by Tom Holt
Another look at his watch. Coffee time. He was going to have to run. He ran.
They were all there as usual, except for Mr Pecheur. He looked wildly round the room, but there was no sign of him. Instead, Mr Nacien walked up to him, gave him a faint smile and said, “Everything all right down there, is it?”
He nodded. “Where’s Mr—?”
“Leroy’s not feeling a hundred per cent, I’m afraid. Nothing to worry about,” Mr Nacien added soothingly, “he’ll be good as new tomorrow, I’m sure. That last box—”
“Ready and waiting. Um, what’s wrong with—?”
“Oh, the old trouble.” Mr Nacien nodded gracefully and withdrew, and nobody else seemed to want to talk to him.
As soon as he could he left the back office and scampered down the stairs to the sub-basement. The box had gone. So, apparently, had the parcel tape. Also – he couldn’t be sure, but he had a feeling that someone had been in there while he was away and put back a load of the displaced boxes on the shelves.
Hardly a criminal offence if they had (and if it was a crime, what would it be? Breach of the mess? Breaking and tidying? Mind you, his mother had been known to do that, and if it wasn’t criminal it was certainly offensive). Even so, he didn’t like it. Right, then. What do I do now?
It was weirdness, he told himself sternly, and we have a clearly defined policy on weirdness. We ignore it completely, because paying attention to it only encourages it. We refuse to recognise it, as if it was an illegal or oppressive regime in a faraway country. In which case, nothing just happened here, and we should get on with tidying up after the earthquake.
Yes, but it was Ste—
No it wasn’t.
Yes it was.
No it wasn’t. Physically impossible (and the first inner voice that so much as whispers ‘multiverse theory’ is going to get frogmarched to the nearest ear and given a flying lesson). That wasn’t Stephanie he’d seen in there, just as the attractive brunette in the smart suit hadn’t really been Duty. Just weirdness, that’s all. Just another floating doughnut, among so many.
(He thought, Guess I must’ve chosen the path of duty after all, because I haven’t exactly had much fun since Saturday morning. Instead, I’ve put my duty to my employers ahead of my personal feelings. That’s good, isn’t it? Like hell it is.)
The rest of the day merged with the rest of the week, and drained away into the past like gasoline poured on a flowerbed. He didn’t bother getting out of bed at all on Saturday; odd, since he’d barely slept at all that week, and yet didn’t feel particularly tired. In fact, he didn’t feel anything much. It was as though he was waiting for something, and until it happened, nothing he did could possibly have either value or meaning. On Sunday he got up at 6 a.m., got dressed, sat in his chair more or less motionless until eight o’clock, then went for a walk. He got home shortly after 9 p.m., and couldn’t remember where he’d been.
9 a.m. Monday morning. There was an envelope taped to the Omskium door. He opened it, memorised the enclosed list and burned it. Six boxes; he’d found them all by lunchtime. He dragged them out to the foot of the stairs, closed the Omskium door, then tried to figure out where he could hole up and watch the boxes from without being seen.
The ideal place – it could’ve been put there especially for the purpose – was the basement toilet, the one where the white samite hand had given him the X-Calibre letter-opener. He put the toilet lid down, thought about it, remembered where he’d seen a pile of bricks sitting in a neat stack in his sub-basement (what were they there for? God knows), fetched four of them and piled them on the lid just to be on the safe side. Then he sat on the floor, opened the toilet door just enough so he could see anyone going up or down the stairs, and settled down to wait.
Maurice Katz wasn’t one of Nature’s passive observers. A cat can spend a whole day watching a mousehole. Sentries presumably find a way of coping with the tedium as they stand outside public buildings. Maurice hadn’t been cast in that mould. Under any other circumstances, he’d have given up after ten minutes and found something to do. Not this time. Every time he felt the urge to fidget, even when the pins and needles set in, converting his left leg into an instrument of diabolical torture, he forced himself to keep still and quiet. It’s important, he told himself, and for once he listened.
