by Tom Holt
Both girls got up. Jersey glared at Lucy and said, “You’re going, then.”
She nodded. “The movies, followed by pizza. It’s called real life, Jersey. You might care to give it a try some day.”
“Fine.” He’d gone as white as a sheet. “I don’t need you. I managed perfectly well before you came along.”
“Oh sure. You were trapped in a pyramid.”
“Yes, but I got out again.”
“Only because I rescued you.”
Jersey made a wide, vague gesture that knocked over an empty cup. “Sure,” he said. “I sweet-talked some dumb girl into helping me. Done it before, I expect I can do it again. There always seems to be one around when I need one.”
“Goodbye, Jersey.”
“Enjoy your movie.”
He looked away, and when he turned back realised he was alone, not quite in Hell, with a collection of empty cups and a half-eaten snickerdoodle. He reached for it, and a shadow fell over him. He looked up and found himself gazing into the cold grey eyes of the manager.
“That’ll be a hundred and sixty-four dollars and twenty-nine cents.”
He blinked. “For four coffees and some snacks?”
“The prices are clearly marked on the menu.”
“I don’t have any U.S. dollars.”
She nodded towards the far end. “Go see the bank guy. He does currency exchanges.”
He considered refusing to comply, but something in her expression made him think that wouldn’t be a good idea. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here.”
That he could believe. He stood up and walked over to the table where the man in the blue robe was sitting. It was bare except for a teapot and a small, exquisite porcelain cup. “Excuse me.”
The elderly Chinese gentleman looked up and smiled at him. “Greetings,” he said. “Would you care for some tea?”
“I’m more of a coffee person myself.”
“Your loss. Sit down. How much?”
Jersey sat down. “Excuse me?”
“How much would you like to borrow?”
The Chinese gentleman had eyes that went straight through you, like a teredo beetle through a yacht’s hull. “The waitress said you might be able to change my pounds into dollars.”
“I can do that.”
Jersey took out his wallet and sadly produced four twenty-pound notes. Sadly because now the only thing left in his wallet was the lining. The Chinese gentleman took them and laid them in a rectangle, the edges perfectly aligned and not quite touching. “I like doing this,” he said. “It’s fun.” Then he closed his eyes and for a moment Jersey thought he was having some kind of a fit. The notes changed: they shrank a little and turned green, and there were six of them and they had a president on them rather than a monarch, and there was also a small column of shiny coins, stacked in ascending order. The Chinese gentleman opened his eyes, looked at the money and smiled. “Ain’t that something,” he said. “Well?”
Jersey blinked. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“How did you—?”
The Chinese gentleman put a finger to his lips. “Financial wizardry. Of course, I could tell you, but then …”
Bank of the Dead. Fine. “It’s all right,” Jersey said. “Please don’t bother.”
The Chinese gentleman held out his hand. “Dao Wei-qiang,” he said. “For some reason people call me Jack. I wish they wouldn’t.”
“Oh, right. Jersey Thorpe.”
“I wouldn’t be the least surprised.” Mr. Dao let go of his hand, then looked at him as though for the first time. “The Jersey Thorpe?”
“Excuse me?”
“Of course.” Mr. Dao leaned back a little and closed one eye. “How stupid of me not to have recognised you at once,” he said. “Mind you, your statue hardly does you justice.”
“Uh?”
“The statue.” Mr. Dao frowned. “Well, the statue of you in Tiananmen Square. I guess it’s only a copy.”
“Copy?”
“Of the original in Helsinki.” Mr. Dao looked puzzled. Then he smiled. “Excuse me,” he said, rolled up the sleeve of his gown and glanced at a handsome Rolex Oyster watch with no perceptible hands. “My bad,” he said. “How careless of me, it’s not that time yet. Please, forget I spoke.”
“There’s going to be a statue of me?”
