.' Mr Dao smiled again. 'I've taken the liberty of putting you down for basket-weaving on Thursdays and beginners' Esperanto on Monday evenings. It's sensible to book well in advance, just to be sure. Ms Pettingell, good day.'
He turned, walked to the doorway and went out. Paul leaned back in his chair, trying to keep his hands and feet still. Sophie leaned across and looked at him.
'Are you all right, Candyfluff?' she asked. 'You've gone as white as a sheet.'
Paul took a deep breath, while he still could. 'Fine,' he replied. 'Look, can you remember what he just said? Sixty-one years, five months, three days-'
Sophie shook her head. 'No,' she said, 'it was sixty-five years, two months-'
'No, it was definitely sixty-one.' Paul scratched his head. 'Or was it sixty-three? Oh Christ, I can't remember.'
'Oh. Was it import
ant?'
Was it important? Oh, eleven out of ten for a really good question. 'No,' he said, 'not terribly.'
'And besides,' Sophie went on, 'he's got to be joking, right? I mean, he was seventy if he's a day. He's not going to be around in sixty-four years-'
'Sixty-two,' Paul said. 'Or something like that. Anyhow, like you said, it's really not important.' He felt the envelope under his hand: heavy, good-quality paper, slightly rough to the touch. JWW's best quality stationery. He turned it over, and there was the monogram, JWW, deeply embossed just above the flap.
'Well,' Sophie said, 'aren't you going to open it?'
Paul nodded, slid a finger under the flap and looked inside. His face fell. 'No cheque,' he said.
'Well, you can't expect miracles,' Sophie replied. 'Are you going to read it, or-?'
'All right, Fluffbunny,' he said. 'Give me a moment.' He unfolded the letter. The familiar letterhead; the list of partners' names - but it was shorter than it used to be.
John W Wells MAA (Oxon) LLB FIPES DipN
C. N Suslowicz FSEE AIBG
R. Catherwood-Tanner A'IA BLG Playmate of the Month August 1967, July 1983
D. Tanner BA (Plymouth) BG
'R. Catherwood-Tanner,' Sophie read aloud. 'Who the bloody hell is that?'
'Mr Tanner's mum,' Paul said, after a moment. 'Must be. She married that clerk we rescued, remember? So they made her a partner.' He actually smiled, a bit. 'Well,' he said, 'that suggests she's still alive, though you can't be sure with these people. Anyway.'
He looked back at the letter.
Dear Cousin Paul -He shuddered.
Hope this finds you well. Sorry to have missed you, but we've had to clear out in a hurry, on account of some careless fuckwit blowing a hole in the pocket reality we were existing in. (You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you? Sarcastic laughter.) It was the only decent day's work Tosser Van Spee ever did for us, and some bugger had to spoil it. Oh well.
Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt Page 44