It was around four thirty when they came. He heard footsteps, and saw two pairs of feet go past: one pair of steel-toe-capped workboots, size ten; one pair of Adidas trainers. He counted footfalls on the stairs going down to the sub-basement – easy, because the workboots squeaked. He heard a distant grunt and moan, then the feet coming back up, rather more slowly. Now, he thought. He jumped up, winced as the cramp caught him, forbade it to hinder him (amazingly, it worked) and strode out onto the landing.
Coming up the stairs towards him were two enormous boxes. Behind each one, a man. He took position on the top step, legs astride.
“’Scuse me,” said a voice from behind the leading box. “Coming through.”
“No you’re not,” Maurice said, in a voice he barely recognised.
The box wavered, then dropped to the ground, as the very old man who’d been holding it lost his grip. Behind him, a very tall, thin young man lowered his box in a rather more controlled way.
“You,” Maurice said.
The old man blinked at him through bulletproof-glass-thick spectacle lenses. “Would you mind stepping aside, please, sir? Can’t get past, you see, with you stood there.”
“It’s you,” Maurice repeated. “The dragon-remover.”
The old man (it was definitely him; once seen, never forgotten) frowned. “Not quite sure I follow, sir. Look, if it’s all the same to you—”
“You came round to my place,” Maurice said firmly. “You and the half-wit. You took away a dead dragon. Well, you vanished it, anyhow.”
The old man nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “I remember you now, sir. Got to excuse me, terrible memory for faces.”
“You kidnapped my friend.”
The old man smiled and shook his head. “Not really, sir. Just our little joke. Tradesmen’s humour. Not very funny, but it brightens up our lives, you know?”
“You weren’t joking,” Maurice said. “You meant it.”
“Hardly,” the old man said. The young man was unwrapping a slice of clingfilm-wrapped fruit cake. “All due respect, sir, but it was just a joke. Now, if you really wouldn’t mind getting out of the way, we’re on a schedule here.”
Maurice glared at him, then sat down on the top step. “No one’s going anywhere,” he said. “Not until I get some answers.”
The old man gave him a very sad look, then nodded. “If you insist,” he said. “But keep it short, can’t you? We got to get these back to the depot by half five.”
“Right,” Maurice said (and the young man swallowed the last of the fruit cake, took out his mobile and started texting). “For a start, what are you doing here?”
“Collecting boxes,” the old man said. “It’s our job.”
“No it isn’t. You clear up dead dragons.”
“Removals and deliveries,” the old man said. “Specialising in specialist commodities, which I’m afraid we are not at liberty to discuss. Sorry,” he added. “Rules.”
“What did you do with my friend?”
The old man blinked at him. “Nothing, sir. Honestly.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The old man just gazed at him, patiently, like a horse. “Fine,” Maurice said. “Where are you taking those boxes?”
“Just down to the depot, sir. Like we always do.”
“Where’s the depot?”
The young man put his phone away, as if he’d just noticed Maurice was there. For a moment he looked at Maurice, a slow, calculating look, as if he was working out, quite dispassionately, the most ergonomically efficient way of getting rid of him. Then his hand went back in his pocket and produced a Snickers bar, which he ate.
&nbs
p; “Not supposed to say, sir, sorry. Confidential.”
Maurice tried staring at him, but the old man’s glasses seemed to deflect him, like the shields of a starship. “Do all the boxes go there?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“Splendid,” Maurice said. “Now, tell me where the depot is, and nobody’s going to get hurt.”
The old man sighed. “Really, sir, you shouldn’t be asking that. Not allowed, see. Need-to-know basis.”
“I’m asking.”
“Please don’t. Otherwise, I’ll have to get young Arthur here to thump you, and I really don’t want to do that.”
“Him? He doesn’t scare me. Now if I was a sandwich it’d be different, but I’m not. Where’s the depot?”
“Oh dear.” The old man shook his head sadly. “Art, move the gentleman out of the way, would you? Gently.”