Mr. Dao sighed. “There I go again,” he said, “triggering temporal causality loops.” From his other sleeve he pulled out a handkerchief. There was a knot in it. “To remind me,” he said, “not to cause temporal causality loops. But it doesn’t work, because I keep forgetting I’ve tied it. Or else I think I’ve decided to tie it but not got round to it yet. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea?”
There was a second bowl on the table. It hadn’t been there before. “Why not?” Jersey said. “Thank you.”
“Now then.” Mr. Dao beamed at him. “It’s essential that you forget everything I just told you.”
“About the statue?”
“About the statue. The one in Beijing and the original in Helsinki. Not to mention all the others.”
“What others?”
Mr. Dao clicked his tongue. “Oops,” he said. “Forget about them too. The copies in every city and large town on Earth.”
“Um.”
“And especially the one in Thorpe City. I mean Washington. It’s essential that you forget all about them because otherwise your foreknowledge of them might influence your future actions, which might in turn lead to you not actually doing the things that lead to you being famous enough to merit statues in every city on Earth. So blot them out of your mind. This instant.”
“Um.”
“I would strongly advise you to do so,” Mr. Dao continued. “I would never forgive myself if my foolish mistake led to a pollution of the timelines.” He smiled. “At least I wasn’t idiotic enough to let slip what you become famous for.”
“No, you didn’t mention that.”
“Indeed. Though I can tell you’re smart enough to have formed a pretty shrewd idea without having to be told in so many words. I mean, a forty-foot-high solid-gold statue with the inscription SAVIOUR OF THE SPECIES. It’s not the sort of accolade you get for inventing a better brand of soap powder.”
“Saviour of—”
“Me and my big mouth.” Mr. Dao shook his head. “I really should be more careful. Well, you’d better go and pay your tab or Arlene will have you thrown out. Take my advice, though.”
“Hm?”
Mr. Dao leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Just hand the money over. Whatever you do, don’t look at the back of the ten-dollar bill.” He picked up his abacus and flicked a few beads along the strings. “And now, if you’ll excuse me …”
Jersey stood up and walked slowly away. The ten-dollar bill was certainly different. Instead of Alexander Hamilton (who he’d never liked much anyway) there was a picture of someone who might just conceivably be Jersey Thorpe, and instead of the U.S. Treasury building, there was a wide-angle view of Times Square dominated by a huge statue which might just possibly have been meant to be the same person as the portrait on the other side.
Oink, he thought.
Then the note was pulled from his hand, along with the five twenties and the small change, and the menacing glare of the manager made him take a step back. “Thank you,” she growled.
“Excuse me,” he said. “That ten-dollar bill. Is it, you know …?”
“What?”
“Real money?”
She looked at it, held it up to the light, stroked the edge with a practised forefinger and licked one corner. “Lucky for you, yes, it is. Why?”
“Oh, no reason.”
He started to move away, but a vice-like grip caught his arm and he stopped. “You ain’t done it yet, golden boy, so don’t get cocky. You hear me?”
He nodded stiffly. “Yes, thank you.”
“That’s all right, then.” The grip
relaxed very slightly, and blood stated to flow again. “Have a nice day.”
She was even stronger than she looked. Without any perceptible effort, she propelled him backwards until he felt the distinctive shape of a doorknob pressing into the small of his back. “Just a moment,” he said. “You can’t throw me out.”
She grinned. “Throw, no. Shove. Let’s give it a try.”
There had been no knob on the door he’d come in by. “Excuse me,” he said. “This is the wrong door.”
“Argumentative little thing, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
She shoved him hard. “Go to Hell,” she said. And he went.
28
Back in the old days the TV reception in Kevin’s house had been terrible, and they couldn’t have cable because there wasn’t enough silicon on the planet to make one that long. Accordingly, if Kevin wanted to watch something, he had to stream it on his laptop, which was an archaic Kawaguchiya XP970 with a cracked screen and only one functional speaker. Movies in a cinema, therefore, had come as a heart-stopping, though pleasant, revelation. Oh brave new world, and all that.
