The Portable Door (1987)

by Tom Holt

  “True.” Neville stood up. “I’m going for a pee,” he announced, and lumbered away across the bar.

  While he was gone, Paul reflected on something Neville had said earlier. If it’s such a load of crap, he’d said, why do you stick it? Why don’t you pack it in and do something else? Of course, Paul hadn’t been able to tell him the real reason, because if he’d shyly confessed that there was this girl, actually the strange, rather hostile—well, actually extremely unpleasant—girl he shared an office with, Neville would immediately have quizzed him about the steps he’d taken to further the matter, and would’ve been profoundly unimpressed to hear that he hadn’t actually done anything about it at all. Actually, since Neville wasn’t first cousin to two oak floorboards, he’d probably figured out that part of it for himself—

  “You know what I think?” Neville said, reappearing with two full pint glasses and wiggling himself comfortably into his seat. “I think you’ve got it up the nose about this weird-sounding bird you’re working with. Otherwise you’d have told them to stuff it a fortnight ago.”

  “What makes you think that?” Paul asked.

  “Get real. You obviously hate it there; they’re all either nutty as a Snickers bar or complete bastards, the work’s boring enough to kill an accountant, and the place is freaking you out so badly, you jump like petrol prices every time the door opens. The only possible reason you’re still there is that you’ve got yourself hung up on some bird. And,” he went on, ignoring Paul’s mumbled denials, “since I’ve known you for a decade and observed you closely throughout your troubled formative years, it’s money in the bank that you’ll have plumped for the one girl in the whole dump that nobody with the brains of a carrot would look twice at, from a mile away, through a busted telescope. Well?”

  Paul felt like the least obvious suspect after Poirot’s big speech in the library. “Well, all right then, yes,” he said irritably. “At least, I do quite like her. A bit.” He slurped a mouthful of beer, and decided there wasn’t anything to be gained from lying to his oldest friend. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t like her at all, she’s rude and offhand and does nothing but put me down all the time. But—”

  Neville dipped his head gravely. “Danny Corbett syndrome,” he diagnosed. “You remember Danny Corbett?” he went on, as Paul raised a dubious eyebrow. “Little fat kid with red hair and freckles, nearly got slung out in fourth year for filling Werewolf Dave’s coat pockets with aerosol cream during a maths test.”

  “Oh, him,” Paul conceded. “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “Well,” Neville said, dabbing his moustache on his cuff, “I don’t know if you remember Fiona Mascetti—big girl, went on to be a mechanic in the Royal Engineers…”

  “Mphm.”

  “Quite. Once seen, never forgotten, though I gather these days she’s reckoned to be the fastest mole wrench east of Aldershot. Anyhow, Danny and Fiona went out for a while, and to hear either of them talk, the other one was the most disgusting, revolting specimen of humanity who ever evolved from a red-arsed monkey. Fiona reckoned Danny reminded her of a slug that’s been left out in the rain and gone rusty, Danny was always wondering why the hell he bothered with a girl who could eat two cream doughnuts simultaneously and still not stop talking.” He sighed. “They got married in June,” he said, “and they’re expecting their first kid in April.”

  “Oh,” Paul said. “I see what you mean, I guess. Still, that’s neither here nor there. All the more reason for me to clear out of there, if I was being sensible.”

  Neville lit a cigarette. “Up to you,” he said. “Far as I can tell, victims of Danny Corbett syndrome tend to make out all right in the long run. My guess is, if the other party annoys the hell out of you from day one, it makes for a smooth, well-balanced relationship, because that way you sort of fast-forward through the dopey, sun-shines-out-of-his-or-her-backside phase and get to the mutually-assured-irritation stage that seems to be the default setting for all long-term human couplings, without any of the disillusionment and disappointment that everybody else’s got to get through first. I mean, if you know the significant other is a monumental pain in the bum right from the starter’s gun, you’re spared all the pain of finding it out once you’ve been together for two years and spent good money on kitchen units and curtains.”