The young man stood up – there really was rather a lot of him, far more than was necessary – popped the stub of his Snickers bar in his mouth and edged past the old man, heading up the stairs. Without thinking what he was doing, Maurice stuck his hand in his jacket pocket. His fingers closed around something and he pulled it out. The letter-opener; he must’ve been carrying it round with him all week without realising.
The young man froze, his eyes wide, his jaws no longer moving. “I’ve got a—” What had he got? Good question. He paused and rephrased. “I’ve got this,” he said, “and I’m not afraid to use it.”
The old man looked worried. “Please be careful with that, sir, if you don’t mind. I promised the lad’s mother I’d look after him, see. Look, if you wouldn’t mind very much putting it away.”
What’s so terrifying about a cheap pot-metal letter-opener? “No chance,” Maurice said. “Not until you tell me where the depot is.”
“Really, sir, if you could see your way to not pointing that thing at me.” The old man seemed genuinely worried, which Maurice found mildly terrifying. “Excuse me,” the old man went on, “but you do know what you’ve got there, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Well,” Maurice conceded, “not exactly. What is it?”
The old man pursed his lips, then gave him a humourless grin. “Exactly what you want it to be.”
What a strange thing to say; but as soon as he’d said it, Maurice got the strangest feeling. He was holding an aluminium-alloy paperknife, yes; but he was also, and simultaneously, holding a sword, a crossbow, a shotgun, a rocket launcher, a fleet of nuclear submarines, a rigorous program of economic sanctions and a neutron blaster. He looked down at his hand. He was holding a paperknife. “Um,” he said. “What is this?”
“You mean you don’t—”
“Obviously not. Well?”
The old man nodded. “What you’ve got there, sir,” he said, “is a constant object. Very sought after,” he added eagerly, “very rare. Only about forty of them ever made in the whole of the multiverse, and only four of them was weapons. Of course, with you being a hero and all—”
One word had hooked into his brain and stuck fast. “Multiverse?”
“That’s it, sir. Multiverse theory. A constant object stays the same no matter which universe it’s in. Well, not the same, naturally. But it retains its identity and function, see. Like, if it’s a door, it works as a door no matter where you are. And if it’s a weapon – what I just said about not pointing, sir, if it’s all the same to you.”
The only thing keeping Maurice from dropping it like a red-hot coal was the thought that if he did that, it might go off. “All right,” he said desperately. “I’ve got a whatever-itwas-you-said…”
“Constant object, sir.”
“Yes, right, and I’m still not afraid to use it. Well, I am, but what the hell. I’m afraid of everything, but I manage to cope.”
“Course you do,” the old man said politely. “That’s what true heroism’s all about, isn’t it? And now if you’d please put that thing away—”
Maurice nodded, and put the Thing back in his pocket, but he kept his hand on it. “I’m still threatening you,” he explained. “I’m just doing it safely, that’s all.”
“That’s a very responsible attitude, if I may say so. If more heroes was like you, there’d be less bloody stupid accidents, excuse my language, and we wouldn’t have all this regulation we’re getting in the industry these days. Get him, Art.”
The young man could move surprisingly quickly when he wanted to. He was almost quick enough to reach Maurice before he got the letter-opener out of his pocket. But not quite. There was a horrible moment when the young man was rearing up in front of him like a psychotic ent; then there was a dazzling green flash, and the young man slumped and fell down the stairs until he came to rest against the nearest box.
“Oh.” The old man was staring at him. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that, Mr Katz, sir. You killed Art.”
Maurice gawped at the letter-opener, which wasn’t a letter-opener anymore. It was now a grey plastic thing, sort of a cross between a Dymo tape dispenser and a water pistol. It was faintly warm against his skin.
“Um,” he said. “Actually, I think it’s all right.”
“It’s not all right,” the old man wailed. “He’s dead; you killed him. That was very wrong of you.”