Above all, he adored the Star Wars films. He enjoyed the timeless archetypes, the strong dualistic morality, the world-building, the unique blend of mysticism and gritty realism and the talking robots, and above all the lightsaber duels, the last so much so that Uncle Gabe and Uncle Mike had tried to re-enact them for him using their flaming swords, but it wasn’t quite the same, somehow.
So the chance of seeing the latest Star Wars in a cinema, on a wide screen with state-of-the-art sound and genuine organic popcorn was too good to miss. He selected his venue with care and opted for the newly opened megaplex in Geneva, which boasted the second-biggest screen in Europe and the cleanest seats anywhere. The last time he’d been to the terrestrial flicks, his seat had been sodden with semi-coagulated vanilla shake, and he’d found himself sitting behind two people who insisted on talking about foam-backed underlay all the way through Spiderman 9, which had ruined the film for him. Little chance of such distractions in Geneva.
He was queuing for popcorn and wondering what had become of the two hapless young people he’d been warned not to help any more when someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he found himself looking straight at one of them.
“Hello,” Lucy said. “I thought it was you.”
“Yes, it’s me. You escaped then.”
“Yup. Where did you suddenly vanish to?”
“What? Oh, right. I got scared and ran away. I’m not very brave.”
To his surprise she smiled. “Very sensible,” she said. “You know, reckless bravery is a bit overrated, in my opinion. In fact, most of the time it’s hard to tell it apart from being really, really stupid. And pigheaded. And ignorant.”
“Ah. Well, I’m glad you got away. Are they still after you?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“How did you—?”
She frowned. “You know, I’m not quite sure. We sort of bumped into some very nice people, and they took us to a sort of cafe place which apparently is some sort of no-man’s-land between here and Hell. If you can believe that.”
“Oh yes.”
“Really? Gosh. Anyhow, we stayed there for a bit and then we decided to go to the movies. And here we are.”
“Yes. Where’s Jersey?”
He’d said the wrong thing. Her face froze. “Don’t know.”
“He’s not with you?”
“Nope.”
“He’s not been captured or anything?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Ah.”
He waited for her to expand on that, but she just stood there looking like the Tomb of the Unknown Popcorn-buyer, so he decided to change the subject. “You’re a Star Wars fan, then.”
“Oh yes.” Considerably more animation in her voice than when discussing—declining to discuss—the possible doom of the young man he’d been sure she was in love with. “Though I thought the last one was a bit of a let-down.”
“Well, it was certainly darker. These people you’re with—”
She smiled. “They went on in. I sort of got the impression I was a bit surplus to requirements. I gather it’s their first date. Very nice people, though. Very sensible.”
As unobtrusively as possible, Kevin looked around. No sign of Venturi security, but then there wouldn’t be; a window would just open in thin air and they’d come bounding out of it, all serried ranks and gleaming white plastic. The idea that the Venturi boys, having suffered a minor frustration, would just give up wasn’t one he was comfortable with. He took a closer look at a couple of twelve-year-old boys eating ice cream on the other side of the foyer. One of them caught his eye and raised his spoon in a tiny salute. Hi, Uncle Gabe. Even so, he felt nervous.
“Do I take it,” he said, “that you and Jersey have had some kind of falling-out?”
The frozen stare again. “Yes.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“No.”
“That’s fine. What flavour of popcorn do you think I should get? I’m afraid I don’t know much about it.”
“Try the wasabi and sweet ginger, it’s a riot.”
“Noted.” He looked away for a moment then added, “The people you came with. You sure they won’t be missing you?”
“I hope not.” She laughed. “I gatecrashed their first date. I’m amazed the Venturi haven’t fined me a million pounds.”
“If you get separated from them, how will you get home?”
