by Tom Holt
At that point, Maurice was so relieved that he’d never heard of Yasmin that he’d have agreed to anything. “Sure. Why not?”
Kevin nodded, extended his left hand, and turned it palm upwards. A doughnut materialised out of thin air just above his palm (presumably, Maurice rationalised later, because of health and safety), slowly rose four inches and flipped over.
Maurice closed his eyes, but not quickly enough. In the split second before his eyelids met—Well, you know what it’s like in dreams. In your dream, it feels like half an hour at least, but the scientists will tell you it’s less than a minute of super-deep REM sleep. In that split second, he saw the man in the tweed overcoat again. He was sitting on a fallen tree in a clearing in a forest, still wearing the same coat and scarf – they looked worn and scruffy, and the coat’s cuffs were frayed – and he was warming his hands over an inadequate looking fire of dead twigs. He turned his head slowly and scowled straight at Maurice through the McHole.
“You,” he said.
Maurice didn’t say a word, but he heard his voice say, “Do I know you?”
“I’m Max, you halfwit.” The man shivered, picked up a very small twig and tossed it on the fire. “It’s absolutely freezing here, you realise; most days I can’t feel my fingers. Why the hell don’t you pick up your mail?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your mail.” Max shook his head. “Forget it,” he said. “Look, we don’t have much time. You have no idea how difficult it was, setting this up, and I really don’t want to think about how much it’s costing me. Your girl.”
“My—”
“Don’t interrupt. You want her back or not?”
“Stephanie?”
“Steve,” Max corrected him. “Well? Yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Splendid. I really was beginning to wonder. I mean, all you ever seem to do is lounge around in your living room chatting with your low-life friends. If my girl had been repossessed, I’d be out there doing something.”
That made him so angry that for a split second the McVision wavered. He made a desperate effort and calmed himself down. “Yes,” he said, “I want her back. What do I do?”
“Right, then.” Max pulled the collar of his coat tight around his neck. “Have you got a bit of paper and a pen? You’ll want to write this down.”
“What? No, wait, I haven’t—”
“Latitude 8896431976 north, 6428914404 west. Longitude—”
“Hang on. Eight eight nine, then what?”
“What?”
“You said, eight eight nine, and that’s as far as I got.”
“Oh for pity’s sake.” Max dragged furiously at his scarf, wound it round his mouth and nose, then unwound it again. “Look, are you trying to wind me up? Because I don’t have to do this, you know. There are other heroes.”
“I’m not a—”
“Longitude,” Max said grimly, “3947582919 west, 9012348746 north. Got that? Of course you have. I’ll tell her you’re on your way. She’ll be relieved. She keeps saying, What the hell does he think he’s playing at? When she heard you were spending all your time fooling around on Facebook instead of looking for her, oh boy, was she mad—”
The image was getting dark. “Eight eight nine,” Maurice yelled. “What was after eight eight nine? Please—”
“Excuse me?”
The doughnut had vanished, and Kevin was looking at him with a puzzled frown. Maurice took a step back, his face burning. “What happened?”
“Excuse me?”
“To the doughnut. It was there, and then—”
“You want doughnuts? We have doughnuts.”
“Just now.” But he knew it was no use. And if he tried to explain, he’d be lucky if they didn’t call the police. “Thanks,” he said. “No doughnuts.”
“Have a nice day.”
So, next morning, after a long night’s research on the net, he called in sick and phoned a hypnotist, who by extreme good fortune had a cancellation at 11.30 that day. When he got there he was called in straight away, no waiting.
“I want to remember something,” he told her.
She nodded. “What?”
“A number. Well, four numbers. Very long ones.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. But she recovered, brushed her hair away from her face and smiled encouragingly. “Well, it’s possible. You’d be amazed what’s stored in the memory.” She hesitated, and then a sort of hungry look passed over her face. “This number,” she said. “Did you first encounter it in a previous existence?”