  Paul nodded. “Talking of which,” he said, “where is Melanie this evening?”

  “Friday’s her karate class,” Neville replied. “She’s doing pretty well, apparently. She was telling me the other day, she’s learned forty-six different places on the human body where an accurately placed drop kick will cause instant death.”

  “You must be very proud.”

  Neville inclined his head in agreement. “Last month it was A-level Spanish,” he said. “But anyway, to get back to what we were talking about. If you really want to go for it with this miserable-sounding wench of yours, then crack on and stop mucking about. Most likely she’ll tell you to fuck off and die, in which case you can jack in the horrible job and get a nice one instead; failing which, you’ll still have the horrible job, but you’ll be ahead of the game by one sweetheart. Either way, you’re laughing.”

  Paul thought about that. “So that’s what you think I ought to do?”

  “Absolutely. That’s my considered advice to you—no win, no fee. Declaring your true feelings is like going to the dentist, it’s no fun at all, but the longer you put it off, the worse it’s likely to be. And since in your case there’s a definite, highly desirable consolation prize waiting for you when she says no way, not even if it’d mean world peace and the cancellation of Third World debt, I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t do it first thing in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Paul pointed out.

  “All right, first thing Monday. That way, you’ve got the whole weekend to get your head together for the ordeal ahead. You know, choose the right words, think tactics, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh look,” Paul said. “The pool table’s free.”

  Next day, since it was a Saturday, Paul stayed in bed till twelve o’clock and spent the afternoon ironing his work shirts for the coming week. The more he thought about Neville’s advice, the more undecided he became. On the one hand, there was a chance (statistically speaking, somewhere between a white Christmas in Queensland and winning the lottery without first having bought a ticket) that the thin girl would nod her head and say, “All right, then,” or words to that effect. That prospect, though terrifying enough in itself, was not without its attractions. On the other, rather more likely hand, he could imagine all too vividly the bone-crushing embarrassment of the thirty seconds or so immediately following his prepared statement; and it was all very well for Neville to talk blithely about chucking in this job and getting a nice one instead, but it had taken him a very long time to find anybody who was prepared to trade him money for a part of his lifespan, and the only people who’d proved willing to make such a deal were, by any criteria, as crazy as a barrelful of ferrets. While he’d been unemployed and actively seeking employment, Paul’s parents had (albeit grudgingly) stumped up for his rent and the occasional loaf and tin of baked beans. Somehow he didn’t feel their charity would stand the announcement that he’d quit a paying job simply because he didn’t like it very much. That being the case, he’d be faced with sharing a desk indefinitely with a girl he’d just sworn undying love for, and who’d unequivocally told him to go stick his head up a chicken. If there was one way, in other words, of making his current situation worse than it already was, this surely had to be it.

  Having finished off the last shirt, Paul folded the board away and, since he didn’t have anything else to do, switched on the television. Aggravatingly, there was nothing on any of the channels except sport and a boring old opera-musical thing, Gilbert and Sullivan or something like that. (A middle-aged man in a black frock coat was cavorting round a plywood set holding a teapot, while a fat woman in a wedding dress and a ch
ubby man in military uniform stared at him, accompanied by an unseen orchestra.) He put the television out of its misery with a deft prod of his index finger, flumped on the bed and reached for his library book, which he’d taken out on his way home on Thursday and hadn’t got around to reading yet.

  Further aggravation. Instead of the book he thought he’d checked out (the enticingly titled A History of Model Railways, volume II: 1927—60) he’d somehow been landed with something entirely different: The Savoy Operas, by Gilbert and Sullivan. Scowling, he opened the book at random: song lyrics, and dialogue. He didn’t throw the book at the opposite wall, partly because it was a library book and partly because, knowing his aim, he’d miss the wall and break the window, but he dumped it on the floor with considerable force. Then he picked it up again, and squinted at the spine.

  Odd, he thought.

  Well, he thought, if someone’s trying to tell me something, I’m buggered if I know what it is. He opened the book again, but there didn’t appear to be anything significant or sinister about it; a flute-playing vicar was singing a song about how girls used to fancy him when he was younger. Lucky old him, Paul thought wistfully, and he put the book back on the floor.