She shrugged. “Not sure I want to go home,” she said. “I might just put in for a transfer to the Geneva office and stay here permanently. I think a complete break and a new start might be just the thing for me right now. What do you think?”
Kevin gave her a serious look. “I think, if the Venturis sent stormtroopers to arrest you, they might be thinking they don’t want you working for them any more anywhere. In which case …”
That shook her, he could tell. “Better still,” she said. “I’ll get a job doing something else. An even completer break, right?”
“That’s a very courageous attitude.”
“You mean, I’m being stupid.”
Kevin pursed his lips. “My observations of human beings have led me to the conclusion that there’s a higher form of sublime, almost transcendental courage that’s very hard to tell apart from stupidity. I think you’re being very brave.”
“Thank you.”
“Brave as two short planks.”
“Indeed.” She frowned. “I expect the film’s about to start. Coming?”
He sighed. “Would you like me to?”
“You please yourself.”
“I think it’ll still be mobile phone adverts for another five minutes. I might just stay out here for a bit.”
“Fine.” She looked at him as though he was a Finnish verb in an English sentence. “Nice to have run into you again.”
“Coincidence.”
“Probably.”
“I’m sure you’ll find another job. You’re very clever and efficient.”
Her eyebrows went up like a close-run elevator race, but she nodded and turned away. Oh dear, Kevin thought, humans. The rebound effect? He’d been expected to go with her, keep her company for the rest of the evening, possibly with a view to replacing the unhappy Jersey, for whom, he felt sure, she still had feelings. I don’t know, he thought. You give a species free will and self-determination and look want they do with it. Still …
“You could’ve been well in there, son.”
It took Kevin a moment to identify the annoying old man with the missing front teeth and the salacious leer as uncle Gabe. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you’re human now, aren’t you?”
“So?”
“When in Rome, son.”
Kevin frowned. “Not that human,” he said firmly. “And besides, she’s still in love with that hero person.”
&n
bsp; “You reckon?”
Kevin shrugged. “Give me some money,” he said. “I’m going to buy some popcorn.”
The old man pulled out a wad of banknotes as thick as Anna Karenina. “Try the wasabi and sweet ginger.”
“I know. It’s a riot, apparently.”
“Water cannon and molotov cocktails?”
“Presumably. But in a good way, I imagine.”
He sat with the two archangels, who didn’t seem to care much for the film. Raffa slept noisily, and Gabe kept pointing out the plot holes and the bits where they’d got the science wrong, mostly with his mouth full of Kevin’s popcorn. When the film was over, Kevin looked for Lucy in the crowd leaving the auditorium but couldn’t see her. Maybe she’d got fed up and left early.
29
Lucy opened her eyes and screamed.
A word about the Venturi brothers. The species they’d belonged to, way back when they started out—no, that’s misleading; they were always spirits of pure energy, immortal, indivisible, uncontainable, but like all of their kind they’d adopted the physical appearance of their worshippers (because it’s only polite), and their earliest adherents had been the tough, wiry, no-nonsense wplooplgrf of the Martian sub-equatorial deserts. These are extinct now, apart from the half-dozen or so the Venturis took with them across the galaxy after they’d inadvertently obliterated all other forms of life from the surface of the planet. In due course, the Venturis carved out their new empire, predominantly among bipedal monocephalous smooth-skinned hairless humanoids, to whom they paid the compliment of refashioning themselves in their image. But the six invaluable Old Martians, who now headed up Venturicorp internal security, still looked pretty much the same as they had back in the old days in the Old Country. Rephrase that: very much the same. The word pretty has no place in the same sentence as Section Chief Fjopkhrdg Zrrn, even in a strictly adverbial capacity.
“Greetings,” said the Section Chief. “Would you care for a glass of milk?”
Said is a gross oversimplification. The Section Chief had no vocal cords and communicated by rubbing his wing cases together, modulating the sound by varying the tension of the chitinous fabric. Consequently his English had a slight accent.