“Um, no. This one. Sorry.”
“Oh. Well, no matter.” She had a sort of hurt expression, through which she was trying to force a professional smile. The result would’ve been downright scary if she hadn’t been wearing glasses. “Only, you see, I sort of specialise in past lives. I had an article in Reincarnation Now.”
“Is that right?” He paused, then went on, “I hate to hurry you, but I’d quite like to get on with it, if that’s OK.”
“Sure, yes, no problem.” She was looking at him with her head slightly on one side. “People have no idea,” she said. “Who’s in there with them, I mean.”
She made it sound like one of those stunts students used to do; how many people can you cram inside a Fiat, that sort of thing. “Well, that’s great. Um.”
“Sorry, yes, of course. Just…”
“Yes?”
Her eyes were shining behind the glassware. “If I do happen to encounter, well, previous incarnations, would it be all right if I just sort of say hello? Really, it’s the most amazing thing. The other day I was helping this guy quit smoking, and seventeen generations ago he was Sir Walter Raleigh. When I told him what he’d been responsible for, he got quite emotional.”
“I don’t suppose I’ve ever been anyone,” Maurice said firmly. “But I really do need to know those numbers, so if it’s absolutely all right with you—”
“Yes, right, let’s get straight to it.” She sat bolt upright in her chair and looked past him, as if there was someone else in the room directly behind him. “Just lie back on the couch, close your eyes and relax.”
“Sure.” He hesitated. “What about the watch?”
“Excuse me?”
“Aren’t you supposed to dangle a watch on a chain or something?”
“I don’t do it like that,” she said firmly, as though he’d suggested something mildly indecent. “Now, starting with your feet, I want you to let go completely.”
Like a suicidal lemur? “How do you mean?”
“Relax,” she snapped. “That’s better. Now, then. Your toes are completely relaxed. Your insteps are completely relaxed. Your heels are completely relaxed. Your Achilles tendons are completely relaxed. Your ankles are completely relaxed. Your shins are completely relaxed. Your knees—”
Somewhere in his head, someone was playing Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones. It wasn’t helping. He was just about to sit up and politely ask for his money back when—
“Now,” she said, “when I click my fingers, I want you to tell me who you are.”
She paused, and looked at the man on the couch. He didn’t look promising, but one thing she’d learned over the years was that you can never tell by appearances. The little fat girl with mouse-coloured hair had turned out to be Eleanor of Aquitaine, while the six-foot-six, blue-eyed, Kirk-Douglas-chinned hunk she’d had in last week had proved to be the current repository of the life energy of six generations of primary-school art teachers. More to the point, she could feel something rare and unusual about this one. There was an oddly makeshift quality about him, like a pantomime horse in a paddock full of thoroughbreds.
Ah well, she thought, and clicked her fingers.
He sat up and scowled at her. “Where am I?” he said.
Oh boy. “It’s perfectly all right,” she said.
“Says you. Look, I asked you a question. Where am I? Or is geography not your strong suit?”
“London. Englan
d.”
He sighed. “Yes, I know that, you stupid woman. Which one?”
The way he asked it, as though it was the most reasonable question in the world. “Excuse me?”
“Which one?” He gazed at her for a moment. “Oh hell. You don’t know, do you?”
“Um.”
He looked around, then suddenly tugged at the neck of his shirt. “Can you turn the heating down a bit, please? Preferably before the fillings in my teeth melt.”
It was a chilly day and she could only afford one bar of the electric fire. “You’re too hot?”
“You bet.” A thought occurred to him. “I guess it’s the difference in climate,” he said. “I’ve been in a very cold place for a very long time.”
Ah, she thought. Based on her first impressions of this one, his character and general attitude, there was a long-running theological argument settled at a stroke. It wasn’t hot down there after all; quite the reverse. “Just a second,” she said, and turned off the fire. “Better?”