  Even so, he felt unsettled, as though there was a whole gallery of people watching him, and giggling discreetly. He stood up, looked at his watch, and grabbed his coat. In the pocket, there was a five-pound note, a two-pound coin and some silver. That was basically all he had to last him through to the end of the week, when hopefully J.W. Wells & Co. would do the decent thing and deposit money in his bank account. Nevertheless; he needed cheering up, and also to get out of his crummy little bedsit for a while. Time to throw caution to the winds. For his evening meal, he’d been planning on using up the crust of the loaf and the last of the mousetrap cheese, but the hell with that. Life is for living, and you’re a long time dead. He resolved to stroll down to the shop on the corner and buy himself a frozen pizza.

  It was cold out, just starting to get dark. He crossed the road, only to find that the shop was shut. He hadn’t expected that. All the time he’d been living there, he’d only once seen the Closed notice in Mr Singh’s window, and that had been at three in the morning last Christmas Day. He debated with himself as to what to do next. He could go home, save his money and see how much viable cheese he could excavate from under the soft carpet of green mould, or he could hike across to Tesco and buy his pizza there. On one dilemma horn, a sharp west wind and a few warning drops of rain; on the other, his miserable home and the lurking subliminal presence of Gilbert and Sullivan. He decided to go to Tesco.

  For once it wasn’t too crowded; in fact, it was practically deserted. He took his time at the freezer gondola, unable to make up his mind between a thin-crust quattro stagione and a deep-pan pepperoni feast. After several minutes of dithering he resolved to use the Force, put both of them back, closed his eyes and grabbed. Apparently the Force wanted him to have the pepperoni, so that was all right. He turned towards the row of checkout desks, and nearly collided with Mr Tanner.

  Aarg, he thought, but he kept the sentiment locked in his heart, and skipped out of the way like a trained fencer. For one blissful moment he thought Mr Tanner hadn’t recognised him. (After all, why should he? They’d only met once face to face, not counting the interview; and though the occasion was etched on Paul’s memory like a septic scar, there was no reason why Mr Tanner should remember him particularly. Paul had long since got used to the fact that he was the most forgettable person in the world since What’s-his-name.) But then Mr Tanner’s head swivelled round, and Paul saw his face slide into his trade-mark unpleasant grin.

  “Bloody hell,” said Mr Tanner. “What’re you doing here?”

  Mr Tanner was holding a wire basket in his small, clawlike hand; and in the basket were a bottle of bleach, some dishwasher tablets, two J-cloths, three packs of Flora, a six-pack of peach toilet rolls and a medium-sized melon. In his other hand, he held a shopping list, with half the entries crossed off in red ink. Somehow, the fact that Mr Tanner’s wife had sent him out to buy Jcloths and bog rolls on a cold Saturday afternoon made him somewhat less menacing; if not actually human, then at least vaguely humanoid. “Actually,” Paul said, “I live just round the corner.”

  “Do you?” Mr Tanner frowned. “Yes, you’re right, you do. I remember it from your application form. Chicago-style Pepperoni Feast,” he went on, peering at the box in Paul’s hand. “Obviously we’re paying you too much. We’re having rissoles,” he added, with just a hint of pathos.

  Just for an instant, Paul felt a mad impulse to invite Mr Tanner to share his pizza, with cheese on toast to follow. Luckily the fit passed as quickly as it had come, but it left Paul with no idea what to say next. He could feel his toes curling inside his shoes.

  “Well,” Mr Tanner said, after a very long two seconds or so, “I’d better get on, or I’ll get spoken to. Enjoy your pizza.”