“I think it’s got different settings,” Maurice said anxiously. “Look, you see? This switch thing here.”
He pointed with his other hand. There were three positions: KILL, STUN and ANNOY. The little lever was opposite the middle one. The old man peered down at it, took off his glasses, put on a different pair and leaned forward till his nose was almost touching the plastic. “Stun,” he said. “You set it on stun.”
“Well, not—Yes, I did,” Maurice corrected. “Naturally,” he added, “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want you to tell me where the depot is.”
“He’s breathing,” the old man said, as the young man let out a ferocious snore. “Thank God for that. I promised his mother—”
“The depot,” Maurice said, and he clicked the switch audibly (from STUN to ANNOY, but the old man wasn’t to know that). “Take me there. I really do mean it, you know. And you shouldn’t have told him to attack me.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t have hurt you,” the old man said. “He’s completely useless, bless him. Always tripping over his own feet, for one thing.” He straightened up and looked at the plastic gadget in Maurice’s hand. “We did have the not-pointing conversation, didn’t we?”
The young man groaned and stirred; his right hand lifted feebly, groped for his pocket and tugged out an individual pork pie. “He’s feeling better,” Maurice said, as the young man stuffed the pie in his mouth and discovered it was still wrapped in cellophane. “Soon as he’s ready to move—”
“Sorry, sir, I can’t take you to the depot; it’s more than my job’s worth,” the old man wailed. “And if I get the sack, so does Art, and he’s not going to find another job any time soon, not without me to look after him. There’s no harm in him, sir, it’s just that he’s—”
“Useless.”
“That’s right, sir.” The old man nodded vigorously. “So please don’t ask, sir. Please.”
Oh for crying out loud. “All right,” Maurice said. “Just tell me where this depot is. And I promise, if I get caught or anything, I won’t tell them you told me.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The old man sighed, glanced down at the young man, who’d half opened his eyes and was checking his phone for messages, and nodded once. “You’re a hard man, Mr Katz, very hard. All right, then. You carry on down to the bottom of the road, first left then second right, three hundred yards you come to a T-junction, turn left, follow your nose about two hundred yards, left then sharp right, should bring you out opposite a big grey building; immediately after that you look for a sharp turning on your left, fifty yards then you turn right, then second left, then right again just before you get to DVD World, carry on straight two hundred yards the
n third left, second right, over the railway bridge – that’s the second railway bridge, but if you’re at the third railway bridge you’ve come too far – across that and you come to a big roundabout, take the third exit then carry on for about six hundred yards, then first left, second right, which sort of bends you back on yourself, straight on half a mile past the old tyre factory, under the railway arches, then third left, carry on three hundred yards and there you are. You can’t miss it.”
“Sorry?” Maurice said.
“You take the first left then the second right—Tell you what,” the old man said, pausing for breath, “I’ll draw you a map. Got a pen?”
“Um.”
“I’ve got a pen,” the old man said, unclipping one from his top pocket. “Now, something to write on.” He turned out his pockets and eventually found a crumpled till receipt, which he smoothed out against the wall. “All right, we’re here, see—”
The map, when completed, looked rather like Picasso’s lost masterpiece, Still Life With Spaghetti, reduced to a sixteenth of its true size, but Maurice had the feeling that it was the best he was likely to get. “Thanks,” he said, stowing it carefully in his inside pocket. “And look, I’m sorry about the—”
“It’s like they say,” the old man said. “Might is right, and a polite enquiry backed up with deadly force generally gets you what you want in this life. He’s going to have an almighty headache when he comes round, poor kid. Look, he’d hardly touched his cheese and ham slice.”
Maurice helped them get the boxes up the stairs to the ground floor. He felt it was the least he could do. Then he went back down to the sub-basement, shut the door and reached in his pocket. The letter-opener-ray-gun was now a small plastic tape measure. He positioned it carefully on a shelf and stared at it for a while, then wrapped his handkerchief tightly around it and put it away.