He shrugged. “Marginally,” he said. “I’m guessing we’re now below the actual boiling point of copper. Look, I need to get out of here.”
Ah. Always a distressing moment, this, when you had to break it to them. “Actually,” she said gently, “that’s not really possible. You see, you’re dead.”
On reflection, usually she handled it better. But he’d got to her, and she was feeling flustered.
“No I’m not.”
“Trust me. You are.”
“Oh please.” He examined her closely, as if he’d just found her in his soup. “No offence, but I wouldn’t trust you if I asked you the time and we were standing under Big Ben. Not that I’m implying you’re dishonest. Just disastrously misinformed. Do I look dead?”
She cleared her throat. “It’s like this,” she said; and she told him about reincarnation, and how sometimes, under deep hypnosis administered by a specially trained expert, it was sometimes possible to access the memories of previous incarnations. “That’s you,” she clarified. “So tell me, what date is it where you’re from?”
“What? How the hell should I know? I’ve been living in a cave for I don’t know how long. And, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not anybody’s previous life. I’m my own current life, worse luck.” He paused, and screwed up his face. “And his, of course. You have no idea how tacky that is, even if we are 90 degrees apart in the q axis.”
“Um.”
“Shh. I need to concentrate.” He was holding up his hand for silence. “Right, you’ll need a pen and something to write on. Come on, will you? Don’t you take notes when you’re doing your utterly ill-conceived pseudo-experiments?”
Stone-faced, she picked up her clipboard and clicked her ballpoint.
“Splendid, now we’re getting somewhere. It’s always so much better when people do as I tell them. Latitude 8896431976 north, 6428914404 west. Longitude 3947582919 west, 9012348746 north. Got that? Well done. Now, read that lot back to me, so I know you haven’t got it down wrong.”
She did as she’d been told. He nodded. “Splendid,” he said. “Who said people like you can’t be trained to perform simple tasks? No, really, I mean it. I’ve always liked fat women. Once you get past all the unfocused angst, they’re always so pathetically grateful for any show of appreciation, no matter how shallow. Right, I’m all done here; just make sure I get that piece of paper when I wake up.” Suddenly he frowned, then grinned. “You know what, I think I may have been a tad harsh on you just now. There’s some guy called Elric in here, wants to know if the Black Death’s cleared up yet. Just a second, I’ll put him on for you.”
But she’d had quite enough for one day. She clicked her fingers; then, as Maurice opened his eyes and lifted his head a little, she smacked him round the face so hard that her fingertips went numb.
“Uh?” Maurice yowled. “What did I do?”
“That’s for saying I’m fat.”
“But you—No, really. What happened?”
“I’m not fat. I’ve just got big bones.”
“Huge,” Maurice agreed eagerly. “Like an elephant’s. Did you get the numbers?”
She gave him a disgusted look and threw the piece of paper at him. Air resistance turned it broadside-on, and it fluttered to the ground. He picked it up and let out a whoop of joy. “That’s it,” he said. “Eight-eight-nine. Thanks, you’ve been marvellous.”
She glared at him. “Yes, right,” she said. “Any show of appreciation, no matter how shallow. Next time you want to remember something, tie a knot in your hanky.”
It occurred to Maurice that maybe he was missing something. Subtle clues, like her blazing eyes and the slap round the face. “Did something happen?” he asked. “While I was under?”
She moved, and he instinctively shrank away. “You could say that,” she snarled.
“What?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. That’ll be forty pounds for the session, and no, I don’t do PayPal. And you can tell your friend he’s completely wrong. I happen to have a slight, extremely rare hormonal imbalance which has nothing at all to do with chocolate. Got that?”
“My friend?”
“Yes. Now go away. Now.”
So he went to the nearest café, ordered a cappuccino, sat down under a huge black-and-white WHERE IS THEO BERNSTEIN? poster and stared at the numbers. He vaguely remembered latitude and longitude from school, but actually using this data to achieve something useful was clearly another matter entirely. He needed an expert. So he called the Royal Geographical Society.