  “Thank you,” Paul said, and backed away towards the checkout. Infuriatingly, a queue had materialised at the only open desk. Paul stood in line, the chill from the frozen pizza slowly numbing his fingertips, and cursed under his breath. It’d be just his luck if, before he worked his way to the front of the line, Mr Tanner finished his shopping and came and stood behind him, which would entail further and worse embarrassment. For two pins he’d have dumped the pizza on the floor and bolted like a rabbit out of the store; except that he knew that if he did that, he’d run into Mr Tanner again on the way out, and Mr Tanner would stare at him, breathless and pizzaless, and he’d probably die where he stood. Then a large woman came and stood behind him with a fully loaded trolley, and he knew that for the moment, at least, he was safe.

  When his turn finally came, he paid for the pizza, fumbled it into a plastic bag (one of the type that you can’t get open unless you happen to have honey smeared all over your fingertips), took his change and made a dash for the door. Through it, and safe; except that Mr Tanner was outside (how?), standing on the pavement with his own plastic carrier in his hand, and looking up the street in the opposite direction.

  By now, Paul was as freaked out as it was possible to be without external chemical influence. Above all, he didn’t want to have anything more to do with his employer until Monday morning at the earliest; preferably not ever again, not if he was drowning in the North Atlantic and Mr Tanner happened to float by in a rubber dinghy holding a lifebelt. Just then, a bus pulled up at the stop opposite the door. It seemed like the obvious answer, or at least a good idea, at the time. He jumped on the bus and it pulled away.

  This is all right, Paul told himself, catching his breath and balance as the bus gathered speed. All I’ve got to do is hop off at the next stop and walk home, no big deal. If I’m lucky, I’ll be off again before the conductor comes round and I won’t even have to pay.

  “Where to?” said a voice behind him.

  Oh well, he thought. “Just the next stop, please,” he sighed.

  “Next stop Highgate Village.”

  “What?”

  “Next stop Highgate Village.”

  That wasn’t right. “You mean it’s going all that way before it stops?”

  “Yep.”

  “But that’s a quarter-of-an-hour ride. I just want to get off round here somewhere.” He looked over the conductor’s shoulder. There was nobody else on the bus.

  “Next stop Highgate Village,” the conductor said, and demanded money.

  It was, Paul decided, all the fault of that goddamned pizza; because, after he’d paid for that and his fare, he was left with twelve pence and the prospect of a long walk home in the rain. He nosed around for a bright side to look on, but the best he could come up with was the certainty that the pizza would’ve defrosted completely by the time he got back. It was something, but not enough to make up for the rain, or the distance, or the unpleasant discovery that there was a hole in his left shoe.

  All in all, he told himself, as he set out on the long march, I’d have be
en better off at home in front of the telly. That reflection reminded him of something he’d been trying not to think about; and at that precise moment, he caught sight of a little pink flyer taped to the inside of a shop window:

  Highgate Amateur Operatic Society

  presents

  The Sorcerer

  by

  W.S. Gilbert & Sir Arthur Sullivan

  Highgate Community Arts Centre

  Saturday 17 December 6.30 a.m.

  Admission £5.00

  In other words, he realised, glancing at his watch, right now; and (he looked down the road) just over there, in that grey concrete building that looks like an abattoir.

  Paul thought about it for a moment. Fuck off, he thought. And then he grinned; because, thanks to the frozen pizza and the bus ride, he didn’t have any money for a ticket anyway. Didn’t think of that, did you? he taunted the darkened heavens, as something fluttered out of the window of a passing Mercedes and settled placidly at his feet. It was, of course, a five-pound note.

  That shook him, down to his soggy socks. He could feel a pair of virtual cross-hairs closing in on his forehead, as chilling as the defrosted pizza juice trickling down the gap between his collar and his skin. There didn’t seem to be any point in fighting it any more. No matter what he tried to do next, whether he ran or hid, the long spectral arm of Gilbert and Sullivan was bound to attach itself to his ear and reel him back, like a fish exhausted by its battle against the angler.

  But he still had a tiny scrap of courage left, smeared under the rim of his soul. No, he thought; I am not a light-opera buff I am a free man. I shall not go gently into the Highgate Community Arts Centre. In fact, I’ll cross the road, and—The van missed him by inches. He jumped back onto