They weren’t terribly helpful. They gave him the dates of lectures on the history of navigation, and numbers he could call if he was interested in joining the merchant navy, but nothing more immediately relevant than that. Or, they suggested, you could try the Ordnance Survey.
So he tried them, but they said no, it wasn’t one of theirs – too many numbers; your best bet would probably be the Ministry of Defence or possibly NASA. By now his phone was running low on charge, and it was lunchtime, and what the hell. He put the phone away and picked up the menu, at which point a dreadful voice behind him said, “Sniff.”
He spun round, nearly falling off his chair. “Alice,” he said.
Alice was the head of his department at work. “Hello, Maurice,” she said. “Sniff.”
“What?”
“Sniff.”
So he sniffed, and she looked at him for maybe five seconds, then shook her head slowly. “Pathetic,” she said. “You call that a sniff? It’s barely a snuffle.”
Then he remembered that he wasn’t at work because he had a cold. He sniffed again, this time with feeling, but it was too late. Her ice-cold eyes were drilling into him. “You’re not ill,” she said.
“I’m better.”
“Splendid,” Alice said. “I’m so happy for you. Be in the office at nine sharp tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Bring with you,” Alice went on, “a strong cardboard box, about three feet by two. And sticky tape, and some string. That should be big enough to get all your stuff in.”
Terror enveloped him like the big rolling brushes in a car wash. “I was ill, really,” he said.
“No doubt.” She was doing up her coat. “And now you’re just fine. That’s a comfort. I’d feel really bad about firing a sick person.”
Twenty seconds later, he’d found just the right words to frame precisely the best arguments to convince her to give him a second chance. Regrettably, she’d left the café fifteen seconds earlier. He sighed, folded the piece of paper with the numbers on it, tucked it safely away in his top pocket, and went home.
The next week was pretty bad. To distract himself from the fact that he no longer had a job or an income, he threw himself body and soul into the task of making sense of the coordinates on the piece of paper. He spent hours online, reading everything he could find about the various mapping conventions, none of which seemed to fit the apparently random jumble of
numbers he’d been given. A few of the government and academic agencies he emailed did actually reply, though only to tell him that whatever the numbers he’d got hold of were, they weren’t coordinates according to any known system. A friendly lady from the Van Goyen Institute in Leiden wrote back to say that they looked to her a bit like lottery numbers, and if he tried them and he won, could she have five per cent for suggesting it? Other than that, the responses were less than helpful.
The dead end, combined with a bank statement, brought him up sharp. Yes, Stephanie was still missing and the coordinates were still tantalisingly obscure. That didn’t mean he was let off earning a living; he would almost certainly find it even harder to achieve his quest if he had to start living in a cardboard box under the railway arches. Reluctantly but resolutely, he started looking for a job.
There’s nothing like doing an impossible thing for taking your mind off the other impossible thing you feel you ought to be doing. Somehow or other, he managed to kid a dozen or so of the scores of potential employers he applied to into interviewing him, but the interviews themselves left him feeling like someone who’s got into Wimbledon by kidnapping a star player and stealing his identity, and who’s now faced with his first match on Centre Court. The interviewers were generally kinder to him than he deserved, but that only made it worse; it’s hard to blame your failure on other people when they go out of their way to be nice to you. Eleven spectacular crashes later, he found himself wondering how he could’ve been so colossally stupid as to alienate the only company on earth gullible enough to exchange good money for his fundamentally worthless time.
Just one to go. He Google-mapped the address (Carbonec House, Evelake Street) and planned his route carefully so there’d be no danger whatsoever of arriving late; about the only virtue he had to offer was punctuality, which would’ve been fine if the job had been lamp-lighting or clock-winding. In the event, his Tube train got stuck down a deep, dark hole for an hour, and he arrived in Evelake Street twenty minutes late and gasping for breath.